How do I love thee?
1 week ago
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
IF
U never know u leave memories and aspects of yoursef with people you've interacted with..till u get this ..even in tough times
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard Kipling
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard Kipling
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Blogomania
Ahem,
After a year of being here, I am finally managing to get the hang of the blogging world. Takes me back to a basic principle of life that I learnt a looong time ago- The more you give, the more you get. So the thumb rule, we operate is on, dear girl ,is to visit other blogs AND leave a comment. And then the other one I learnt in corporate life : its not about performance alone, its about perception and image. U gotta tell your star stories sometimes. Its all about community, a brotherhood, a sisterhood, a peoplehood who are tied together for a common cause: to create a cacophony by ranting all they want. Only the cacophony is silent; punctuated and interrupted by some pertinent issues coming up, some strange inexplicable bonds and lyalties being formed. And I"M LOVING IT!!!
But Ahem, here are some hard facts that I am trying to grapple it. ( And I do work in an IT company but technophobe is the word for me). So please help, you much more arrived people.
1. How does one keep a blogroll? ( I am trying but cant figure out the link)
2. How does one monitor the hits ( I am trying but where is the 'button')
3. How does one efficiently manage one's time in the blogging space ( considering I can devote about 30-45 mins everyday) ( And I am obsessed about being planned for everything I do)
4. How does one change a banner to suit one's own purpose? ( there only seem to be standardized formats, layouts) hence my blog looks like how I start looking when I have piled on the kgs : desperately uncoordinated except that one has put one hazaar effort in getting the ensemble together. And the fat ALWAYS shows!!
After a year of being here, I am finally managing to get the hang of the blogging world. Takes me back to a basic principle of life that I learnt a looong time ago- The more you give, the more you get. So the thumb rule, we operate is on, dear girl ,is to visit other blogs AND leave a comment. And then the other one I learnt in corporate life : its not about performance alone, its about perception and image. U gotta tell your star stories sometimes. Its all about community, a brotherhood, a sisterhood, a peoplehood who are tied together for a common cause: to create a cacophony by ranting all they want. Only the cacophony is silent; punctuated and interrupted by some pertinent issues coming up, some strange inexplicable bonds and lyalties being formed. And I"M LOVING IT!!!
But Ahem, here are some hard facts that I am trying to grapple it. ( And I do work in an IT company but technophobe is the word for me). So please help, you much more arrived people.
1. How does one keep a blogroll? ( I am trying but cant figure out the link)
2. How does one monitor the hits ( I am trying but where is the 'button')
3. How does one efficiently manage one's time in the blogging space ( considering I can devote about 30-45 mins everyday) ( And I am obsessed about being planned for everything I do)
4. How does one change a banner to suit one's own purpose? ( there only seem to be standardized formats, layouts) hence my blog looks like how I start looking when I have piled on the kgs : desperately uncoordinated except that one has put one hazaar effort in getting the ensemble together. And the fat ALWAYS shows!!
Any other useful hint ( Mummy ke nuske would be mucho appreciated)
5. So please please some kind person, please offer some simple , simple suggestions. (Eg : First see the top panel of your screen, do u see something blue & white, OK. Do u see the word layout written there)...u get the drift?
This is a personal cry for help...
Btw- wanted to thank MadMommahttp://themadmomma.wordpress.com
Mindspacehttp://tarabhatt.blogspot.com
JottingnMusingshttp://jottingsnmusings.wordpress.com/
Monday, May 25, 2009
Of Facts and Fiction
‘The Folk of the Faraway Tree’ by Enid Blyton, though read nearly 25 years ago , continues to be my favourite book. In this book, Enid Blyton has put together a wonderful motley of characters: The beaming Moonface, The surly SaucePan, the Dame Washalot (she washed clothes sitting on a tree and threw soap water down the bark!), the 4 children who visited this surreal, magical tree (which by-the –way is in an enchanted forest) which reached beyond the clouds where a ‘different land’ visited each week. Lemme see if I can remember the lands – The Land of Nursery Rhymes where Jack, Jill, Miss Muffet , etc all ACTUALLY lived, the Land of Happiness, the Land of Marvels, the Land of Know it all..etc etc. Enid Blyton of course wove in a story with some morals thrown in, but for me it always represented charm, desire and left me breathless with awe! I would spend hours fantasizing how I would react if I reached this fantastic tree. And you’re right, if I still remember it and have a precious copy still retained- it has shaped some of my ideals and principles in life.
Since I have partially successfully negotiated with Mimi and Ta to now sleep on a cozy mattress next to our bed, they rightfully demand a story every night. Personally, the regular fairy tales don’t find favour with me anymore – they stereotype so many roles in life- Snow White with her fairness, step mothers with their cruelness, physically unappealing men are ‘beasts’ , u get the drift..? So the Lord and I struggle every night, making up stories and hoping that they convey some ‘important lesson’ intertwined with wonder; lizards that threaten to eat up innocent joeys ( that’s baby kangaroos) and the odd gigantic joey who is orstracized by his peers because of his size but heroically saves the joeys from the menacing lizard and subsequently finds favour with all his friends. But here’s the thing ; I don’t know how much of fantasy is ‘allowed’ and what part must be fact?
While intently listening to Lord’s story the other night, I heard him correct Ta and Mimi’s understanding on animal habitat. I on the other hand, would have loved to build on their train of thought – let the tigers reach clouds and let the monkeys swim in the water. Let them imagine gardens of chocolates and Maggi noodles in the water. Let them think that you could run away and then learn to fly. While I am still old fashioned enough to insist that their respective girlfriends/ boyfriends must be of the OPPOSITE sex- I wonder whether the new age cartoon heroes like Ben-10 are inspiring enough? Are heroes characters that save the regular people from evil influences or so they attempt to break all conventional themes?
Its common knowledge that each new generation usually represents agile minds and far more confidence than its preceding one. As the Lord likes to point out, I swell with pride, when Ta (lemme reiterate – all of 4 years) will casually mention that Mangoes and Carrots have copious amounts of Vitamin A and Lemons are a good source of Vitamin C. But just the other day one of the society children-probably 6 years old, refused to get a particular cycle horn ( it has police, fire engine, ambulance sirens as options) since it would cause noise pollution. I was immediately impressed but then the nag happened.
I and many more of my generation would have loved to get such a horn. We would have played chor-police and chased the thieves all over the neighborhood. Mangoes were never ( and never will be ) a source of Vitamin A. They will always represent warm summers, juices trickling down them chins, mom stripping us down to bloomers and slips so that one of our 3 sets of clothes were not permanently scarred. Stories were usually learnt through books that had boring text printed all over but something enthralling lay beyond those black and white words. Society kids got together to become the local ‘Famous Five/ Secret Seven’ gangs who solved mysteries. Of course, we just ended packing up sandwiches ( jam & kheera NOT ham and cheese!) and Rasna and trekking up the local hillock that we defiantly named ‘The Black Mountain’ .
I hear and read about 2nd lives now. As to how you can ‘be’ anyone that you want to. How online games help you attain world supremacy and its good for books to have ‘large pictures’ elucidate the situation. But I wonder there is too much structure around? Are we focusing too much on facts and leaving out the fiction? Is the popularity of reality shows an indication of how deep rootedly ‘practical ‘ we are now becoming? Is Fact and experience becoming the same thing?
Now don’t get me wrong- I don’t worry about the kids or the new generation. I don’t lament about futures and past; each generation inherits legacies and possibilities and so the cycle goes …but can the magic of a Disney world only be experienced at an amusement park? Do we need to do more?
Since I have partially successfully negotiated with Mimi and Ta to now sleep on a cozy mattress next to our bed, they rightfully demand a story every night. Personally, the regular fairy tales don’t find favour with me anymore – they stereotype so many roles in life- Snow White with her fairness, step mothers with their cruelness, physically unappealing men are ‘beasts’ , u get the drift..? So the Lord and I struggle every night, making up stories and hoping that they convey some ‘important lesson’ intertwined with wonder; lizards that threaten to eat up innocent joeys ( that’s baby kangaroos) and the odd gigantic joey who is orstracized by his peers because of his size but heroically saves the joeys from the menacing lizard and subsequently finds favour with all his friends. But here’s the thing ; I don’t know how much of fantasy is ‘allowed’ and what part must be fact?
While intently listening to Lord’s story the other night, I heard him correct Ta and Mimi’s understanding on animal habitat. I on the other hand, would have loved to build on their train of thought – let the tigers reach clouds and let the monkeys swim in the water. Let them imagine gardens of chocolates and Maggi noodles in the water. Let them think that you could run away and then learn to fly. While I am still old fashioned enough to insist that their respective girlfriends/ boyfriends must be of the OPPOSITE sex- I wonder whether the new age cartoon heroes like Ben-10 are inspiring enough? Are heroes characters that save the regular people from evil influences or so they attempt to break all conventional themes?
Its common knowledge that each new generation usually represents agile minds and far more confidence than its preceding one. As the Lord likes to point out, I swell with pride, when Ta (lemme reiterate – all of 4 years) will casually mention that Mangoes and Carrots have copious amounts of Vitamin A and Lemons are a good source of Vitamin C. But just the other day one of the society children-probably 6 years old, refused to get a particular cycle horn ( it has police, fire engine, ambulance sirens as options) since it would cause noise pollution. I was immediately impressed but then the nag happened.
I and many more of my generation would have loved to get such a horn. We would have played chor-police and chased the thieves all over the neighborhood. Mangoes were never ( and never will be ) a source of Vitamin A. They will always represent warm summers, juices trickling down them chins, mom stripping us down to bloomers and slips so that one of our 3 sets of clothes were not permanently scarred. Stories were usually learnt through books that had boring text printed all over but something enthralling lay beyond those black and white words. Society kids got together to become the local ‘Famous Five/ Secret Seven’ gangs who solved mysteries. Of course, we just ended packing up sandwiches ( jam & kheera NOT ham and cheese!) and Rasna and trekking up the local hillock that we defiantly named ‘The Black Mountain’ .
I hear and read about 2nd lives now. As to how you can ‘be’ anyone that you want to. How online games help you attain world supremacy and its good for books to have ‘large pictures’ elucidate the situation. But I wonder there is too much structure around? Are we focusing too much on facts and leaving out the fiction? Is the popularity of reality shows an indication of how deep rootedly ‘practical ‘ we are now becoming? Is Fact and experience becoming the same thing?
Now don’t get me wrong- I don’t worry about the kids or the new generation. I don’t lament about futures and past; each generation inherits legacies and possibilities and so the cycle goes …but can the magic of a Disney world only be experienced at an amusement park? Do we need to do more?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Mrs Mathew
Tiger Tiger Burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What fearful hand or eye,
created thy Fearful symmetry
I watched mesmerized, as Mrs. Mathew read out the verse. Her voice resonated, her intonation was somber and her expression grave. But her eyes seemed fiery, almost reflecting a zealous intensity. An English Literature period; that took place 21 years ago, but I have since recalled it many a time. Each time the memory is crystal clear and sharp as a razor. Just minutes before she had recited the poem, she had addressed the class in her inimitable sing song ( it wasn’t lilting..) but authoritative tone urging us to understand that the poem was not about the Tiger but its creator, its maker. She exalted William Blake’s probable reverence in writing such a powerful tribute to The Almighty. Like many of the girls in class, she had my full hearted attention for all her English literature classes. She had been teaching us for 2 years now and it was a honour to be taught Shakespeare and Panorama poems by her.
Mrs. Mathew, my school principal, of St Mary’s School, Pune ( SMS-School of Million Snobs, and we obviously proudly bore that title) was 5 ft 4 inches but like all authoritative figures who earns and commands respect, she seemed much taller; especially to a bunch of school going girls, who unknowingly sought a role model but refused to accept her as one. She ruled the school with an iron hand and the sight of her walking to her office from her on campus residence still makes me want to, first, disappear OR if there was no escape- stand ramrod straight. She caught me once- banging on the chapel piano and good girl Bhavna, faced, public humiliation for the first time in her life. I mean, what is worse than your name being announced in the School assembly, for BAD behaviour. The teachers were closely watched and each passing batch was meticulously primed for the ICSE exams. The school gained an unholy reputation of being very academic focused but still we had star players in some sport, elocution or debate competition. She expanded the school from a small prestigious British sister led academy into a large, high quality and reputable institution. She was feared by student and teacher alike, but the teenaged girls loved to hate her. Commenting furtively on her sarees, her lack of another life beyond St Mary’s, her obsession to keep us away from, ahem, boys. (You couldn’t doubt her administration, EVER)
It won’t surprise me if many others claim that their school principals were similar. But Mrs Mathew stood out because she loved teaching English Literature. Indoctrining her students to love and revere the power of expression, the power of words, the imagination of a writer, a poet. She stood out because she taught many of us the importance of discipline and hard work. She stood out because she would never accept less than the best. She was fanatic about it and disdained any people who were less than ordinary.
I met Mrs. Mathew 3 years ago, just before my 2nd child was born. She had been suffering from acute arthritis and had recently been diagnosed with cancer. It was an Old School Girls reunion. She had been associated with St Mary’s for more than 30 years now. It was her life, her passion, her everything. And in the large auditorium we chatted: some awkwardly trying to place each other and some whose friendship had withstood the passage of time, it wasn’t unusual to see a mother daughter, both ex students of St Mary’s. And then she entered.
I’m not sure what I was expecting when she made her entry. I thought we would all revert to our put on masks, clap politely and then move on with our business. I still cant forgive myself for being so petty at that point of time.
I didn’t know that I would stand up and look at her. And be filled with grateful thanks. For having a great hand in making me the woman I am. And making me proud of what I stood for. And developing in me a sense of passion about everything I do. For inculcating a need to make a niche for myself wherever I went. For being able to do make that a reality. For being a role model Leader. For wanting to emulate her behaviours in all aspects of life. For being finely turned out. I suspect each woman in that room- be it a Dr, journalist, a veterinarian, a chef, a professional, a housewife, 60 year old or 20 years old ..stood just a little taller than the rest of the crowd anywhere. And I didn’t know that my palms would become sore because I couldn’t stop clapping…and I didn’t even know that I was a part of the reverberating applause. And that I wouldn’t ever have words to describe the adulation in the room. And that she would be overwhelmed but still meet each one of us. And while she couldn’t make conversation with each one of us , I know she recognized me when I went to meet her.
Mrs. Mathew passed away yesterday and I didnt know that I would shed tears for her. But today, each girl, now woman, of St Mary’s School Pune, will be just a little sadder. But our voices ring today in song for a school so fine and true. And more importantly for the woman who selflessly devoted herself to a calling in a way that many of us still aspire to be but cant. I do hope that St. Mary’s traditions’ continue the way they always did but it will NEVER be the same.
Come now girls, get up ....It has indeed been a privilege to be led and taught by her.
In the forest of the night,
What fearful hand or eye,
created thy Fearful symmetry
I watched mesmerized, as Mrs. Mathew read out the verse. Her voice resonated, her intonation was somber and her expression grave. But her eyes seemed fiery, almost reflecting a zealous intensity. An English Literature period; that took place 21 years ago, but I have since recalled it many a time. Each time the memory is crystal clear and sharp as a razor. Just minutes before she had recited the poem, she had addressed the class in her inimitable sing song ( it wasn’t lilting..) but authoritative tone urging us to understand that the poem was not about the Tiger but its creator, its maker. She exalted William Blake’s probable reverence in writing such a powerful tribute to The Almighty. Like many of the girls in class, she had my full hearted attention for all her English literature classes. She had been teaching us for 2 years now and it was a honour to be taught Shakespeare and Panorama poems by her.
Mrs. Mathew, my school principal, of St Mary’s School, Pune ( SMS-School of Million Snobs, and we obviously proudly bore that title) was 5 ft 4 inches but like all authoritative figures who earns and commands respect, she seemed much taller; especially to a bunch of school going girls, who unknowingly sought a role model but refused to accept her as one. She ruled the school with an iron hand and the sight of her walking to her office from her on campus residence still makes me want to, first, disappear OR if there was no escape- stand ramrod straight. She caught me once- banging on the chapel piano and good girl Bhavna, faced, public humiliation for the first time in her life. I mean, what is worse than your name being announced in the School assembly, for BAD behaviour. The teachers were closely watched and each passing batch was meticulously primed for the ICSE exams. The school gained an unholy reputation of being very academic focused but still we had star players in some sport, elocution or debate competition. She expanded the school from a small prestigious British sister led academy into a large, high quality and reputable institution. She was feared by student and teacher alike, but the teenaged girls loved to hate her. Commenting furtively on her sarees, her lack of another life beyond St Mary’s, her obsession to keep us away from, ahem, boys. (You couldn’t doubt her administration, EVER)
It won’t surprise me if many others claim that their school principals were similar. But Mrs Mathew stood out because she loved teaching English Literature. Indoctrining her students to love and revere the power of expression, the power of words, the imagination of a writer, a poet. She stood out because she taught many of us the importance of discipline and hard work. She stood out because she would never accept less than the best. She was fanatic about it and disdained any people who were less than ordinary.
I met Mrs. Mathew 3 years ago, just before my 2nd child was born. She had been suffering from acute arthritis and had recently been diagnosed with cancer. It was an Old School Girls reunion. She had been associated with St Mary’s for more than 30 years now. It was her life, her passion, her everything. And in the large auditorium we chatted: some awkwardly trying to place each other and some whose friendship had withstood the passage of time, it wasn’t unusual to see a mother daughter, both ex students of St Mary’s. And then she entered.
I’m not sure what I was expecting when she made her entry. I thought we would all revert to our put on masks, clap politely and then move on with our business. I still cant forgive myself for being so petty at that point of time.
I didn’t know that I would stand up and look at her. And be filled with grateful thanks. For having a great hand in making me the woman I am. And making me proud of what I stood for. And developing in me a sense of passion about everything I do. For inculcating a need to make a niche for myself wherever I went. For being able to do make that a reality. For being a role model Leader. For wanting to emulate her behaviours in all aspects of life. For being finely turned out. I suspect each woman in that room- be it a Dr, journalist, a veterinarian, a chef, a professional, a housewife, 60 year old or 20 years old ..stood just a little taller than the rest of the crowd anywhere. And I didn’t know that my palms would become sore because I couldn’t stop clapping…and I didn’t even know that I was a part of the reverberating applause. And that I wouldn’t ever have words to describe the adulation in the room. And that she would be overwhelmed but still meet each one of us. And while she couldn’t make conversation with each one of us , I know she recognized me when I went to meet her.
Mrs. Mathew passed away yesterday and I didnt know that I would shed tears for her. But today, each girl, now woman, of St Mary’s School Pune, will be just a little sadder. But our voices ring today in song for a school so fine and true. And more importantly for the woman who selflessly devoted herself to a calling in a way that many of us still aspire to be but cant. I do hope that St. Mary’s traditions’ continue the way they always did but it will NEVER be the same.
Come now girls, get up ....It has indeed been a privilege to be led and taught by her.
Monday, March 16, 2009
My Little Adult
"The chemist salesperson looked at me strangely when I asked him for a small size diaper pack and home pregnancy test in the same breath." The hubby was teased mercilessly amongst his pals and I was quite a balloon, but there was no way out : yup, it was a miracle pregnancy barely 4 months after Avyukta was born. Since the 1st one was an IVF, one attributed the good news to God, Dr. Nalini Mahajan and hubby( and in that order.) Paradoxically, even after wanting the pregnancy- I almost resented the new life within me- for taking away the attention from my precious 1st born, for having to wean him early ( secretly I couldn’t have yelped louder with joy- I hated ‘breastfeed is the best feed’ prophesying that I heard everywhere.)
Softer movements in my tummy, an extremely uncomfortable pregnancy; I became gigantic and got used to being asked ‘Are you sure there not 2 in there?’ I would spend hours watching my tummy- was it different from the 1st time, even strangers were stopped to ask " Whaddya think- girl or boy?" My Dr and family waited anxiously outside the OT ready with fetters coz I had threatened to run away if it was another boy.
My little adult was made her angry appearance on 3rd Feb, 2005 exactly 1 year 1 month and 8 days after my 1st baby. Fiercely red, she fed , burped and slept with frightening proficiency. I had no guilt in offering her the bottle by the 2nd day ( albeit when the Dr was away). I mean it was OK, na? I had a small baby to look after as well. So as I was gratefully playing with baby Ta on the 5th day after popping out another one, my hubby who was tending to her came in rushing and gasping ‘ Look at her…’ I hurried into the room and there she was : HOLDING ON TO HER BOTTLE with firm hands and staring defiantly at me. While the others oohed and aahed about this ‘bahut tez hai hey ladki’ I stared back at her and that moment defined the future of our relationship.
I mean, I know, I am her mom. I have a C sec ( read ugly, fat and strech marked) tummy to show for that and all the necessary proofs but truthfully, I am still trying to figure her out. She doesn’t look like either of us ( this wasn’t an IVF baby so no room for error) but she is a lot like me. Only it took me about 30 odd years to show defiance, like myself, dance in front of the mirror and sulk manipulatively.
Talk about High Emotional Intelligence- there is not a person Mimi cant get along with. Her gleefulness and joy is infectious and she has her Dad wrapped around her little finger. I am usually at the fringes of their affection but she knows when Mama needs that special hug. As irascible as me, I am the only one who can calm her. For the record, Mimi doesn’t respond to baby stuff and talk and she skillfully palms off some chewing gum off me and chews it like any teenager would.
My Mimi detests wearing anything frilly but cant be called a tomboy. I anticipate she will never grow up to be a tomboy. She could successfully defend her elder brother in a fight with any other children but loves to wear my lipsticks and now eye shadow. ( I swear I bought my 1st one just 2 years ago). She cycles like a pro and carries off my high heels with equal ease. As I tease her about her growing bum ( the glorious inheritance of the Chopra khandaan) she stands in front of the mirror and critically examines it. She has a fantastic sense of humour and responds sportingly to Mama calling her ‘Padduraam ‘ or ‘Donkey’. In fact, whenever we spot a Donkey on the road, she is the 1st one to point out’ Look Mama, there is Mimi’.
Mimi (touchwood) has no fears. She can be locked alone in a lift without electricity and she walks out with nonchalance- why did you lock me up? She jumps from the highest point in the house with aplomb and doesn’t even wait for applause before trying another one. Her first stint at the beach- she was almost swept away with a large wave and when she emerged coughing from the water, I could see it- the thrill in her eyes of having experienced something exhilarating. If I try to stare her down or scold her , she shouts back and informs me that I shouldn’t be shouting at her. ( I have finally figured out that the best way to deal with her is to shout back and tell her that I don’t appreciate her treatment of me). It takes her all of 2 minutes to recover from pain and despite usual childhood sicknesses , she is remarkably healthy.
I think, secretly every woman yearns for a daughter. And while ostensibly all people claim ‘it would be so nice to dress up a girl’; I don’t think its about that. ( if your 2nd one is a girl, you would empathize- they’re always in boyish pants and T shirts). Girls have a way of giving a part of them to you। They hug just because they want to; they know that its time to buy a pink lipstick ( not brown again, Mama) ; they pick up your latest dupatta and admire it; they share a chaat with you ( even at 3); you can finally gnaw at a chicken bone without discomfiture ( for the new comers the Lord still stays vegetarian and the son inherits abhorrence for killing anything moving); Mimi will not accept a chicken piece without the bone and prefers the tougher meat morsels. And like any other woman, I want to bring up my daughter to be everything I wanted to do but couldn’t do .
As my hubby and I worry about the times ahead and wonder how many men is she going to drive crazy coz she is an exceptionally spunky girl, I sing softly to her 'राज कुंवर जी आयेंगे, मिमी को ले लायेंगे’ she looks at me and confirms 'U cry? When Mimi goes?' I look at her mistfully and tell her I will miss her terribly and she…looks back at me her special look ( reserved for Mama) and then jumps up in glee ‘ And I ‘m not gonna come back’.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Memories of a Museum
Recession brings on strange justifications; a visit to the mall is a boring indulgence and cooking a stroganoff (y’all are invited) at home is far more worthwhile than a dinner at the fancy restaurant. Entertainment for the children acquires educational aspirations and we all packed off for a visit to the ‘Rail museum’ yesterday. We get off the car and rush to buy the entrance tickets but there is a horde of school girls in serpentine queues waiting. Dressed neatly in their uniforms, the queue threatens to disband itself with excitement. Ah the joy of licking ice lollies while waiting, the teachers capping the energy with their stern glances, some of us munching on obviously unhygienic bhel puri- others postponing impulsive pleasures- rationing money for a glorious end to an exhilarating day, the giggling among friends..
I enter and on a track that ends abruptly a grand decrepit train has been embalmed …awaits a second glance. My children run away fearing that the train will start and the lonely train is desolate.. its time has gone long ago. Its only fault is that it is mediocre, at one time it was a regular motley of engine and bogies, of passengers and officials, of economics and emotions, passion and boredom, commitment and joy all onward to their destinations – some to home and others to pastures that seemed greener. I move on ..but glance back, does it give me a wizened smile?
Centre stage, where stars jostle for space..There’s a grand saloon ; a dusty signage claims it was used by Prince of Wales (Edward VII) while he did his tour of India . Did Royalty get rickety or is it just a sleight? Did he sit on this white leather sofa drinking tea while commenting on the deplorable state of the triabalistic Indians or did he soak in the landscapes, the toiling white clad farmers and the cotton fields in the black soiled Deccan plateau? Did they come to revere him at the next station ? What about the Princess ? Where was she …charmed by their strange ways or was she home where her Ayah fanned her and allowed her lover the surreptitious visit. Was the lover as skilled? Or more?
There is a steam engine; have I become so old that my early childhood companion now stands in a museum? The excitement of a 2 night train journey, the visits to the grandparents, my mom’s joy at meeting her father and sister after a year, me reading all the grown up books of my grown up cousins, all of us going for a treat visit to the Rose Garden. My mother stealing away 2 more days by staying on with her father incurring my Daadi’s wrath. But we’ve barely started- Dad waves us goodbye. Water campers, a huge food basket laden with milk bound parathas and aloo mutter subzee, the dirty toilets , the strangers who become instant food offerers and bedfellas..I love the window, I can gaze out the whole day at the dirt, filth, naked bathers, wondering where Gabbar Singh was hiding in the Chambal mud dunes..the steam engine chugging away, whistling its presence, our arrival at New Delhi Railway station and our journey back in 2 months, blackened sooted faces, wondering who the new class teacher was going to be , Agra ka petha and hijras ( my college friend sliming away from giving them money by saying that ‘we are only students’, the dressed up hijra clapped and moved on- was it so simple? All those years of furtively handing them a 5 rupee note….) The Dhaund station where the train would turn back reneging on its promise to take us onward but miraculously reach us to the intended destinations. The hand pump at Dhaund, me scrubbing my face with the travelling soaps, the cool breeze of Pune welcoming us home.
There is the Fairy Queen..bringing its memories of Deccan Queen. The delectable mince cutlets, the office goers catching up on their sleep, the more ordinary bringing forth a foldable table, engrossing themselves in never ending rounds of playing cards, the familiar waiters, the fancy dining car, the Parsi kulfi still ticking the taste buds alive. Old world charm and contemporary fashion, intermingling to lend a unique snobbery to the DQ regulars.
The toy train. The kids want to take a joy ride and so do I. College trip , some 30 odd students make the best of last few days at freedom, from Kalka to Dharampur. Gola- stout and blue track suited new college star, the recipient of calls from all 4 IIMs, the cynosure feeling cocky, feeling exalted gets off the train striving for another accomplishment that will prove his superiority -promise to catch it running. We egging him on (GOLA GOLA..GOLA) and then Gola experiences failure staring at him. Chain pulling, the TT ticking us off, envious all of us getting our petty revenge, GOLA learns from failure ?. Chail and the first ever snowflakes on my eye lashes, the RD Burman songs which have become a soul companion, the purani jeans song playing again and again and again, silence and tears in the rooms, empty promises to be friends forever. The snow fight with the locals..
Maharaja of Mysore ’s saloon..capable of running on broad and meter gauge. Only Maharajas could afford a battery of slaves who would physically lift the bogey to shift it, THE Indian Railways is the world’s largest employer- still! The coal loaders, the coolies, the black suited grim ever greedy TTs, the attendants all saluting, guaranteeing a seat for a few bucks, the guard with his signals, still the final authority ..how many people ?
The delightful Rail museum has the skull of an elephant, the poor thing was on its way in its own territory when it caused a train to derail. The skull, along with an untidy collection of crockery, the cutlery, the clocks , the lamps, the metal passes, all testimony to 150 years of history.
The mono rail, the Maharaja of Patiala, the toy model trains, the throng of people jostling for space, the romance of train journeys, the serenity of passing landscapes’, the Indian cacophony at its best on platforms, the instant bonding or dislike, the fierce attachments to ‘my space’, complete nonchalance for respect for others, our lack of basic hygiene, the blankness in the eyes with few aspirations for tomorrow , the reliance on karma, .. where is it more typified than at this pulsating entity.. where reflections whirl past, where freedom struggles love stories have borne fruit… I chug ahead, hoping my children someday experience this romance.
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