The Siamese Swan

(Science fiction)

Oprah sighed.

A long drawn out gust of breath, full of self pity. There he was- Tudor. The best thing since sliced beetles on lotus. The handsomest male swan in their lake. But he'd never look at her- forget a second glance. For she was- a freak of nature- a Siamese Swan. Born with not one- but two graceful necks and heads.

Harpo sighed.

A short, crisp intake of breath. There he was- Tudor- the handsomest of the lot. Would he look at her today- she- a Siamese Swan- saddled with the other head- Oprah?

Oprah swam a little closer to where Tudor was- maybe tonight she could tell him how she felt. She'd heard the elders whispering it was a full moon tonight. Maybe the silvery moon, the cool lake and the ample stars could add to the lovers' atmosphere. Tonight...

Harpo swam a little closer to where Tudor was- craning her neck to hear what he was saying to the others. Maybe tonight, was all she heard. What was tonight? If only she could get rid of the silly other neck- Oprah- she'd have the body to herself and Tudor would be hers. But how, was the question. Hoping Oprah had heard 'tonight'- she looked away, a devious little seed creeping into her brain.

Oprah heard tonight. Yes. Tonight it would be. She looked at her reflection in the clear blue water. What if Harpo had never been there? The elders often complimented her on her beauty and she knew none of those remarks were meant for Harpo. Harpo was the only impediment between her and Tudor. She tried to shake off the 'what if' feeling. No, she couldn't, not to her own sister. 

Harpo thought of Oprah. Silly silly silly. She'd have been much better off without this other neck craning away her chances of a full-blown romance.

Slowly dusk fell in sheets over the small lake. Tudor and his small gang of female admirers were gazing at the velvety sky with it's multitude of stars. They heard a cackle, followed by sharp grunts and then a hiss. Swimming over to the bushy clump, they found the Siamese Swan- the one of a kind rare sight- whom Tudor believed to be an incarnation of God- and worthy of secret worship- floating feet up.

It's two necks were severely twisted, as if in battle. 

The elders bemoaned the fact that tonight was the seventh night of the full moon, the night when God himself would've descended the Earth, through his prized creation of the rare Siamese Swan.

Love is not a four-letter word

(Science fiction) It all began when Maya's Ma-Clone started putting little smileys next to Lila - her ten month old daughter's- daily feed log. This log was presented to Maya at the end of each day, before the Ma-Clone retired to her closet, after Maya came in from office.

Ma-Clones were a boon to the working mom. They looked, acted and felt just like real moms. Except that they were bits of some really sophisticated wires and metal, and neat programs- basically robots.

Through the day, Lila was bathed, fed, played with and looked after by Maya's Ma-Clone. They cost a small fortune but then Lila was worth it and as Anant- Maya's husband said- it was worth the smile on Maya's face after she had spent a satisfying day at office and not sat at home virtually twiddling the buttons on the wall-melting TV. 

Little hearts, little party caps - all dotted the day's activity log- appropriately next to an achievement- Lila had thirty ounces of milk in the day- a hurrah sign- she had a full bowl of soup for dinner- a little party hat. 

At first Maya was unperturbed. Ma-Clone's manual had clearly indicated that they weren't programmed to 'feel'. Yes, they would gauge the baby's need from amongst a thousand permutations and apply the remedy but they would never have a mother's instinct. 

She felt a little gnawing at the back of her mind but promptly dismissed it as adorable Lila crawled into her lap for a cuddle. 

Over the next few days, Maya video-phoned home more than usual, determined to find any odd behaviour. She went through Ma-Clone's manual carefully, reading even the terms and conditions in fine print- hoping to get a sliver of evidence supporting human behaviour- she anonymously joined an online group of Ma-Clone customers- but all she could gather was the additional activities each customer was able to program their clone into doing. She also noted that none of the moms had a baby as young as Lila. 

Frustrated, she let it pass, but at night, gazing into her beautiful daughter's angelic yet helpless face, she felt such a surge of protective pride that she vowed to be alert triple-fold. 

Meanwhile, Ma-Clone's feelings of affection for Lila kept growing. Once Maya saw her hugging Lila tightly to her bosom, and she thought she saw a tiny tear-like thing trickle down Ma-Clone's cheek. Another time Maya walked in on Ma-Clone swinging Lila high up in the air-singing 'away,away we go'- laughing and giggling along with her, abruptly stopping when she saw Maya enter.

But the day Maya sent back Ma-Clone was when she returned home early and both Ma-Clone and Lila were not at home. Terrified and on the verge of hysteria, she had just finished searching everywhere- including the robot's closet- when they both walked in- Ma-Clone pushing Lila's stroller - clearly, they had gone out for a walk- an activity off-limits to Ma-Clones because of the confusion they would cause in case acquaintances met them and mistook them for the real mother. 

Maya quietly glared at the robot and asked it to retire to its closet and quickly spoke to Anant. 

The next day, Maya's Ma-Clone was deported to the lab, and a fresh replacement sent over (free of charge). In fact, the chairman of the company himself called to apologise for this strange case. 

Maya went back to work- feeling happy that she wouldn't need to quit- until the day the new Ma-Clone presented her with Lila's activity log- decorated with little hearts...

Fragile, use no hooks

Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.  Because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping  and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains Within the sound of silence.  - Sounds of Silence - Simon and Garfunkel  

How long had it been…three years? Four? Could the manmade boundaries of natural time even begin to measure the wasted hours as each melted into the next- infinitesimally small yet so acutely pronounced - as the shadows on the wall in front of me turned longer and longer, and then finally disappeared, enveloping me with a welcome darkness which had begun to define my existence. Is my life akin to these, I wondered-  will I also be snuffed out as an eventuality to the larger sorrow I feel? For in life, there is no greater sorrow than rejection by a beloved. Clumsily, I gathered myself from the unmade bed- as the strains of the song began to drift away, and the whizzing emptiness of the CD washed me over with the realization that I was no longer the same lovesick woman, longing for destiny to make a turnaround- but a mature twenty five year old. I had a job to fulfill, and responsibilities to nurture. Anything that would make me feel wanted. Again.

'I will negate the need for anyone else. I will be your everything, I promise.'

It had been three long years since my messy breakup with Prahlad. And I had been unable to pick myself- my heart and my soul and move on. My friends- for there were few of them left now, had urged me- saying it was for the better. But how could the fact that someone who made you laugh, who had just left-  'be better'? We had misunderstandings aplenty- and miscommunication- which killed that beautiful bond we had cherished as love. We had three wonderful years of the best times in our lives. Yet, looking back now, I can only analyze and re-analyze events- thinking, what if I hadn’t said this, what if I had just said yes…always ending in a fit of sobbing and self blame as I pictured those numerous arguments- maybe I should have kept silent. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I should’ve just accepted things.

'The magic of first love can never be recreated.'

It’s strange how the human brain remembers only sadness. When I wanted to feel happy, I would try to recall some happy incidents, a flash of smile here, a bit of sunshine there- but I couldn’t remember anything- neither the sounds, nor the smells, nor the situation of any kind of bliss Prahlad and I shared. If there was anything that registered for more than five seconds, it was his face- always smiling, always laughing, a bit blurred at the corners, a little halo around his head. He was never wrong in my dreams. Never angry.

'You look the best when you laugh.'

My search for 'finding' myself post Prahlad took me across several cities- and finally came to rest in Mumbai. My parents were, of course, concerned. I was, after all, of marriageable age, and had succeeded in invoking the taboo- having my unmarried name linked with a man. And we remained- betrothed to each other unsaid. Sometimes that unspoken bond bound us in ways far more than we could imagine.

Prahlad was a great dresser.

After he left, I sought solace in Mumbai: that big bustling city where one can be oblivious in its cosy vastness and yet be idolized by that small reference circle you call friends. It had been hard at first- adjusting to screeching trains who seemed better off just running to and fro, people notwithstanding, and mad jostling crowds at Dadar station crumbling with the sheer amount of people everywhere. Yet, I had somehow survived- so ironical to my state at the time I reached Mumbai- and this was my second year here- and I had come to love this city. Love the quaint old buildings around Fort- and the great Flora Fountain Circle- for that was where I lived as a PG in a small decrepit building- paying the princely sum of ten thousand rupees only per month to my landlord, Mr. Feroze Mehta. My job as a CA (yes, Prahlad notwithstanding, I was a certified Chartered Accountant in a large MNC bank) managed to pay for it- and I even squirreled away a couple of thousands each month as forced savings. I loved the small shops that wore the time-hasn’t-touched us look- especially Sahakari Bhandar- I was always reminded of the small shops in my hometown where I had grown up- which had the same musty dank odor- mixed with the smell of open bags of uncut grain and unwashed rice. I loved dipping my hand into those gunny bags full of staples- and then smelling the faint perfume of uncooked rotis off my hands when I was a child- a habit I kept repeating oft, till the shopkeeper glared at me through his thick spectacles and I would wander off to another shop with the same setup, till my mother had finished her daily shopping. Things were so simple when we were younger.

'We will grow old together.'

Now, I loved walking around Flora Fountain- the cobbled streets often gave the impression of being in Queen’s country, and I would fancy myself to be in London,  an act which always put me in a good mood. Today, however, being Saturday, I had the entire afternoon to browse through the Books and Music section of old Riley’s- the grandfatherly shop that sold musical instruments off Flora Fountain.

'Music? That’s my passion. Beatles, Metallica, Dylan, RHCP, Doors, Goo Goo Dolls, Simon and Garfunkel, Def Leppard, Dire Straits…'

Although I never bought much (I preferred my own collection) except the occasional Rolling Stone (and that was only when I saw a band I really liked on the cover), I liked moving around the old shop- with its many shelves crammed with cellophane covered magazines, with exotic names and elaborate write ups on several categories of music. I liked the feeling of everything old. Though there was hardly any room to walk about in that shop- giving the impression that its life was full- in stark contrast to mine. It had high ceilings and glass shelves, and the most impressive array of instruments- freshly painted wooden guitars, recently imported Spanish ones, wind instruments- flutes, saxophones- effortlessly blending the East and West in the barrierless world of music. There were books and CDs too- instructional, recreational, and educational. I liked them all- as I did my music.

My affair with music began when I was twelve years old. Then, listening to Cliff Richard belt out ‘Theme for a Dream’, ‘Constantly’, ‘Summer Holiday’ on LP and my grandfather’s big golden gramophone were the best thrills of my life. I would anxiously wait for Saturdays to arrive, because as I would have half- day school, I would reach home early, ask Mummy to fry up some of her delectable stuffed kachoris, and sit next to Granpa as he patiently explained the nuances of song and music to me. Over cold mint chutney and steaming hot kachoris, legends like Mick Jagger, John Lennon, BB King and Ray Charles would be dissected- song by song. And my twelve-year-old heart would sing with joy and shape my future fantasy of marrying either a rock star or a singer in a band. Maybe that’s why I fell for Prahlad- who was more knowledgeable than any other man I knew- about all bands- either living or dead.

'Bon Jovi is one of my favourite bands. Mine too!'

As I entered Riley’s, I was struck by the first odd notes of Beethoven’s Fifth emanating out of a large Steinway. Deeply resounding in its rich mahogany finish- the notes seemed to defy the ‘Test practice in progress’ sign as they weaved the highs and lows of the melody as deftly as the original symphony itself- causing my wildly pounding heart to accelerate its mad rhythm even further- for Beethoven had walked out of my life the same day as Prahlad. 

'Beethoven- the name itself sounds so grand, doesn’t it? Listen to this… Beethoven had composed nine symphonies in his career. Out of them all, the Fifth- also known as the Fate is the most widely respected, and my favourite.'

Beethoven had been our favourite- alongwith roses and candles and long soul-searching sessions. Now, as I stood in one corner of the Rock Magazines section, clutching the latest issue of The Guitarist, my mind went numb, as images of Prahlad and me started flashing before my eyes. It seemed like the symphony was covering me in waves- waves of emotions, memories. 

Waves of pain. 

Waves of hurt.

Here was Prahlad- the first time we had met on the steps of the University where we were both completing graduation- he, handsomely suave in a beige button-up collared shirt and a pair of smart black trousers. Here he was again, holding my hand surreptitiously and a bit scared in the small Chinese joint on our first ‘date’. His soft brown eyes seemingly piercing every part of me- recognizing words I hadn’t said and smiles I hadn’t bestowed. Here he was again, proudly waving the LSE acceptance letter that signaled the beginning of the end of our relationship…

Time froze. 

I swallowed with great difficulty, as my mouth went completely dry. I waited for the tell tale signs of the nausea rising up to my eyes, dissipating as tears, but I remained calm and collected- outwardly. I found myself moving towards the Steinway- and as I did so, I caught a glance of the curly mop of dark hair which belonged to the player. Clearly, Riley’s brought in customers from time to time to test out the musical instruments- and here was another enthusiast. 

Except that his hair looked unnervingly like Prahlad- whom I hadn’t seen for five long years. Could it be him, I wondered…as my heart gave an unexpected jolt of…happiness?

Expectancy? Fear, perhaps? 

The music drowned me in thoughts so familiar and unwelcome- but why would Prahlad be here, playing a piano, on a regular Saturday afternoon? He would be somewhere in London- negotiating the finance market, and as I internally debated with myself, the test player suddenly looked up- I could see only the same soft brown eyes- shielded by a pair of vision glasses as they bent down again after a fraction of a second- the same eyes that had locked mine in blink-defying gazes in amusement, wonder, challenge…Encouraged and doubtful at the same time, I moved forward to catch a better look at him. I laughed a little nervously- it was only my imagination playing tricks on me- hadn’t I read that people often search and settle for known faces…and that one in every six persons looks the same?

Maybe it was Prahlad after all- maybe he had decided that I was really the one, and he wanted to retrieve me. Retrieve me…I smiled at the usage of the word- yes, that’s right, retrieve what’s been thrown in Trash. Night after night after crying myself to sleep, I would have dreams where I would find Prahlad whisking me off to London, or asking for forgiveness or even a soul searching session- his eyes twinkling in the moonlight, the silver light drawing fine laughter lines around the curves of his mouth- but on waking up, be confronted with the harsh reality of the emptiness in me- and the cold sunlight- so different from the soft fluidness of my dreams.  I would spend hours sleeping- after returning from work- forfeiting dinner- just so I could dream and have Prahlad with me. I regretted the day I burnt all his letters and photographs in a fit of independence. I had only my memories to comfort me now- humans crave physical touch and there were times when I could’ve killed for one small photograph of Prahlad. But the Prahlad of my imagination would never not recognize me, I reasoned with myself- as I looked up and saw some guitar cartons stacked neatly on top, bearing the legend- ‘Fragile use no hooks’.

And as the tiny notes started their zigzag motion across the symphony step, I looked down at Axl Rose’s face on the cover of the magazine; I realized my only redemption for love was sadness…

By this time, Beethoven was almost at the rear end of his symphony and as the notes gurgled out of the freshly painted instrument, I could not help but be a little happy as the old me recognized the grand climactic crescendo. Then, as the player softly reinforced the graceful finish, an elderly couple walked out from the interior of the store- where the most expensive instruments were stacked- and towards the test player behind the piano. 

For, as he struck the final cord of the symphony, and the Steinway gave one last deep-throated rendition -up stood a boy of not more than fourteen years of age- wearing vision glasses and bearing the same curly mop of dark hair as Prahlad- but with the rest of features so different from him. And, as he smiled and shook hands with Mr. Riley and signed on the test –card, I was struck with a deep sense of relief and amazement flooding me, and with a deep ache in the pit of my stomach. 

Part of me wanted him to be Prahlad.

And as the deafening silence closed in on me, I berated myself silently, it couldn’t have been him- it’s just someone who looks like him- correction- whose eyes and hair look like him. He was so different from the Prahlad of my imagination- my hero- whom I saw through rose-tinted glasses everyday.

And I thought- what would have happened had I kept that one hook of Prahlad’ s – his photograph? By erasing all his physical evidence, I had symbolically erased him out of my life. But had I kept that one proof, would I have prevented this little drama- imagining him test playing our favourite symphony? Would I have recognized him better than the soft blurry image of Prahlad, which seemed seared into my soul- would I have defined it better? Would a photograph have helped me identify him and prevented me from raking up ghosts of old memories?  

Relationships are far more fragile to use any hooks.  

Bookends   The last kiss The last rose The last sunset The last raindrop The flickering flame The gush of breeze The last scene in a play The last turning of key in the lock The last glimpse out a moving train The last drop of water in the can The last breath on your lips The last lick of ice-cream The last dinner The last migratory bird The last chocolate The last chorus The last day The last minute The last smile  The last tear The last time… The last goodbye The last photograph Exit.

(This was found in the protagonist’s journal- Page 33, dated 2 years ago.)

(August 13, 2009)

T(rue) Self

It was a simple two liner from a school friend, who had been on her friends list for so many days and had faded to a statistic after the initial euphoria of status updates and settling in. A two liner which forced her to analyse her own life and look back a little longer than the fleeting someplace two minutes on her childhood and her adolescence. Starry eyed youth, her friend had said. Yes, it was true, she realized.

Somewhere between the promotions and the exotic holidays, she had lost a sense of vitality, novelty, excitement. Everything seemed mundane to her-the flashy new big car, the expensive cosmetics which she had drooled over in magazines in her youth and which now stood displayed on her dressing table, the designer clothes, the custom fits, the luxurious jet settling- it all seemed so meaningless. What was she doing here, with her life?

Was it only a series of numbers- her life- she thought? Age, salary, sales figures, number of years of married life? Yes, that was it- everything could be summed up in numbers- bank balance, mileage on the car, number of mp3s she had amassed over the years.

What could it be that was lacking in her life? A sense of direction,  a purpose?

Suddenly all those late nights at the office felt meaningless. She longed for the carefreeness of her youth- the love and care that was doled out to her endlessly when she was just a girl.

And now? She thought of her parents, away, lonely in a big house- and her infrequent visits and daily phone calls through which her mother would condense sixteen hours of her life into sixteen minutes. She thought back onto her childhood- she had always been a strong, independent and ambitious girl- each of her decisions conveying and validating her strong headedness.

And then it hit her. Her life suffered from lack of future planning. She, who had always been ten steps ahead of herself, now lived day to day. Somewhere, along the course of family obligations and her married life, she had lost track of the future.

Armed with this new knowledge, she set out on mapping a path for herself. Starting with what she loved the most.

And then, wrote a long mail to her friend for helping her find her true self.

(September 16, 2010)

Separated

Her throat felt dry and her palms were clammy as she gripped the receiver tightly and pressed it further into her ear, straining to hear the sounds she had so come to love and which were an integral part of her growing up years. The friendly vegetable vendor whose cries of ‘aloo-lauki-bhindi-karele’rent the air sharp at 9 am, the reassuring clanging of vessels as Ramavati, their adorable gap-toothed help scrubbed the pots and pans, the tinkle of the golden bells on the wrought iron gate as her father reversed the car from the garage and firm footsteps on the winding staircase.

Her mother’s voice sounded cold and distant in the new flat. It echoed, strangely bereft of the warm aura of a lived in house, with each thing staking claim to its territory with dust marked boundaries.

How long had she lived in that great big stucco-ed house? Twenty one years- before she left for further studies, away from that sleepy town which had now metamorphosed into a giant octopus- with new colonies- sprawling structures called apartment blocks, so-called modernism hiding behind a façade of sheer orthodoxy- a crazy paradox of spanking new malls for lanky pan chewing graduate students with sun dried blonde hair and piercing eyes which travelled to all the wrong parts of a woman’s anatomy.  Twenty one years- and the only house she had known, being born and brought up within the confines of those cosy walls.

She remembered late nights studying for all important entrance exams, when pink petals from the sadabahar creeper would plop softly into her room, unannounced. The fragrant evening air as her mother watered garden plants- the cries of the Kwality Walls icecream thela as it ambled along their tree lined street. The droves of birds against a deep ochre sky on the open terrace- where innumerable successful parties had been hosted- her father’s promotion, her acceptance into a top B school, her sister’s Standard ten result- the vastness of the sky mirroring the potential that lay within her.

She asked, perfunctorily, have you settled in- found a new maid and her voice trailed off as a dozen thoughts crossed her mind- what about my dolls? Have you kept them safely? And my clothes? I want my daughter to wear the fluffly pink suit Granma knitted for me. And my books? My comics, my Enid Blytons, my course books? Have you kept my diaries and journals, my musical jewellery box, my school magazines? Then she realised that her mother was probably going through one of the worst feelings- to give up a home her parents had built so lovingly- literally brick by brick as she remembered the tight finance control exercised when the house was being constructed.  

Nestled away from such decisions, she felt herself lucky- to have bought a flat of her own in a large metro- the occurrence of her having to shift away from a house of memories being reduced to nil as she thought of the children she would have, who would grow up and study in same town- not like her sister and herself, who had no choice but to apply for better colleges in metros as their small town was too small to fulfil their burgeoning ambition.

As her mother kept talking, she realised that their new flat in the country’s capital was going to be ‘home’ from now on. She silently rued the fact that her children would never know the warm house she had sought refuge in after countless fights with school friends, read books on the stairs, hung clothes out to dry on the terrace instead of balcony, and found the correct light switch even after years of not using them. For the second time in her life, she felt a deep sore in her heart each time she whispered the word home to herself (the first being when she got married almost two years ago and flew away from her parents’ town to the large bustling Mumbai). She realised how she had taken for granted, the only constant in her childhood memories- the cots on the terrace under a starry sky, Granma regaling them with stories that cemented her childhood, the crack in the plaster which looked like Elvis which she had discovered when she was in bed nursing chickenpox, the reassuring solidness of the structure they called home.

With a resigned sigh she murmured her last few words of the first phone call to her mother in their new home- feeling desolate, lost and….separated.  

(September 21, 2010)

The Park

“Life has given us everything we’ve asked for- a wonderful son, a beautiful home and a rewarding career. There’s nothing else we could’ve wished for.” - Arjun’s father, Deepak.

“Life has largely been composed of disappointments, but I’m happy of the decisions and small moments I’ve been given.” -          Arjun’s mother

“Life is largely about adjusting. You have to keep up with the times.” - Arjun’s wife, Indrani.

It was a breezy Sunday evening when, on my way to buying vegetables for the house, I saw the park. Through my fifteen years of living here, commuting to and fro office, I had passed it everyday. But it had, like the other objects along the way, been a blur of motion most of the times- wedged between meetings and tasks to complete before the day ran out. Today, I saw it as a grassy playground with swings and benches (for retired people like me) and shady trees to sit under, almost like a green oasis amidst the concrete desert of high-rise buildings all around. On a lark, I decided to sit there for a few minutes- vegetables and dinner- and my bahu, Indrani, could wait.

I pushed the revolving rusted iron gate and stepped in, its creaks reminding me of the little park we used to visit as children in old Lucknow. I remember Papa used to take us there as a Sunday ritual treat- Anil, my brother, for not harassing me or pulling my pigtails, and me, for being good around the house and helping Ma out in the kitchen. It had long uncut grass in patches, and shady, huge trees.  I can still remember the vivid scent of wet earth mixed with the setting afternoon sun, giving off a faintly humid aroma, while the shrill cry of the ice cream vendor could be heard as he paddled his wares on his rusty bicycle. The mali stayed in an exciting tent-like structure in the park itself- and I would question my father why we couldn’t live like that. Now, as I walked a few unsteady steps, looking around, breathing in the faint park smell, I noticed a worn stone bench under a graceful ashok tree. I decided to sit there.

It was so peaceful there- and so calm. The presence of the paani puri vendor doing brisk business just outside the green thorny hedge as he doled out crisp puris laden with all kinds of boiled delicacies, immersed in spicy green chutney water made my mouth water as I could taste those paani puris already. And, for the umpteenth time since his demise, I missed my husband, Deepak. It would have been so nice to sit with him under this tree- reminiscing about our past life. We would discuss friends, family, telephone calls, bills, and at the end of our little sojourn in this dusk drenched park, we would return home, having eaten our fill of paani puris- a taste we both shared, and which I sorely missed. For what would people say if they saw an old woman like me, in my crushed cotton saree, lining up to receive the pattal eagerly, stretching out my hand for more and smacking my lips with obvious delight?

My heart clouded as unbeckoned tears sprung to my eyes. I could never get over his untimely death- and that choking sensation when I had first heard about his accident refused to leave me even now, almost four years now- squeezing my stomach with a force so powerful that I could hardly breathe. Though it was less intense now, I could always feel a little frisson of sadness when I thought about Deepak. Things would have been different if he was there.

I had mused about this so many times since my retirement- wanting to go back to our ancestral house in Lucknow but my son, Arjun wouldn’t hear of it. “You will stay with us, Ma, in this house. There’s no question of going back to Lucknow. We will look after you.” explaining with the concerned brown eyes he had inherited from his father. Sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of his shadow, I would almost think it was Deepak. And that would be my saving grace for the day.  I kept alive by seeing my husband in my son.

The past two months post retirement were quite difficult. I would gaze out of our fifth floor house in Malad- wishing again that Deepak was there. The empty house suddenly seemed big and foreboding. I discovered nooks and crannies that I didn’t know existed as the bai broomed them off. I missed Deepak’s company and his support. I also missed a regular routine and job that would take my mind off my husband. But I was retired now.

The bank where I worked as a Manager for the past five years still continued to stand solid- the one structure where I put in all efforts, worked from nine to nine, missing parties (not that they mattered much to me) and birthdays (how did it matter now that my husband was not there?). Now it seemed to mock me every time we passed it- “Look," it seemed to say- "you gave me many hours of your life- and I am still standing without you. You thought you were my life support system- that I would crumble without you? I don’t really need you”… Sometimes I would feel unwanted- like my role in life was over- and then, I would glance up to my little puja in my room, pick up the Ramayana, and flip the pages till I reached the Prashnavali. I would stay immersed in it, asking questions about Arjun, Indrani, Deepak, Anil’s family, and myself till it would be time to prepare meals.

And thus, in the role of a homemaker I felt my last wishes of life being fulfilled.

I ran my hand over the smooth texture of the stone bench. It had looked so worn from afar- I had assumed it would be uncomfortable to sit on- deceived by its appearance- just as I felt I had been deceived by Indrani the first time Arjun had brought her home, almost two years ago. Then, demure and shy in a pale pink salwar kameez (I remember, because she told me she had designed it herself), she looked every inch the quintessential small town girl that I was so keen on Arjun to marry. She had respectfully served out coffee and crisp pakoras to everyone- reserving her own plate for last. She spoke in a small, subdued voice about her own family- her father was a businessman, and her mother, a schoolteacher. Being the only child like Arjun, had led to a deep sense of aloofness about her, which I read, at that time, as being shy. Little was I to know that this smiling, doe eyed girl would metamorphose into a strong, willful and opinionated career woman just six months later. It wasn’t as if we didn’t get along well, I thought over, as I watched a young couple in their mid-twenties occupy the bench opposite mine. It was just a case of mistaken character, I thought wryly.

The young woman, who looked about 25, had a thick streak of vermilion sindoor in the parting of her hair, and wore a cheap purple synthetic sari. She was gesturing wildly to the man accompanying her, who also looked about 25, dressed in a striped shirt and black pants, her glass bangles making a faint noise as she spoke in Marathi, and I could catch faint strains of maala maihit nahin emanating from her. Though the Marathi couple looked fairly well off, one could see that they weren’t very rich by the state of their shoes. Shoes…I thought about Indrani again. She worked as a production-co-coordinator in a large production house- something to do with making ad-films- and she had the largest fetish and collection of shoes that I had ever seen. At the time of her marriage, there was a separate carton, the size of a washing machine, which had been delivered home as part of her possessions- and I was aghast to see that all it contained was shoes- flat sandals, strappy stilletoes, jogging sneakers, fashionable chappals, fur boots and everything in between. I couldn’t understand at first why she needed so many- I had just three pairs of flat chappals which I wore with everything- the same design in different colours- and she had just laughed it off- “Mummy-ji, I just like shoes- I like collecting them.” And she proudly displayed her latest acquisition- a parrot green pair of curved chappals that I had only seen models wearing in the latest issue of Femina, which, alongwith Cosmpolitan and Elle were like Ramayana for Indrani. She had also stopped wearing sindoor in her hair, a little over a month after her marriage. I hadn’t told her then, but she had brought up the subject herself- saying that it didn’t look too good with all those western outfits. And besides, I had overheard her jokingly tell her friend on the phone- she didn’t quite like to look married and flaunt the signs of a married woman. How I wished then, that I could have been her- I would’ve gladly switched places with her- to have my husband around, to wear sindoor in my hair and a bindi on my forehead- and my collection of gold, silver and diamond mangalsutras- wrapped in soft tissue, lying in the bottom of my dressing table. Sometimes, during the day, when I would feel especially lonely, I would take them out, one by one, and lay them on the bed, remembering with fondness, the occasions I had worn them on, fingering golden filigree here- a clutch of diamonds there- admiring the black and golden beads and feeling them against my cheek. Somehow, I felt their pity- those black eyed beads, watching me from within their cosy home in the confines of the drawer.

A little way further in the Park, I noticed a young boy, about fourteen years old, doubled over a textbook, completely oblivious to the surroundings- reminding me of Arjun. I remembered the traumatic journey from Lucknow to Bombay- when Deepak had been transferred to the Bandra branch of the bank he worked in then. I had also requested a transfer- at that time, the decision to move to a completely new city was challenging, and exciting. But I remember how heavy hearted we were when we left behind our old ancestral house, that Deepak had inherited from his forefathers- a large, sprawling structure with more tenements than the Bara Imambara- situated in the heart of Aminabad- a sturdy stone edifice which had more rooms than we would ever need- always occupied by our tenants and servants. In the moonlight, it looked as majestic and picturesque, if not more, as the Taj Mahal itself, and I remembered, how, as a shy bride, I had stepped over the stone porch, knocking over a gold tumbler of rice, leaving red feet marks wherever I went. Deepak’s mother and father were the most loving in-laws one could ever find. I missed Deepak’ s mother- I had taken to calling her Amma- who was modern in her thinking, and traditional in acting. She taught me to cook the most delicious hyderabadi biryani (having learnt it from her best friend, who was a Muslim) and dahi ka ghosht. I remember now, because I can smell the spicy garam masala of the bhel puri that is wafting through the green leaves of the hedge, mixing in with the smell of mud and bodies.

Watching the young boy’s lips move as he silently repeated his lesson to himself, gently rocking back and forth in that motion to facilitate learning, I thought of Arjun’s reaction when he had learnt that we would be shifting cities. “What about Baba and Amma?” he had asked in a frightened voice- and when he was told they would be staying back for the time being, he had locked himself on the terrace- and had refused to come down all day. It took me all the coaxing and plying with aloo-puri- his favourite food, to persuade him that it would be alright, and that Bombay was a better place- planting thoughts of the sun-kissed sea, huge waves and thousands of pigeons of Marine Drive into his nine year old brain. Though it had been very difficult for us, adjusting to the small two-bedroomed flat in bustling Dadar after the opulence and freedom of a mansion, I remember Arjun had settled in the best. He had made friends on the first day of school itself- and though I had been worried about him coming home in tears and wanting to go back, the scene never replayed itself more than a couple of times in the next one year- as both Deepak and I juggled jobs, house and child, which left us with little time for ourselves. We had become like machines- running back and forth- traveling the same route from home to work, and back- catching little fragments of happiness in the time we could spare from weekend chores to sit together- watch a movie together- take Arjun out for a drive. At night, I remember, we would be too exhausted to even talk about the day, and many times I found Deepak snoring in a deep sleep before I could switch off the bedside lamp. But even though those years seem a blur of movement and work, I still remember Deepak’s warm body next to mine as we slept- his reassuring arms and the cosy warmth that engulfed me whenever I turned in my sleep- the sheer physicality of his being, his presence, which I ached for to touch and hold.

As I grew further engrossed in my thoughts, I heard the sweet twittery call of an unknown bird sitting on the branch right above me, and noticed a woman walking with deliberate steps, barefeet, on the small patch of grass opposite me. She looked about as old as me- was she retired, like me, spending the worst time of the evening – the time when a husband’s presence is sorely missed in this park, alone? Did she too, have a son and his wife to go back to? Did she too, feel unwanted in the midst of such youth and vigour? For a brief fleeting moment, I was tempted to go upto her and speak to her, but then, something drew me back- the same emotion which had forced me to slink into the shadows of my own room when Arjun and Indrani had thrown a weekend beer and apples party for their friends. That night, I could hear the loud baritones of his friends over the head-throbbing rap music through the thin door that separated my bedroom from the hall. Once, I think, I heard a small knock on the door- maybe it was Arjun with some dessert as I had stoutly refused to have the strawberries in wine sauce that Indrani had prepared. I had never touched a drop of liquor in my life, and I was proud of it.

The next morning, I heard Indrani had a hangover- and I was further disappointed- though I made sure I didn’t say a word of it to anyone. After all, if Arjun didn’t say anything, who was I to comment?

At that moment, I remembered how, on Deepak’s out-of-turn promotion, we had thrown a lavish party at Mayfair Rooms in Worli- even Amma and Babuji had been flown down for the occasion- much to Arjun’s delight, where they had been the source and spotlight of all the fun in the evening, as they regaled the gathering with Deepak’s childhood memories. How different it was then- and how different things were now…

As I looked at the tall ashok trees swaying gently in the mild evening breeze, catching the drowning sun’s last rays, I thought of our large mansion in Lucknow, abandoned since Amma and Babuji’s death. There was a grove of trees in the backyard- guava, mango, tamarind and the prettiest of all- gulmohar, with its flaming orange flowers. In fact, I used to like those flowers so much that I would often keep a bunch of them in a glass vase in our bedroom- later, Deepak had bought me a zardozi encrusted sari, the exact colour of those gulmohar flowers, and I had packed in carefully in soft tissue, treasuring it as an heirloom I would share with my bahu…

I remembered the days when Arjun was a toddler- the way he had said ‘Papa’ first, making Deepak the proudest father in the world, and how he had even called up Sunder Chacha in Canada to tell him of the feat. My other friends in the bank were already grannies twice or thrice over, and I loved going to their houses sometimes on the weekends, but now that they were still working, I felt like I was intruding into their space- the one day they spent with their families. Sadly, even the weekend lunch invitations had become fewer. I longed for a grandchild- someone whom I could spoil completely and play with, but Indrani had laughed if off when I had brought up the subject last year- “I’m too young, Mummy-ji,” she had informed me and proceeded to ruffle Arjun’s hair while he was engrossed in his laptop- though she was already twenty five then. I wanted to tell her that I had Arjun when I was two years younger than her, despite having an active career. But then, of course, times have changed.

I saw clumps of bright flowers growing in the small park, which accentuated the starkness of the grey building landscape around them. Here and there, people, dressed in colourful clothes dotted the park, breaking the monotony of the green hues. My eyes wandered from person to person, trying to guess their story, their life. And that was when I noticed the flyer on the grass beneath my feet. It was a plain white square sheet of paper, with something printed in black ink. Through the fading sunlight, I read    

SEVAKASHRAM

NGO for rehabilitating illiterate women

If you are an educated citizen of Mumbai and would like to contribute to society by spending time with these illiterate yet strong women who have only seen dark times, then contact us at 022- 2630 5555.  

It was simple and effective. Just a phone number.

And then I realized I was alone no more.

I got up from the bench with a new motivation. As I tucked the flyer securely in my handbag, I looked forward to the evening and dinner.

(September 26, 2009)

The Guiding Ms. Khan

The prescribed course for her to teach was Biology- to Std XI students, but she doubled up as class teacher as well. With her flawless efficiency and strict discipline, she was one of the frontrunners for the post of Section Supervisor- having lost to the winner by a mere single vote. She was fastidious- a perfect example of a teacher- and she taught our unruly batch of fifty.

We all marvelled at her once-must-have-been-porcelain skin, now reduced to a pit marked leathery replica, her once-gossamer hair, now tied tightly in a bun, lest the coarse strands escape from their confinement, dark kohl- lined eyes and her once-slender, but now stubby fingers always filled in the crevices with chalk dust. Though she was no raving beauty, her long hair pulled back into a tight bun and her stentorian shapeless salwar kameez endowed her with an aura which was difficult to miss. If she caught any girl misbehaving, she was sure to be given the full treatment- ending with a bout of tears. We did not like her, but her stern attitude made it difficult to be indifferent to her- so she became a tangential role model for us- never become like Ms. Khan. May you never become a spinster, an old maid.

Word had it that she lived with her old mother in a small old house- where she had been born. Bereft of father, brother or sister, she stayed alone- her mother's raspy cough and our test exercise books her only companions on dreary evenings. She basked in solitude and books. It is said that her shelf in the teachers’ common room would always be overflowing with books- poetry, philosophy, fiction, metaphysics- she had read them all. Sometimes, in the midst of drawing amoebic protoplasm on the blackboard, she would share with us a few nuggets of wisdom gleaned from those tomes and we would hide our giggles surreptitiously- too immature to take in the experiences of a jilted lady.

For jilted she was, by her lover, of a different religion, who had once professed his undying love for her (our seniors recalled a handsome, tall built, muscular mustached man, waiting patiently outside the school gates for her, many aeons ago) but not mustering enough courage to run away with her when their parents objected.

So she threw herself into her work and was the best at it.

Our group of three were her favourite whipping girls. She would catch us slyly grinning at each other, and ask us to stay out of the class. When marking attendance, if our eyes wavered to the calendar, or the clock in front, she would threaten us with absent marks. She was eccentric in many ways- till The Incident happened.

One of our favourites was to bunk classes by disappearing into a small passageway beneath the library.  Over chocolates and muffled laughs, we would dissect the latest Shahrukh thriller, or piece together the love life of the Boys’ school captain. We were careful to bunk ‘useless’ classes like the Library period, or Zero period- the sole aim of which, we thought, was to waste time.

One such day, we had bunked the Library class, and were in our usual spot. The passageway was accessible through a small flight of steps leading down (it was a basement for dumping old books, concert paraphernalia and sports day fixtures)- and it was quite airy through a row of windows on one complete side.

We were shrieking over some previously unreleased snaps of Bon Jovi when we heard footsteps on the stairs- and before we could hide away our loot, we were face to face with Ms. Khan herself.

Looking more stern and grimmer than usual, she led us all out silently, into the teachers’ common room, which was, thankfully, empty.

As she pried open our hands to check the contents of our loot, my friends and I knew this was probably the last day of school for us, and we steeled ourself for the rustication that would follow.

Instead, she kept looking at the pictures for a long time, and when she looked up, there was a broad grin on her face.

What she explained to us that day, will remain with me forever.

‘Make the most of this time.  You are not here to enjoy, but I will overlook this incident.  You have many more years to be serious in life. Learn the importance of time, and remember, each second gone is an opportunity missed. Did you learn something in the past second,  that makes you a better person right now? If not, then you should question yourself.’

Suddenly, I realised with a little shock that she had been so sacrificing all along. There was no resentment, no outward hurt in her. She could have easily taken us to the Principal, and our future would be wasted. Instead, she chose to counsel us in the best possible way.

I realised that all the girls who had been face to face with her, would have taken away some realisation of this fact and it was no surprise then, that our group emerged from the room in tears.

It was only when I had made the entrance test of a reputed  B school by a narrow margin (or so I thought) that I realised the importance of learning each second.  

I would love to conclude by saying that I follow her advice perfectly- that I learn something new each second, that I’m a better person as the day pass by, but I’m not. I am too lazy to implement it each minute- but I will always remember what she had taught us in that small stuffy room- a guiding principle of my life.  (September 02, 2009)

The Harlequin Dream

    Harlequin/ n/ (formerly) a comic character in Pantomime, usu wearing a mask and dressed in a costume with a diamond pattern.

Granpa shifted on the charpai, swatting invisible mosquitoes over his head magnifying the noise in the dark- like a creepy eight-limbed monster plonking down on our terrace. My nine-year-old brain that had been fed on a diet of Enid Blytons and desi Tinkles was churning its learnings out fast and I was ready with my own curled up newspaper- the makeshift fan and my missile- within striking distance of the supposed beast. “Isn’t it uncharacteristically hot for June?” someone called out- the enemy head- leading a bandwagon of archaic soldiers- war heroes in their own right battling demons night after night, ensuring that their children slept soundly. We were on their turf, engaged in a furious war for supremacy on green killing fields struck by a posse of golden daffodils, which would soon turn rust with their blood. Come on, I shouted to my men inwardly, Charge! The battle cry froze in the air as the black veil which had surrounded me momentarily lifted with flickering tube lights as fans hummed to life. The power supply was now back.

As I hung around on the terrace while the rest of the family made their way back to normalcy- and dinner, the buzzing halo around the streetlight darted furtively here and there before lifting up into the open- eagerly rushing towards the barrage of other lights in the house.

My extended family of ten (during the summer holidays)- comprising uncles, aunts and their kids were seated round the table, feasting on lamb and meat dripping with rich wine sauces as I casually sauntered in. “Make yourself useful, Prerna- get the rice from the kitchen” ordered my mom. I went in and asked our maid to deliver the steaming haggis to our esteemed guests from far off Catalonia. We mustn’t offend them at any costs- I told her- they will refuse to sign the Lake treaty then, and where would we then find electricity to run our mills? She looked at me- a little bewildered as she went out, used to my make believe world of pure fantasy.

My granma was the only one who would understand my other world. I looked forward to the summer holidays only because she would come across to stay with us in our bigger house. Granpa and she lived in an exciting but smaller house in old Lucknow. Mom had once told me how she had hidden for a couple of hours, undiscovered, in the small attic of their house when she was younger, and I longed to try it out for myself. But however hard we kids begged, the grown ups would not budge from this house- it was bigger and better connected and all the cousins could have their own rooms- besides, the electricity men were kinder here. The most frequent power cuts happened in old Lucknow, and ‘grid’ failures were not uncommon. I used to think a grid failure was some kind of steps which collapsed- steps leading to the main electricity room, maybe? The kind we had seen in Amitabh Bachchan’s Deewar. It was during these power cuts that my dormant imagination would spring to life, colouring pieces of black and white conversation with multi-hued fantasies. We would often retreat to the large terrace, dotted with comfortable charpais (primarily because the terrace afforded some breeze in the sultry June heat) and while enthusiastic groups would start Antaksharis, I would either be involved in a war, or be gazing at the star-spangled sky, wishing that a UFO would choose our terrace to land During the day, Granma and I would sit for hours on her soft bed- plotting revenge against the atheists, while she would conjure up fancy names and titles for all my soft toys and dolls. In the mornings, before anyone would wake up, I would pad across to her room and snuggle in with her, reveling in that old comfortable smell, a mixture of soft earth and the faint perfume that the grace of old age brings. We would narrate our dreams to each other- while I would dream vividly of spaceships, forests, knights and kings, her dreams would largely comprise of old memories and the past- which she recounted to me in the form of stories. This usually signaled the start of a good day, while I thought of all tasks during the day- perhaps inviting the Duke of Orange for the summer ball and the Princess of Normandy to tea.

I would trail Granma all day- listening to her hum old bhajans and movie songs. Her crisp cotton sarees, her medicine chest, her dressing table- that was always full of sweets for us kids and her wardrobe that smelled sweet and faintly old fascinated me. She was a resolute woman, having worked for the ruling party in her youth, with a vivacious zest for life that would put any teenager to shame. In fact, Granpa used to say she had the strength and determination of the entire family combined. One of my favourite pastimes in the hot June afternoons with her was taking out all her jewellery and listening to its history- here was a kundan set she received as a bride- this was the lighter gold chain she had gotten when she had cooked the first meal in the house, these were the pearl earrings that Granpa had got for her when he had toured Hyderabad. In the scorching afternoon heat, while the fan whirred atop noisily, I would parade behind locked doors wearing her jewels, wrapped up in a silk saree, feeling every inch the princess she proclaimed me to be. I would look at my reflection in her mirror, which caught her fading youth in the slant of the afternoon sun, and feel sad for the years that had passed between us. I wished she was my age so we could be together and friends forever.

My aunts and uncles who descended upon us from far off towns like Agra and Allahabad, would be jealous of the time she spent with me. Sometimes, my aunts (who would not have the chance to see Granma for another year) would bundle me out of her room and lock it from inside and all I could hear would be whispers and muffled laughter. I usually sneaked in with Bela (our maid) and the evening tea and pakoras.

Granma was a treasure trove of stories. While my cousins would fill their afternoons and mornings with borrowed library books, I would listen to Granma’ s stories all through the day. My favourite was the Harlequin story.  

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Andrew the great, there lived a poor cobbler. He had a fair and beautiful daughter, Rosa, who looked after him and their house, as her mother had passed away. Fair Rosa did all the housework and cooked delicious but frugal meals for the cobbler and herself. They lived in a small one-roomed thatched cottage on the outskirts of the village. Rosa was sixteen.

One day, while the cobbler was bent over his last, sewing away furiously, a young man of about twenty came to his shop and asked for his riding boots to be mended. They had worn out, he told the cobbler, during the royal hunt taking place in the nearby woods. After careful inspection, the cobbler agreed to replace the young man’s worn sole for two gold pieces.

While he was busy at work and the young man was seated at his shop, Rosa came out to tell her father of their torn straw roof, through which a part of the sky could be clearly seen. The young man saw Rosa and fell in love with her beauty. He asked the cobbler for her hand in marriage.

The cobbler was only too happy to see such a fine young man ask for his daughter, but he wanted to be sure that Rosa would find a safe and rich home with the young man. He agreed, but only on condition that the cobbler see the young man’s means of livelihood himself.

The young man, whose name was Vassily hesitated for a moment, but seeing Rosa standing in the doorway of the straw hut, he agreed.

Vassily was part of King Andrew’s court. Apart from the usual entourage of jesters, clowns and mimics, there was a harlequin, who advised the King on important matters. The nature of his role was completely opposite to the function he performed. It was a widely held belief that the Harlequin had a divine connection with The One, and hence his spoken word carried more weight than that of all advisors and ministers. Naturally, the court was not without hatred towards him. The real identity of the Harlequin was unknown to all, except the King. Vassily was the Harlequin.

Hearing the cobbler’s request that he construed as genuine concern of a father, Vassily closed his eyes, and asked to be left alone with Rosa for a moment. Placing one hand on Rosa’s shoulder, he transferred his predicament to her- showing her a dream that was filled with all pleasures of the kingly court- food, music, wine, clothes, servants and jesters. And the Harlequin- important to the kingdom and the king, feared by all because of his bluntness and accuracy. And himself as the Harlequin. On seeing this, Rosa drew away in surprise, and opening her eyes, told Vassily she would take care of the matter. Vassily left for the woods again, with his mended boots, and a promise from Rosa that she would reach the King’s court the following day and they would work out a plan to fulfill the cobbler’s wish without divulging his work.

Rosa stole out secretly from their hut at dawn, carrying with her a modest bundle of handpicked flowers and some fruit. She had no wish to disturb her father- her mind brimmed with ideas and means to convince her father that Vassily was a hardworking and honest man. For during the course of the night, as she had lain on the straw bed, gazing out at her favourite star, she had seen its unusual brightness- and had taken this to be a lucky omen.

She arrived at the court about two hours later- dusty and tired. Her windblown hair only added to her beauty. The courtiers were surprised to see her. She looked around for the Harlequin but he was nowhere. At last the trumpets rolled and the King’s entry was announced. And there, following the King at a respectful distance was the Harlequin- Vassily, her love.

Rosa peered over the onlookers’ and courtiers shoulders in order for him to notice her, but he walked on. It seemed like he didn’t recognize her at all. Rosa was disappointed and shattered. Still, she felt he might approach her once the Court was over- but he walked away just as he had come. All day long, Rosa stayed near the Court, in the town square, waiting for Vassily. But he didn’t come. As night fell, she trudged slowly back to her hut, to her worried father and the despondency of rejection. The colours of the flowers in her bouquet had run dry and they looked grey and lifeless. The fruit she had carried for Vassily was shriveled and rotten. She cried herself to sleep. From that day onwards, every day, for a month, Rosa would make her way to the Court,

and wait for Vassily to remove his mask and come to her. At night, through the hole in the roof, she would look up at the sky, searching for her special star, but it was lost. Instead, it was filled with stars that shone as brightly as the diamonds on Vassily’ s mask and wonder at the injustice of it all. And once, when her father questioned her about Vassily, she remained silent.

For what could she tell him? They had parted ways to think of a solution to bring them together, and while Rosa had invented many paths to do just that, Vassily was lost.

And then, at the end of the month, she decided to let the matter be heard in Court. While she feared for Vassily’ s safety on one hand, she knew that if she did not find him soon, he would be lost to her forever as the cobbler was already looking for another groom for her.

Mighty King Andrew heard her story. The courtiers sighed in surprise. The jesters became silent with amazement. The King ordered the Harlequin to take off his mask in front of the Court. He agreed. Rosa stood holding her breath and her tears, waiting for that moment when she would finally see Vassily after a long wait of a month. But the face that the mask covered was not Vassily ‘s, young and handsome, but a gnarled and wrinkled one- that of the King’s oldest minister. The King looked aghast. Rosa fainted in the Court and when she came to, found herself in the market square, with the same minister staring down at her. As he walked away, she noticed he was wearing hunting boots, the sole of one of which was patched and sewn together.

No one knew what happened to Vassily. Rosa believed that he was killed during the royal hunt. The cobbler (to whom the story had been narrated) felt that his enemies, the courtiers might have conspired against him. There was no trace of him, no one heard of him.

But the flowers that Rosa grew were always without colour.   

<>I loved the ending. I loved the story and it soon became my favourite. I listened to it everyday- lying beside Granma with closed eyes and picturing young Rosa and Vassily- the straw cottage and the colourful court. My eager brain processed the ending in different ways. Maybe Vassily was the king’s oldest minister- disguised. Maybe he was a demon (which was why the flowers were colourless) or a witch. Each time I heard the story, my involvement with the characters grew, and I took to fancying myself to be Rosa- waiting for Vassily.

That was when three incidents happened which I still remember as vividly as yesterday’s breakfast.  

1.1       The Missing Idol We had an ornate puja ghar that was decorated with idols of every kind. While Ma would take care of it during the rest of the year, in the two months that Granpa and Granma stayed with us, it would be their domain. In fact, the pooja ghar was housed in their room itself. While Granpa finished his daily ten-minute pooja ritual immediately after his bath, Granma was more elaborate. She cleaned all the bronze idols every day with limewater and a soft cloth. She wiped the floor of the pooja clean and plucked fresh white jasmines everyday as offerings which none of us kids was allowed to touch or smell. The pooja itself was a large collection of golden idols, carefully placed in a semi circle. At the center of them all was mighty Shiva, with his coiled serpent, looking every inch the majestic destroyer and creator  Then there was Ganesha, with his round belly and cute mouse. Hanuman holding the Kailash Parbat, Ram and Sita, looking benevolent in their bronze likeness and Laxman, ever humble at their feet in a row. There were the Devis- Lakshmi on her lotus throne, Saraswati with her veena and Parvati. But most of all, I liked Krishna, with his little flute sticking out of the mould, being different than all the other idols and one that I could recognize with ease. While granma devoted half an hour each day to aarti and consequent prayer, I would sit at the door, observing all her actions- how she offered jal to Surya dev first at the small window, followed by sprinkling of the same holy water over the pooja ghar, offering the flowers, lighting the diya and agarbatti and performing aarti, singing Om Jai Jagdish in her strong voice. Sometimes my aunts would join in, if they had had a bath, otherwise, I would mumble the words along, happy to be entrusted with the dual task of ringing the ghanti and taking the clutch of agarbattis to each room, spreading the fragrant holy smoke. I loved to see the incense trail curl up and distribute itself as I gently blew on it. It reminded me of the smoke I had seen coming out of a building once, when it had caught fire. The concept that I had a potent weapon in my hand was enough to make me excited.

One day, while she was elaborately cleaning the pooja ghar, it was noticed that one of the idols was missing. (Granma used to rely on the easier and trusted trick of counting the idols besides remembering their places, as there were more than two dozen bronze gods). On inspection, it was found that it was Krishna who was the runaway. All of us kids were lined up and questioned, and soon afterwards all the maids were too. All possible hiding places were looked at. There was no sign of the blue god. I was especially sad, since he had been my favourite. More than exclaiming over lost bronze, Granma felt this was unlucky- losing so precious an idol just like that. The morning passed in mourning.

In the afternoon, when I went to the pooja room to listen to Granma’ s stories and settle for an afternoon siesta, I found her at the foot of the pooja ghar, clutching a copy of the Bhagavad Gita tightly. With the afternoon sun streaming in through the window, making her grey hair look silver, she looked like the perfect humble devotee, offering prayers to the lord. And at that moment, the enormity of the situation struck me. Granma was a simple lady- her wants and needs revolved around those of her children, grandchildren and her lord (and of course, Granpa), but just then, seeing her bent head catching the rays of the afternoon sun while an unexpected gloomy calm and silence filled the room, I knew I had to do something.

Years later, I would remember that scene as if it were yesterday. And even now, when winter waves a hazy goodbye to us, and the cold is melting into warm and its just about summertime, I can feel the same feeling of peace, tranquility and calm that stole over me that day, accompanied by a fleeting vision of a lady in a starched cotton saree, with her head bent.

I coughed a little to let Granma know I was there, watching her. She put away her holy book with a little tired sigh, wondering which of the gopis Krishna had run away with. That afternoon, I asked her for my favourite story, though I fell asleep at the part where Rosa reaches the court. And I dreamed the Harlequin Dream.

In my dream, a soft and dull moonlight stole over a large thicket. I was following someone- I knew not who. As I stumbled over grassy weeds and overgrown creepers, I heard a strange footstep behind me as a twig cracked. As I turned, I caught a fleeting glance of the Harlequin’s tasseled cap as he dodged behind a tree. I ran after him, but I couldn’t see where he was. I grew breathless and seemed to choke as I continued my mad run after him. Suddenly, I came upon a clearing. The ground was cushioned with a layer of soft leaves as I fell down, exhausted, gasping for air, feeling that I would die any minute.  And then, looking deep into my eyes was the Harlequin. The moon shone a little silver beyond his head, giving him a faint angelic halo. He spoke to me, though no words were uttered. He asked me why I was in the forest. I told him I was looking for the lost idol. He said it was close to me and in that dreamlike quality where one realizes what is happening without the solidity of dialogue and sound, I thanked him. That was when I woke up.

For a full minute I lay beside Granma, little rivers of sweat running down my forehead as my heart continued its thump thump and my mouth ran dry. I turned towards Granma to tell her of my dream, but strangely, she already knew.

Next morning, the idol was found underneath my pillow. One of the maids confessed to having taken it to sell it and earn some extra money. She was fired immediately, and I got myself listed in the golden books of Granma.  

1.2              Sleep

The next incident occurred in the same week. Bela, our maid who was also our cook, had taken to complaining ever since we fired the stealing maid, who, we hadn’t realized, was her right hand. Since it was difficult to find help at such short notice, Bela had to complete almost double the work in the same time. Though there were other maids, Bela was still in the process of grooming most of them and the onus of majority of the work fell to her. She remained sullen and gloomy the whole day, and to add to her worries, she complained of her sick child to Granma.

Granma listened to her story. Bela’s four year old son was healthy in all aspects- except one. He just wouldn’t sleep at night. All through the day when he sometimes came to our house to sit quietly in one corner or play with a broken fire truck, he seemed content. But Bela recalled to us the horrors of having him toss in bed the whole night, crying and upsetting others - a two year old daughter and her husband. Her husband was a tempo driver and needed his six hours of sleep. The daughter, on the other hand, was like an angel- slept through the night and didn’t wake a soul. The crying of the son often woke up their neighbours in the kachi basti where she lived. She was exasperated, she told Granma. She had tried everything- warm milk at night with haldi and mishri, an oil massage to soothe his scalp, even rocking him to sleep while her daughter watched them amusedly. Nothing helped, as he would soon wake up even if he nodded off for ten minutes. He would keep whimpering through the night, waking Bela as she held him close. Naturally, Bela wasn’t in the highest of spirits when she came to work for us in the morning. The strain was telling on her. Granma just nodded and said she would find a solution.

 1.3              Bargad ka ped

The first thing Granma did was to visit Bela’s kacha hut in the basti where she lived, not too far away from our own house. Her hut, made of straw and mud, had tin roofing, which looked new. She also noticed that the rest of the mud huts had thatched straw roofs, and above Bela’s hut, stood a giant gnarled banyan tree. In fact, the trunk of the banyan tree went right through her hut, which Bela had converted into a wall- and drilled several holes in it- to fix a clothesline and hang some brass pots. It looked awful.

When she returned, I ran after her eagerly- wanting to find out what Granma had learnt. She told me of the banyan tree. I stared at her in horror as I realized what Bela had done.

In our locality, there was a banyan tree at the corner of the crossroads to our house. It was a large sprawling structure- and its roots grew to encompass the adjacent wall. Beneath this shady alcove, was a one-room shanty that had been constructed by the owner of the house adjacent to the tree. It housed the maid working in that house, and her teenaged son, who worked in the nearby Paper Mill Colony. The maid, who was new to the area, unknowingly cut off a part of the large root tendril that hung across her door. It was noticed that ever since that day, the son experienced frequent sleeping problems. He kept hearing voices in his head, he said, and once, tired of the low droning that accompanied his waking hours, he had climbed atop the banyan tree and thus seeking refuge, had slept off.  It was rumoured thereafter that he could find peace only in the lap of the tree. The bargad had, effectively, stolen her son from the mother, as a punishment to the wrongdoing that she had caused it. Thereon, it was a widely held belief that one should never

a)      attempt to cut off or destroy any part of the bargad- this has reverse effects on the doer and

b)      attempt to bring in un-natural elements near the bargad.  

While it was clear that Bela had committed a sin of the first order, by defacing the trunk of the tree growing inside her house, she had also put in a new tin roof- while others were content with old thatched straw huts.

I realized this, and looked to Granma eagerly for a solution. She just smiled down benevolently at me, and started narrating my favourite story again. With all the excitement that my tender nine-year-old heart had borne the previous hour, I fell into a deep sleep- this time when Vassily approaches the cobbler for Rosa’s hand.

And I dreamed the Harlequin Dream.

This time too, it was night, but it was unusually dark. I could hardly see my way as I moved forward, stumbling over roots of trees and creepers that coiled around my ankles, making it extremely difficult for me. Don’t go ahead, they seemed to say, but I was intent on following that unknown person. Suddenly, I felt something brush against my shoulder. I screamed in terror, but no sound came out of my mouth. I turned back, only to see the grinning face of the Harlequin. What are you searching for now, he asked me. The cure, I replied. It’s closer than you think, he said, and pressed a warm cloth pad into my palm. Keep this under his pillow, he said. And I woke up in a deep sweat, gasping for air while Granma soothed my hair and my wildly beating heart.

I knew she knew what had to be done.

Later that night, she packed a small bit of tinfoil in a bed of tulsi leaves and gave it to Bela to be placed under the pillow of her son. The tinfoil was the offender- the tulsi leaves the soother. Bela took the small cloth pack gratefully.

Needless to say, her son slept deeply that night.

Next day, under Granma’s supervision, Bela carefully took down the nails she had dug in the banyan tree. She applied a paste of turmeric and multani mitti over the gaping holes in the bark, and then proceeded to cover up the tin roof with a sheet of straw. Things returned to normal, and summer holidays ended.

Granma went back to her own house in old Lucknow. I missed her sorely. I would speak for hours over the phone with her, but the physical proximity of her was lost. That year had been special for us, as we had been brought closer by the Harlequin story.

The Harlequin Dreams stopped as suddenly as they had started.    

Years later, in my own small cozy two bedroomed apartment overlooking the sea in far off Mumbai, where I had chosen to settle with my journalism career, I heard Grandma’s raspy voice over the phone. She had pneumonia, and wouldn’t live the night. I held the phone close to me, wishing that I could somehow climb inside the wire and be transported next to her. At that moment, I realized that I had done so little for her- she, who had put everything on the backfoot so that her grandchildren could be happy, she, who had selflessly devoted hours of naptime to entertaining us kids, she, who was the first one to hold me as a newborn

Between bouts of crying and that sinking feeling which enveloped my heart in a cold grasp, I sat in front of my own small pooja, praying for her. I didn’t realize when I fell asleep, holding the Ramayana in both hands.

I dreamt that it was daytime, and I was in an open field. The vastness and the greenery of the meadow fascinated me. I was searching for someone, and I started running towards the opposite end, where I spied a small house. But however hard or fast I ran, the meadow kept getting bigger, and the house smaller. I soon ran out of breath and collapsed on the ground. The smell of poppy seeds and a koyal singing in the distance jolted me awake as I felt someone shake my shoulder roughly. It was the Harlequin.

Don’t take her away, please, I said. He smiled, and beckoned me to look in the window of the house, which had appeared just a little way from us. I struggled to get up, and dragged myself to the window- there was Grandma, in front of her own pooja ghar. The sun caught her silver hair and her saree was crisply starched and white. The folds of her skin appeared translucent and there was an ethereal glow about her. On hearing me, she turned and smiled and said, everything will be all right. I am happy.  

I woke up with a start and looked at my watch. It was two o’clock in the night. With trembling fingers I dialed the long distance number. My mother picked up the phone. She informed me that Granma had passed away peacefully in her sleep.

Granma also took the Harlequin with her, much to my grief.

(August 9, 2009)

The Contentment of Marital Bliss

Smells. Thoughts. Feelings. Emotions.

Memories.

Blending into an incoherent whole, crystal clear sequences that merge into a mass of nothingness, leaving behind a sunny, happy feeling, which starts the cycle all over again.

Mrs. Sonia Varma. Mrs. Sameer Varma.

I let the words glide over my tongue, before I speak them aloud. Already the words are registering in my head, for me to say the next time I open the door to a salesman or receive an unwarranted call from a bank-loans executive, just like the glass nameplate on our door- Sonia and Sameer Varma, with its floral edged design, proclaiming our shared existence with a few mere black letters.

Is that all to it- a name change- a few letters of the alphabet, juggled this way, written differently, and you become a different person, another identity, a separate concept?

It would have been so easy if we weren’t stuck with the same name throughout life. In a way, I envy actors for their ability to portray a different name in each film- Raj, Aryan, Siddharth, Rajvir, Sunjeet, Paul...the list is endless and so full of possibilities. Their ownership and responsibility for that name ends in three odd hours, while we battle with the steadfastness of our names through a lifetime. I would’ve liked it if one day I wanted to be Sonia, the next day Sameera, the next day Aarti, or a Pooja. Or if I am in one of my stoutly spiritual moods, a Mahalaxmi or a Gayatri. And if I am feeling particularly adventurous, and one with my rock idols, an Alanis or a Janis. 

I imagine Mrs. Sameer Varma as the suave, sophisticated consort of a handsome, aquiline-nosed, salt-n-pepper haired gentleman, but in reality, it’s only me. Me, with my shock of unruly curls, bewildered green eyes staring from a pool of skin that’s a little freckled, a little too pale and white, instead of the peaches-n-cream complexion that I envy on the models of Femina, Cosmopolitan, Elle as they stare at me fixedly, silently rebuking me for feeling jealous of their reed thin bodies and unbelievably large busts.

I stand before the mirror, staring at my own reflection. Just a month ago, I was somebody else.

Sonia Malhotra. Senior Executive- Research. Starry Entertainment. The No. 1 private network in India, with the famous saas-bahu serials, moderating a research group of ten housewives each week, to pre-test the next fortnight’s script. Analyzing results. Not tweaking them because that’s what reality is. They want to see Kaavya dead and Aakriti win (Kaavya is the do-goody housewife and Aakriti is the steamy mistress)- bored of all what Kaavya has done so far- embraced an illegitimate child, brought up two story-book children, forgiven her husband for cheating on her and bringing gifts to all members of the family whenever she visits abroad, while Aakriti lives an independent life- her lounge bar is the sole reason of her existence, she flirts with a few select customers and is the epitome of a glamorous lifestyle; delivering another all-night presentation to the producers, and then seeing the same sob story repeated in the next chunk of script with little change- because it keeps the advertisers happy and the audiences clamouring for more. The Law of Eyeballs, as my boss described it once, pithily- and the headline which stuck out like a sore thumb in the rest of the slide- both to the clients as well as me- I even dreamed about it!

Once I had tried to imagine myself as ‘the housewife’- just after my engagement, when I was moderating one of those groups. Sitting in one of the most plush houses in Juhu (where the research group was being conducted), sipping kaanji (flavoured carrot water: a North Indian specialty) and chatting with the lady of the house- a formidable Punjabi who seemed to have three pairs of hands (a couple fixing sandwiches in the kitchen, a couple putting clothes in the dryer, one sipping kanji with me and another patting her flawlessly gelled hair into place) and five eyes (one each for watching over her three naughty kids and their two friends), I felt dwarfed. If this was what the profile of a homemaker was, then I was woefully inadequately prepared.

Post the group, when I had taken the tapes to the office and was transcribing them, I got lost in one of the respondents again- a beautiful, well-maintained South Mumbai socialite- what was her life like? Suddenly, as she started speaking, she mentioned her sister-in-law, and a variety of thoughts sprang to my mind. She ceased to be just another face, just another respondent. Her relation opened up a whole new world, and it struck me that we all live in our own worlds, comprising of our own relatives, sometimes friends, with self-defined boundaries. All humans carry with them their world, and if we could outline the shape of that boundary, imagine the odd-shaped bubbles each one of us would carry- commuters on trains, buses, pedestrians walking on streets, people working in offices, dancers on stage, actors on screen, doctors in wards- each with their own world. And how awfully crowded the world would become! We could perhaps see the contents of the bubble- and it would be exciting to note overlaps of people in same families. I bet the socialite’s bubble would be full of interesting people as she would have been the perfect homemaker, mother, wife and party-thrower, all rolled into one. And I was surprised that a part of me actually felt happy to be part of this group- the women who made houses, homes. Happy and scared. For what if I could not live upto the unsaid expectations that Sameer had? Fulfill the unspoken deeds that his parents wished me to? (Though they were completely non-interfering, and lived several cities away). What if I could not be another Kaavya? The thought, insidious as a dark shadow, swam through my mind, and I blamed the network for depositing pieces of non-existent women, primetime by TRP, and establishing new rules of societal behaviour. I pile my hair on top of my head. It gives me a beauty-queen look, with a few tendrils escaping down to my shoulders. I suck in my stomach, and look at my reflection sideways. Hmm…not quite as thin as Michelle Pfeiffer- my husband’s favourite actress. My husband. Husband. Am I really married? Sameer. Sameer Varma. The man of my dreams, who carried me off on a white horse even before I could say no, I can walk. Who led me to the edge of the forest that was dark, deep and mysterious, overgrown with creepers and then showed me into his castle- wonderfully majestic, supremely breathtaking and truly marvelous, where I would spend hours idolizing at the altar of perfection that was Sameer, right down to his disarmingly tender smile and always open arms. Who made me believe in the power of dreams, red roses and sparkling wine. And taught me to love. I glance at the bed, carelessly strewn with a deep rich maroon duvet and matching satin sheets, a wedding gift from my parents, witness to the most wanton lovemaking sessions, always ending in us dozing off peacefully in each others’ arms, oblivious to the world, unaware of neighbours. I think of his body- warm and reassuring, hard and soft, pliant and supple, molding itself around me, holding me in its warm embrace which is so gentle yet so tough, and the wall of his chest which carries all my worries. His hands, which are like an artist’s, with tapering fingers and half moons in his pink nails, which hold my own small ones so beautifully, completely covering them with his love, his passion. His hair, which smells of baby shampoo, highlighted with grey, adding grace to his already willowy frame, fine like a silken thread under my fingers. His lips, meltingly soft, just like swollen raisins that our cook used as a garnish on the achingly sweet kheer. Sometimes we would just lie close to each other, our bodies speaking in a language none of us could decipher, and I would feel a sense of completeness seep into me as he would draw me against his chest, and I would lie with my head on his arm, while he would protectively wrap his other arm around me too. We would utter a joint sigh- this feeling of contentment and joy that would often bring tears to my eyes. Will he find me as attractive as I am to him today, as twenty-five years from now? Perhaps he will, perhaps he won’t. Some questions are better left answered by time. I sit down on the bed. The sheets rustle faintly, like the breeze running through the mango orchard in my parents’ house, in quaint Lucknow where my sister and I would take turns on betting who would pluck the most mangoes, ending in either hair pulling or knee scraping fights. The satin feels slippery soft- like my grandmother’s skin after she had had a bath, and just before her daily puja ritual when she would dress in one of her sprightly starched cotton sarees, which smelled faintly of jasmine and sandal. I run my hands over the flowery pattern on the sheet. Why are flowers the most commonly gifted item in a newly wed’s life? Flowered bone china, flower patterned dinner sets, flowery sheets, and bits of flower prints in a trousseau. Maybe it’s because they symbolize fertility and procreation, the sole reason why a couple decide to get married. I look at my flat stomach. I know its too soon to start thinking of a family, I’m just 24 and we’ve been married for a month. But I think of Sarita, my best friend from school, who, at 23, was already a mother of a darling daughter, having been married off at 21, much against her wishes. She wanted to study to become a CA, while her parents wanted her married. It’s a different story that she decided to tie the knot with their tenant, an averagely good looking and suitably well off man, working on a short project for his large shipping company. It was yet another story that he was almost 30, while she was just 21, and while she wanted to wait till she became a CA, her parents thought she could carry her CA dreams alongwith her wedded bliss to her marriage. Of course, fate had other plans as she turned a mom before she could write her second paper. And Sarita’s CA dreams metamorphosed into endless nights of nappy changing and feeding sessions. Now, when I receive the occasional sms from her, its about Shalini- her daughter’s accomplishments- like ‘2day shalu sed ma 4 th 1st time.wish u wr hr’ or ‘shalu’s strtd crawling.u shud c th state of r house’ or ‘anil’s parents r hr 4 a week-shalu’s got co.’ It was simply amazing how a tiny one-year old could fill up the lives of two sensible grown ups, who would abandon all logical thinking the minute something regarding the baby would come up. After a few failed attempts at phone conversations, where Sarita would be too distracted- “Ya, Anil is doing fine, and you know what…. Shalu!! Shalu! Not that, baby- hold on for a minute, please Sonia” and then “So what was I saying, Anil’s slated for another profit showing this quarter, and I’m so happy…Shalu, baby, don’t do that! Sonia, I have to go, Shalu might just get electrocuted”, I had simply relegated myself to the fact that it was no longer Sarita Varma who was my friend, my confidant and my sole guide- she was now Shalini Shah’s mother. So much so that when she called me up (late night, thankfully, when Shalini was sleeping) to tell me that she couldn’t make it to my wedding as Shalini had fever, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. This, after we had sworn that we would attend each other’s marriages no matter where we were, in school, in a fit of two 16-year olds’ declaration of undying friendship. I guess marriage and motherhood do change you. Would I become like her, or like the countless others who selflessly gave their everything so that their homes would prosper? Strangely enough, I found myself thinking of my work, and the one week of leave I still had left, and suddenly, I felt like I never wanted to go back to work. The irritatingly white walls, the stuffy AC cabins, my small desk with the PC and telephone, the soft board with its ruby red concentric circle pattern on which I had placed irrelevant trivia besides some encouraging Dilbert-isms and those perennially stuck drawers which were full of VHS back ups and the dreary steel cabinet full of transcriptions, TRPs and useless analysis which made our office resemble a government daftar, dotted with the network’s stickers. Did it really matter to Mrs. Patil, our neighbour, that Samsung had been the highest ad spender during the World Cup, or that the black set top box that sat solidly, unblinkingly, on her TV like an intruder actually monitored her journey through the channel maze? I think her only thought stream while flipping channels would be to ensure that Babbloo, her three-year-old son learnt something new in Oswald that day, and that the TV child lock worked properly. Maybe she was preoccupied with the next day’s chores, or checking her bank balance, or even mentally calculating the dhobi’s bill. I don’t think our analysis as to why she suddenly jumped from a saas serial to TNA wrestling during a commercial break would hold much ground. “The contentment of marital bliss”, that’s what it was, explained Sameer with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips, when I had said once that I might not want to work post marriage, a few weeks before we were actually married. “That’s fine with me, you know. You now have no compulsion to work. You have a house to occupy your mind- akin to a young girl playing with a dollhouse. Do what pleases you and makes you happy.” And he had playfully ruffled my hair while I had petered off saying that there was no way that I would never not work. What would I do, besides thinking up new recipes and cleaning the house, maybe an occasional fight with the bai? At that time, I had dismissed the frightening thought before it loomed large in its entirety. Now, sitting in the sun dappled bright room, smelling of the heady aroma of solitude, a quiet contentment stole over me. I felt all my senses begin to tingle, and it started with my sense of hearing. The soft notes of the wind chimes (metallic flowers, again, a wedding gift) contrasted with the muffled sounds of a television playing downstairs. Somewhere, I could hear a cistern filling up. Above the whirring of the fan and the steady reassuring drone of the AC in the room, I could hear a small bird twittering outside. I got up and went to the window, framed by the green branches of the tamarind tree that hung across our bedroom and living room balconies. Crinkling my eyes to see better, I spotted a black bodied, red beaked bird with frightfully large yellow rimmed eyes, and just at that moment, it turned and looked in my direction. What was it, that I felt then? Fear? Sympathy? Understanding? Probably a mixture of all, as it took wing and gracefully flew off into the white cloud specked sky. Maybe the bird saw me as I was, standing with my face pressed an unnatural white against the brown window, peering to see outside. Did it then, think of me as the prisoner, and the window my cage? Did it fly off with such show to emphasize its freedom? Were housewives prisoners? How then, would I describe my mother, who chose to stay at home, without giving a thought to her budding journalism career? Were the words she wrote occasionally her passage to ethereal freedom? Did she, while rolling out fat puris and stirring in alu curry, think of the alternate life she could have led, had she decided to pursue her calling- that of a gifted writer and a true perceptionist? Did she, in moments of woe, look upon us as burdens, a mark of her failure of independence? Were women who work outside homes truly independent? Once, she had entered a writing contest on a lark, and had won. I still remember the joy that coloured her face, and the glow that she carried with her for an entire week. Did she then wish that her life were different? Did she look to the news correspondents and famous journalists and want to be one of them too? Did she feel she quashed her ambitions for filial responsibility? Did most housewives think like this? Perhaps it was because a housewife’s role is so unappreciated in our society. Women have, through the ages, made homes and cooked and cleaned, yet it is this new era that has ushered in thoughts of financial independence, little caring that loss of happiness comes free. For I was yet to come across a career woman with a perfect balance of home and work life, who was guilt free from thinking that she spent too little time with her husband, or had forsaken seeing her only child grow up. Women are genetically not inclined to balance. I looked around through the seventh floor window. Below me was the large society garden, verdant and leafy, and full of dew-soaked crunchy grass. On weekends sometimes, when we weren’t too hung-over, Sameer and I would rise early, and take a walk in that garden, barefoot, and inhale the morning-fresh air, free and unencumbered, holding unspoken promises of excitement and a bright day ahead, while the dew would soak our feet, making them tingle funnily, as if those blades were tickling us, encouraging us to walk more, spend time with them.

Now, as the sunlight filtered through the tall swaying palm trees, it seemed as if they were dancing, and charming that old midget of a sun. Golden light fell in a lattice on the hedges, making them seem alive as they moved in the slight breeze. Somewhere, I heard a mother call out to her child, and I was brought back to thinking about my job, and my subsequent decision. Suddenly, I feel my stomach rumble, and my thoughts turn to dinner.

Even though I’m not a great cook, I have been taught the basics of good, light cooking by Ma since the time I was 12, and by 21, I could prepare a complete meal by myself. At work, it sometimes seemed weird to me that grown women- in their 30s couldn’t dish up a pasta to save their lives, who lived on McDs and Dominoes and had adjusting husbands who wouldn’t mind Chinese ordered-in every three to four days. I am proud of my small town upbringing, which lay emphasis on the value of nutrition and correct eating, and attributed it to good girls learning cooking as a basic qualification for the right groom.

I rummage in the refrigerator and pull out a bag of bhindi, Sameer’s favourite vegetable. As I soak in some black masoor daal to go with it, I also draw out two large cucumbers- one for the salad, another for the raita. I start chopping onions, ginger, garlic. When I was younger, I would have trouble identifying the correct spice- even now, I called Ma more than once to ask the name of zeera in English- brilliant, soft and fragrant asafoetida which could change the texture of any curry, and mustard- sarson seeds which could add fire to the blandest of vegetables with its own crackle and spark. 

The ladyfingers leave their white seeds everywhere- that, and a sticky white substance which binds itself irritatingly to my hands, like pollen grains from a flower. I pull out the non stick kadhai, and heat some oil, throwing in a few mustard seeds, and onions. The crackling of the aromatic mixture goes straight to my head, reminding me of the smells that wafted from my mother’s kitchen when we were younger, especially our birthdays, which would be special treat days and we could expect all our favourites- spicy chana masala, succulent dahi bade which melted in one’s mouth alongwith the rich and tangy saunth, presented with a smattering of red chilli flakes and fresh ground pepper, puffed and golden bhature- served immaculately on a bed of tissue paper to soak up the excess oil, and for dessert, mouthwatering sevvaiyan or luscious kheer, of which my sister and I would partake at least a couple of bowlfuls each- and my father, who would exclaim after every mouthful, that he wished it was birthday time more often.

I slowly plonk the ladyfingers into the fried paste and add in the spices that will complement its taste- turmeric, which is an antiseptic, and a binder; green coriander powder which adds aroma and taste, and powdered garam masala- a mixture of strong herbs- cloves, black peppercorns and bay leaves, that will add body to this otherwise lithe preparation. And I top it off with a sprinkling of red chilli powder and salt, feeling satisfied that I am cooking yet another wholesome meal for Sameer, who is particularly fond of cheesy pizzas and oily burgers.

I hum a little tune to myself as I grate the cucumber and blend the dahi. Sameer is the best thing to happen to me- I met him as a business associate- the largest advertiser on the channel, and our business meetings soon grew into personal dinners and private lunches- he, being older to me by four years and a Senior leader in his Marketing team of the large FMCG he works for. Our worlds clicked at the speed of lightning, and soon, I was on my way to fast falling down the tunnel of love, quite like the black tunnel journey that Alice undertakes in Lewis Carroll’s book- my favourite of the lot.

Soon, as dusk steals over our colony, flocks of birds fly southwards home. I wait for my Sameer to come home- he has already informed me he’s on his way- and I watch the little fairy lights that enliven the far off dotted landscape, thinking about them- the people inhabiting those homes, wondering, if they too, have as privileged and as luxurious a life as this.

Dinner is already on the table- alongwith a vase of fresh roses that I ordered this morning. Life is perfect, and nothing could be better. I seat myself on the velvet sofa, mesmerized by the shadows cast by the lamps on the far end of the room. They look like giant puppets- moving with a will of their own. When I was younger, I would often feel guilty about throwing away inanimate objects- an old pencil sharpener, a chewed up eraser or a faded pencil cap. I felt they too, had a life, and would feel hurt if I cast them so uselessly in the dustbin.

The doorbell breaks my reverie, and I open it- to Sameer, my husband, and my perfect life filled with the contentment of marital bliss.

(August 22, 2009)