All you dog lover friends..beware

I have an axe to grind with all those dog – moms that eulogized keeping a dog as the best stress buster ever! Really?

I can tell you a hundred reasons why Jibu has made my stress levels gallop skywards but I will only start with this morning.

I was late to work and had to push the daily status meeting by 15 minutes.

The first snowfall of the season – and the world outside looked pristine and white. But that’s not why I was late. 

Before I became a dog-mom, this would have meant staring out at the beautiful world and sharing this beauty with my Facebook friends. Today I worried where Jibu would go poo. Because my very knowledgeable husband had found out last night that dogs cannot be let out in the snow to do their job. The rightful owner of Jibu arose and leashed Jibu close to his pad.  I sprayed his pad with the training stuff and Isha bleary eyed departed for another round of sleep.

But Jibu is a summer dog and only knows to ‘go’ outside. Of course sometimes, just to torment me he has gone on the carpet outside my door but today he remembers he is ‘trained’

So all the while I prepared the kids lunch boxes, he whined and squealed and barked and I took him and his pad to the powder room and locked them inside hoping he will act like all of us do. He normally does that when we eat he says me too please or when I bring home the shopping - he is quite clear he is a member of the family and asks me where's my stuff?  But not this time. He continued to bring the house down. I am of course only concerned by the horror that does our daily performance appraisal. He comes down, and yells at me for being a dog abuser and to make the dog stop barking.  Very early appraisal today. :(

By now Isha and her dad know that the rant to put Jibu for sale in Kjiji is about to begin so they come down and try to take Jibu out on the porch. Our boss departs for another shut eye.

 Jibu as soon as he sees Isha and Ameeth forgets everything but fun and frolic and starts eating the snow. They declare he does not want to go and again tie him up in the kitchen table and depart - Very strategic move by both of them. For future reference this will be put down as ‘We tried’

By now Jibu is quite desperate and continues to curse me in his dog language. I keep trying to ignore him and once again spray the pad.. no luck… he will not let me have my tea or my breakfast in peace. I finally bring the big green foot rug and spray it. He does his job and continues to mutter darkly at me for not helping him out earlier!

By the time the ‘happy family’ is down for breakfast he is at peace and there is no reason why the adorable thing needs to be given away!

I think I need to give myself away!

One item off my bucket list

Today I struck one item off my bucket list...something I wanted to do for sometime.

Do I feel better? Or worse? I don't know.

Along with the feeling of being important comes the old feeling of being shoved behind..dragged in the dust...and the realization that this can all coexist in one window,.

I wonder if it would have been better to let the item remain on my bucket list... Would that have been more honest or most deceitful...I don't know.

 

All is not well

Every now and then my body tells me that all is not well.

I have been floating in a state of nothingness - wondering if my desire to curl up with a book and do nothing- meet noone-talk to noone is a state of complete satisfaction with life or complete dejection.

Then my body comes down with an ailment and I know... All is not well. I need to explore and introspect and set things right again. I have to find something to look forward to

Lines that touched me

Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all,
I have only slipped away into the next room,
I am I, and you are you,
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still,
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the same easy way which you always did,
Put no difference into your tone;
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect, without the shadow of a ghost on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was; there is absolutely unbroken continuity,
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am just waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well.

Henry Scott Holland

 

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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe 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

 

 

One in a series..Life's Purpose

Days morph into weeks will morph into a month and then a year.

I exist moving from one email to another, dragging myself from one meeting to another, ticking off complete on each list of ceremonies trying to ignore that dull ache and yawning hole that two people I did not even live with or spend enough time with in their dying days have left behind. Because of whom I have this life, because of whom I am what I am or what I am not.  I have asked my mediocre self before “Why do I exist?” and there has always been one certain answer. “You exist to take care of your parents” So much did I invest in this one single reason that others for who I must live learned to live without me. So here I am, suddenly retired almost purposeless trying to find meaning in things. Acutely conscious of that one destination that we must all reach making every current act meaningless. This is it then. This is Life. That must end in Death. That is the one and only truth.

Ma

My first hero. The one that smelt of Ponds Dreamflower talc and whose smile crinkled up her eyes has also moved to that place where no phone calls or airplanes will reach.

The sweetest most patient and honest person I knew when I was growing up. Who I wanted to emulate has left this world. And has remained forever with me.

Her pallu was my first refuge and I was so insecure when I could not cling to it when they sent me to school. I remember asking her ‘Why can’t I stay home and learn what you teach Bula? Why do I have to go to school?’ She used to have so much fun relating this story.

My devotion to my mother was more than most children’s devotion to theirs. I hated to see that face without a smile. I strove to keep it on her always. I worked hard at my academics and did not trouble her in the least bit. While trying to stay ahead became a passion for its own sake, I owe the rousing of my passion to her. I was her favorite child. I loved pink if she loved pink. If she changed her preference so did I.

I died a bit every time she was sick. And when she fell sick because of worry for me, I hid my troubles and put on my happy face.

I remember today the many faces of Ma. The strong sweet patient person who held our home together and instilled the right values in us - The picture of calm when others were shrieking in hysteria.  It pans then to the lady who suddenly landed up in hospital every time there was a little stress, the one whose favorite topic was her illness and the a visit to the doctor a lifeline. Such a sea change over the years. Ma had never been a demonstrative or communicative person. Her illness made her more inward focused. I have never seen her weep. Perhaps another handicap she suffered from?

She suffered from that rare affliction Addison’s disease that was diagnosed only 13 years back. This made her much misunderstood and finally claimed her life. She was ironically an enigma to the doctors as well. Over the last few weeks I have read enough on the disease for me to write my own thesis about it and have also kind of understood why my mother always felt sick whenever there was a stress of any kind - Too much happiness or too much strife. We did get tired trying to prevent her from falling sick and often wished she would cooperate. Little did we understand that her trying hard not to fall sick made her sicker.

At some point during these years she became a child and I the parent. Among my four children two of my own, my father and her, she was the most demanding in a very quiet way. She stopped being my hero though I never stopped being hers. Everywhere she went, she spoke about me with pride. She just did not deem it necessary to let me know.

This last one year has been tough for all of us and for her. And the last one month has been torture. But before she fell sick Ma and I had some really happy times together. She was so sporting so ready to just get into her shoes and try all kinds of cuisine. She insisted on being photographed in the snow. She wanted to take back these memories to show her new friend in Baroda.I almost felt I had that old Ma back, the one I had lost in 1989.  I wished I could keep her with me forever. She heard me and stayed back. She fell sick and sicker and sicker puzzling the doctors once again.

All this while my family and friends have been telling me as I have to myself, this too shall pass. All along at the back of my mind I wondered what it will take in this passing. It took her with the passing. She has led a full life and was very lonely this past year. She also was not in the best of health. What happened was for the best, but dammit couldn’t it have happened after she saw the first blooms of spring and quietly in her sleep without that one month of torture?

Of course it hurts like hell. There are these huge empty spaces inside of me. My parents were my children too. All of a sudden, I feel lost, like I have an empty nest. I don’t know where I have to put that share of responsibility and duty that was allocated for them. Sometimes my heart feels so full of emptiness, I feel it will burst. This will pass I know.

I also know from the moment she passed and I stood with my head on her chest after 30 years, she is not far. She is with me as my first hero with her crinkly smile calmly holding me together when I let her. Did I also know when I kissed her on both cheeks and called her my shona ma that it would be my last meeting with her? I never did things like that with her. She held on to my hand and looked at me and worried I had not had anything to eat till then. That sounded so much like my first hero. I feel such a sense of calm between the spasms of grief. I know she is with me then and will always be.

 

A woman in Delhi

Here I am in a safer and less discriminated country, oblivious of the news that was hitting India's newstands till this morning. My heart goes out to the victim, her parents, her family and her friends. And memories that I am happy to leave behind come back to me.

I have been there too in unsafe Delhi.And I have been mugged. And probably would have been raped and murdered too. If the good Lord were not watching over me. The Delhi police certainly were not. This incident is to bring to light how inept, corrupt and ineffective the Delhi police is.

At 8 p.m. one August night, 9 years ago.on Mehrauli Badarpur Road, our driver left the car to go look for my colleague's husband. My colleague was also in the car with me. A PCR van went by. Passers by went by. We were certainly not alone. Suddenly, there were 4 men who demanded the car door be opened. Unfortunately, my driver had wound down the window a bit to let a little air in. While we watched, at first indignant and then horrified, one of them slid his hand in and opened the door. The keys were also in the car and two men sat in the front while two others stood by our doors either to jump in or throw us out - we will never know. The car alarm had gone off when the door was opened and the auto lock activated. Obviously new to technology, they decided to split with the car keys and turning around to snatch my cell phone that was hanging from my neck. A crowd had gathered but none followed the fleeing miscreants. All this happned in about a couple of minutes. I had no time to register anything but the color of one of the men's shirt.

The first thing I did was use my collegue's phone to call the cops, who promised to be there in minutes. The nearest police station was half a kilometer away. I made the next call to my husband to bring the duplicate key set. My husband arrived and we waited and waited for about an hour. The crowd started thinning away. And we decided it was unsafe to stay there any longer. We drove to the Police Station and what followed was almost as horrifying as the incident itself. The inspector on duty started inquisitioning me as if I were the culprit, making me repeat my story at least a dozen times. I started getting annoyed and my husband warned me not to be rude. I asked the inspector if it would not be easy to track down the culprits since they had my cell phone. The inspector bragged that the culprits would be brought home. And began questioning me again. I snapped. And told him to lay off. And remember I was the victim.I told him if he was so sure of his success rate to get back my cell phone and car keys and let me go home.  That funnily seemed to work and the next thing he was offering me a cold drink and let me go home

I went home exhausted. Home was a mere couple of kilometers away. Barely I had finished my dinner and there was a call from the police station. It was well past midnight now. Just to give people an idea of how long the inquisition at the police station took. He had detained a young boy and asked me to identify him. It was the wrong guy of course. And an innocent one at that. An inquisition followed again.

I was asked to pick up my FIR the next day. When I did, there was no mention of the theft. After having spoken to me a dozen times, he had just reported my car keys and phone missing!

Why he did so I cannot imagine except that maybe he was in cahoots with the culprits? I never recovered the keys or my phone.

Delhi is not only unsafe from criminals but also cursed with insensitive and inept police officers.

What if the victim of the gang rape or her friend had dialed the police? Would they have come and prevented the crime? 9.9 to 10 they would not. Maybe they did?


 

Hippocrates oath

The plane was delayed. The tiny airport in Regina, usually quiet and homely looked crowded.

I was using my phone sparingly because I did not want to increase the roaming charge. I logged on the slow Wi-Fi at the airport and typed out a message to my son Rohan, who was always online. I hoped he would let Alka know that the plane was delayed again.

Alka was on the edge these days. She was so close to Rhea and had been weeping herself to sleep every night for the last one month. All her motherly instincts were alive with the possible dangers a young girl living alone would face. Rhea was worried about her mother too, but she was also excited. She was getting into the college and course of her choice. It had been a long time dream of hers and she had worked hard at it. My eyes went a little moist with pride for my daughter’s achievement. I quickly wiped them and looked around stealthily.

There was a Sardar talking loudly on the phone about all his recent worldly possessions; an Audi, the Samsung Galaxy and so on. There was a Chinese family of book readers who kept glaring at the Sardar in intervals. There was the usual group of corporate travelers, tapping on their notebooks and listening on the phone simultaneously. There was a silver haired lady who sat serenely through the melee. An occasional twitch revealed perhaps some pain she was feeling.

My phone rang shrilly distracting me. It was Alka. Rohan had given her the message and she wanted to know if I had any update. She had also just spoken to Rhea and was telling she had some problems setting up her new desk in her dorm room. “She finally managed. One girl was practical enough to bring some basic tools with her. “ I frowned. Was Alka accusing me? I had offered to set up the desk but Rhea insisted she would manage and I should leave for the airport. Had I known the plane would be late, I would have stayed back and set up her desk and maybe gone out for dinner with her as well. But how was I to know. When I arrived at the airport, the display screen only said delayed by half hour. That was 3 hours back. I decided it was time to grab myself a coffee and biscuit. By the time I got back, I was happy to see that boarding had begun.

I settled myself in my seat. Tiredness began to seep into my bones and I wondered if I should store the laptop overhead or keep it with me. I decided to keep it with me and go through the emails I had downloaded. I would have no time once I got back home. My shift would begin tomorrow. Even with her scholarship, Rhea’s education would cost us quite a bit and I had to do the night beat at the airport much as Alka hated it.

Once we were in air, I started reading the emails in my Outlook box. I saved the one from Papaji last. There were the usual updates from my friends and ex colleagues back home in Chandigarh. I responded to some. Once the laptop was plugged in at home, the emails would go out.

I opened Papaji’s mail. As I expected, it was a long one. The old man wrote seldom, not very familiar with the internet, and when he did, he wrote volumes. His mail was emotional; there was pride that my daughter had followed in his footsteps. My father was a professional of of repute in Chandigarh. His practice was more than 50 years old and at one time, he had entertained fond hopes of my following in his footsteps and taking up his practice. There was that usual accusatory tone in his mail as well directed towards me berating me for not utilizing my skills and agonizing over the fact that I was a mere cab driver. And very predictably, the email made me sink into a deeper depression. I shut the laptop abruptly as my thoughts took me to the time our Canadian immigration came through.

Such excitement there was in the family and neighborhood. Alka was especially happy. Most of her relatives lived abroad and she would now join the ranks of an NRI. By and large Alka was happy. We lived in a big detached home in the outskirts of Brampton – such luxury unimaginable for a cab driver back home. She had kitty parties with her cousins, did an occasional stint at the beauty parlor and went back home with the kids every year. I never let her know how disappointed I was that I had to settle into being a cabbie. Her brother in law had me set up and we did not really run into problems most immigrants face. If she guessed at my dissatisfaction, she never let on. She was vocal about her gratitude to the Rab for fulfilling her NRI dreams.

I tried to watch a movie. In the next half hour, I was lost in deep slumber. I don’t know how long I slept, it seemed almost immediately that I was woken up by the Sardar’s loud voice and the announcement asking if there was a doctor on board. I glanced around and saw the Sardar excitedly waving his hand. His complexion was a little ruddy but he did not look really ill. I sent a silent prayer up hoping whoever was ill would soon feel better

There was a little flurry of excitement and then calm prevailed. After 10 minutes, the Sardar was up again waving frantically. The air hostess took him away to another seat. And the announcement came again, asking for anyone who was a nurse, who knew CPR or first aid. I struggled with my conscience. Should I offer to help? I was not a practicing doctor in Canada.

I hit the attendant button and my co passenger frowned at me. Could I not see they had enough on their plates already? The air hostess came to me with a flustered expression. When I asked her what was wrong, she said simply, “A passenger has been taken ill sir. If you are a practicing doctor or nurse, we would be happy to give you the details.” I was struggling with the oath I had taken at the beginning of what was to be my career and the promise I made to Alka, never to indulge in that talent. The Hippocrates oath won. “I am a doctor.” I said firmly.

Passengers who heard me nearby stared at me. “What had taken you so long?” I could hear their stares scream. The airhostess looked perplexed too but weighed her options between asking me the question and providing aid to the patient.

I was escorted, not to the Sardar, who I had presumed was having an anxiety attack, but to the passenger who was sitting by him. It was the silver haired lady with a serene face. The occasional twitch had become a grimace and her face was developing an unhealthy pallor. I took her pulse. It was slow. Her breathing was ragged. I spoke to her gently, asking her the source and location of her pain and whether she was on medication. She pointed to the region of between her upper abdomen and chest and shook her head. “Please prepare to land the plane at the nearest airport.” I murmured to the the airhostess.

I guessed the lady was in her mid-fifties. After watching her closely for about 10 minutes my prognosis was she appeared to be having an angina attack. I headed back to my medicine kit and placed a nitro glycerin tablet under her tongue, advising her to keep it there. It was my hobby to stock up on critical medicines whenever I went to India. I sat by her asking her to try and relax speaking in my most soothing bedside manner. Her breathing slowly became regular. It seemed to be an attack of stable angina. The airhostess came by to consult with me saying we were 1 hour away from Toronto and half hour from Sudbury. Should we land in Sudbury? Suddenly Marie(that was her name) opened her eyes and said in quite a steady tone. “I would like to go to Toronto. It is my grandson’s birthday and I would like to wish him personally.” I was in a fix. I took her pulse and brought out my Blood Pressure monitor. She seemed OK. I nodded. Marie squeezed my hand and asked me, “Which hospitals are you associated with Doctor? It would be nice if you could treat me.” I smiled and asked her to get some rest. The probability of her condition worsening was high if she knew I was a cab driver in Canada.

I was wondering what Papaji would say when he heard this story. I was a practicing junior cardiologist at Chandigarh’s PGI hospital. 3 generations before me had been practicing medicine and my father, was very proud with the reports he was getting about me from my seniors. I did a small stint at the AIIMS Hospital in Delhi. And that was when the 1984 riots happened. I was caught in the midst of it all thankful the family was in Chandigarh. As my heart thumped as loudly as the screams outside, my friend’s wife chopped my hair. I shaved my beard and decided I could not live in a place which robbed me of my identity as a Sikh.

I applied for the Canadian residency. I knew I would need to recertify as a medical practitioner when I came here, but I had no idea it would be difficult. With Alka quite certain of maintaining her position as a homemaker and Rhea in high school, the responsibility of putting bread on the table fell upon me. I did make attempts at the certification examinations, but running a cab full time and mostly into the night did not leave me with the time or energy to pursue it. Money was good and I soon had my own cab company.

As far as identities went, Delhi had robbed my identity as a Sikh and Canada took away my identity as a cardiologist.

Alka thought it best I give up my dreams of being a doctor. I was tempted many times to try my hand at a related field, but after a fellow Indian was imprisoned for trying to treat a patient without having the license to do so, Alka made me promise, I would never ever rise to the temptation of treating anyone.

But could I call this situation a temptation? Or a compulsion?

The plane landed smoothly and there was an ambulance ready to take Marie in. I wondered whether to slink away or come clean. I decided to go with the latter. The paramedic who heard my story gaped at me and said, “But man, you did the right thing! It was a matter of life and death and I for one don’t care about the license! You took a risk but seemed bang on the diagnosis. Why don’t you apply for your license again?”

When the papers hit the stands the next morning, Rohan hugged me. Rhea called from Regina tearful and said,”I am so proud to have you as my dad” and Papaji from Chandigarh. “Puttar , you are a true son of this family! Aaj tune Hippocrates oath ka laaj rakha.”

Alka alone was quiet. Later, she said. “I have been so selfish. Please forgive me. Maine aapko kya se kya bana diya.” I patted her on her head and said, “Not to worry. I aided and abetted you.” She looked perplexed.

5 years later

Rhea came out of the Toronto airport scanning the crowd for her father. She was tired; the Global Health Program was a rigorous one. She saw Rohan instead.

“Papa is busy assisting the surgeon at the Trillium hospital.” he said

In the ensuing furore and debates that followed whether a non-practitioner could treat a critical patient, the verdict was simple; I just happened to be the best choice at the time. The incident pushed me to action. I took time off to apply for my license and am now an assistant surgeon in the cardiac wing at the Trillium.

Alka continues to be loudly vocal in her gratitude to the Rab that there are less nights out now I am not a cabbie.

Cookies and Vegetable Gardens

When I was younger and more naive,I had dreamt of 5 years in the Corporate rat race and then an early retirement, a house in the hills, a vegetable patch, plenty of time to call my own - knit, bake or do absolutely nothing.

Post marriage in Delhi, life got hectic with the babies, my job and relatives on both sides. I began to believe that dreams need not come true.

Dreams do come true however, sometimes in bits and pieces. So what if the 5 years have stretched to 23 and retirement looks a good 17 years away.

I did bake a few burnt cakes in Delhi before I began to rely on the plum cakes my colleague Subi got from Faridabad. Once in New Jersey , however, baking seemed to be the simplest thing. All you had to do was buy a mix off the shelf, mix it and stick it in the oven. And viola, your cake/cookie/fudge/pie/tart was ready. I even had a summer day camp at my place in the hope that the parents would be inspired to keep the tradition and my kids for the rest of the summer. The kids had a field day with the icing on the cakes and muffins. This was proudly presented to some dismayed looking moms in the evening. Needless to say only a couple of parents came forward to keep my kids -without the hassle of any event of course- for the summer.

In Mississauga I had to go a step further. My daughter Ishani brought in a recipe for Johnny Cake which the First Nations used to bake. And she insisted we bake it. Some weekends went by with her giving me " What an utter failure as a mom you are " looks until I felt obliged to get the ingredients for the cake. Isha insisted on following the recipe to the word and we soon had the most delicious aroma floating around the house by a cake thoroughly poisoned by baking soda.

My son, drawn by the delicious aroma and thoroughly disgusted by the taste declared the cake fit to be eaten by Mr. Lee Isha's class teacher and the one who sent the recipe home.

Stung by the disappointment on my daughter's face, I proceeded to bake the next weekend with a lot of help from Isha. We produced what she called the " Mother and Daughter" cake certified by many approving nods from father and son and an empty tray.

The baker's ambition grew as ripe bananas found their way into banana bread and Isha and I spent many mild spring afternoons in this pleasant fattening exercise.

Gardening was something I agve up after I moved from Kota and my lush house plants died in transit. My parents maintained my balcony gardens for me. When they were visiting New Jersey too they planted some roses and other flowers. These died as soon as they left.

I never had a vegetable garden anyways - save for the sole chili plant I grew on my balcony in Kota. A full scale vegatable garden was a forgotten dream. I remembered fondly my father's garden at 9 Housing Board Colony. I spent many mysterious and delightful afternoons there. There were tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, watermelons even sugar cane and corn! And papayas and drumsticks.

Among the few happy thoughts and memories I had of Bellary this was one. I tried to recreate the magic unsucessfully for my kids'; in the apartment homes we lived in.

When we moved to a townhome in Mississauga opportunity presented itself again. But I let one year go by. By now, I was practicing 'dreams dont die' with a vengeances. So I grew tomatoes and cucumber and green chillies and had the satisfaction of my dad picking them out.

It is in Bloomburg though that my garden blossomed. I took bare patches and grew grass. I understood the meaning of perenial and grew a rose garden, hostas, heucheras. It is a never ending task through spring and summer..my garden. As soon as I pretty it, there is rain or scorching heat and I must redo things all over again.

But the satisfaction of seeing my babies grow into beautiful strong flowering shrubs and the fresh green smell of cut grass takes away the pain of bruised palms and dirty finger nails. Corporate woman? Naah.. A farmer this one.

Charmwood...

Was meant to be an interim address for me when I first heard of the place. Somewhere where I would park my bags before I packed off for my husband’s house in Sarita Vihar.

But it turned out to be the venue for my wedding, the place where both my kids were born, where my husband and I wove seemingly impossible dreams, where I first claimed a piece of property to call my own and the place which beckoned to me as home when I travelled across continents. It was the ‘mayka’ I created for myself. The place where I housed my parents in their old age.

When I first set foot in Charmwood Village in 1994, what immediately struck me was that it seemed to be a piece of heaven tucked away behind the hustle, bustle and dustle( my word for dust, truckfulls and wagonloads of dust) of Badarpur and Pehladpur. The white villas leapt out at you. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees. What was not white was green and red. It was a wonderful time of the year. Charmwood Village was spanking new. It was beautiful but quite inaccessible by public transport.

As luck would have it, we got thrown out of our Sarita Vihar apartment by a cantankerous landlord and came back to call Charmwood our home. 2 kids and 3 apartment moves later, under the gentle and obstinate persuasion of Babai, we bought the apartment in Mayfair Apartments. That was just a little less than 10 years ago. It was the first place where we did not get into each other’s way too much. My parents and us. We lived in that apartment for less than 2 years before we, the Dasguptas left for the United States. And became forever homeless, rootless, agonized wandering souls.

But Ameeth, I and the kids loved that apartment. Though I hated Delhi, our souls lived there. Isha always boasted about her ‘beeeg’ house in Delhi to her US friends. Indeed Charmwood was most definitely more charming than our Woodbridge apartment. I quietly dreamt of laying out marble flooring, a modular kitchen and more modern bathroom fittings. When I left my country all that was on my bucket list was, pay off for this apartment and take up a teaching job in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. And write. This was my only investment and insurance for the future. Nothing else.

My life since then is a testimony to how we humans complicate our lives in the effort to simplify it. But that is altogether another story. This piece is about Charmwood.

About the charming memories it holds for us. The wedding in the lawns by the villas; Getting my first born with his ‘I know this funny secret about you’ look home.;And getting him home again after his open heart surgery. Conceiving his sibling and losing it; his dancing around the Lohri fire with the sheer joy of having his mom back. Somewhere there is a picture of him, slightly older, somersaulting in the Sterling Apartment lawns because I came home 30 minutes sooner. Somewhere, in the Sterling lawns is a mango sapling planted by my father. Nahida trying to patiently feed Arijit lunch in the lawns and declaring, ‘Ranjana, I like your son.’ There is the memory of bringing home Isha. Isha pottering around in her little lehenga all round the house. Isha and Arijit setting off to find their parents while we sat on the bench in the dark lawn watching them suddenly howl with terror and race inside in fear of some unknown demon.

One wonderful winter vacation in the Mayfair apartment. I spent all my time cuddled in the TV room with the kids watching cartoons and eating junk food with them before we left for our Goa trip. There is this memory of the time I had my first slipped disc and was lying in my new wrought iron bed in Mayfair while Arijit declared to Isha. ‘She has broken her back. You know what this means? She will be home with us for a long time! :) ’

Memories of a surprise birthday party thrown for Ameeth. Another earlier memory where I filled the house with rajanigandha stalks and put on the ‘Happy Birthday’ cassette. And all those wonderful outsourced parties for the kids, with themed balloons, magicians and trampolines.

Happy place Charmwood. Even when the charm wore away. It held all these memories in that square footage of area. It held older memories of happier times of my in laws, my grandparents. All these came tumbling out of boxes, left long unopened. Diaries, sketches, letters, dreams.

How sad it is to pack up a house. How impossible it is to pack up the place the house has built in your mind and in your heart.

Au revoir Charmwood. Welcome to the happy place in my heart!

Miss you Babai - always will

I still cannot fathom Death and what it means. One moment you have a person alive and the next it is a lifeless body.
How can people say with such surety that the dead go to a better place? Have they been there? Or do the dead just disappear into dust or ashes?

Where did Babai go? I sit up nights like an owl, waiting to feel his presence around me, willing to see him looking at me from somewhere in my living room and I do not feel his presence. I cry out to his soul to tell me that he is in a better place. But I feel nothing.

I miss him so. I call the Charmwood number hoping that there will be a pick up - even a silent one. But all I get is the voice message. I long to hear his voice telling me “Bhalo achi re” . Such a huge whopping lie. He was not OK for some time and hiding it. He was especially careful not to worry me – sitting so far away. In his old age, in the years I have been away from home, I began to appreciate this naturally warm and much misunderstood person that was Babai. We joked about lottery tickets, indulged each other and made sure he got a call everyday from his grandson.
When I was growing up, I did not know him as a person at all. I was closer to my mother. The only things I remembered were that he was strong and never ill and nothing could keep him down.

Babai was not a typical dad. One did not sit and discuss one’s dreams with him. His formula was simple. Position, money and food. Food was of paramount importance. Good food was the solution to all ills according to him. It was terribly tragic therefore to see him refusing food in the last few months of his life.

He was something of a maverick, always on to one project after another. Nothing ever got him down. One failed business venture after the other never robbed him of his enthusiasm for the next . He just got back up and ran again. That was what I always remembered and admired about him- The sheer will power and the complete lack of cynicism. All this kept him so busy that he did not do the usual dad things. Like saving up for his girls, or for his old age. He simply believed things would fall in place. And of course they did.

I did do my post graduation, we did have food on the table and both my sister and I did settle down to reasonably comfortable lives.

I remember one evening when I was little. It was about 8 pm. In a small town that was like the middle of the night and I said I needed a frilly frock for the school play next day. No amount of assurance of telling me that it was too late and to wait till the next day would stop my whining. Finally dad was so frustrated he put me out in the dark for a bit and I was heartbroken. As a parent, I know now, how much more heartbroken he would have been. Ma quietly cut up a beautiful sky blue sari and stitched the most beautiful frock into the wee hours of the night.

The next day, when I came back from school there were 2 big boxes from CG Dass full of frilly frocks. “Take your pick.” He said. He was full of grandiose gestures like that.

And when we fell sick, he was the one we found by our side when we tossed and turned. His first question as soon as we felt better always was - what would you like to eat? And he turned the world upside down to get us what we wanted to eat then.

Another memory I had was of the day the BCom results were announced. He came in from the back shouting Han Go to Ma. I ran out to see what was the matter and he gave me a big hug ( we are not a huggy family) and asked Ma to “Mukh mishto korao. Tomar me rank peyeche.” He had tears of pride in his eyes that day. And he had tears in his eyes when he left me standing on the station in Kota. That was my official ‘bidaai’ No tears on the day I left for my husband’s house.

When he came to live with me having to give up his business I got to know him differently. I became the parent trying to get him out of depression by introducing him to people with who he could talk stone talk to. He was not happy and made no bones about it. His way of protest was silence.

I tried very hard to be a good daughter. While I was growing up and then after I became financially dependant. I know he did not always like staying with us. He used to threaten to go away to Kolkata. We indulged him when we could, sending him off to see his siblings.But he was a great grandfather. And more than just that to Isha. He was her second mother

I do not think I was gracious all the time about being a good daughter though. I said words that did not need to be said. I regret every one of them now. My last words to him were an apology with a hug. “I have said many words I did not mean. Please do not worry about them. I just want you to get better and come to Canada”. In my own way, I tried to make it up to him in his last week. Papda maach tangra maach, mishti, I stocked the fridge with his favorite food much of which he would never eat. I tried. Did it matter? I do not know.

The one thing I should have done when he was alive was mend my bridges with my siblings. We did it after he was gone. He did tell Babun, he had spent a lot of time in riling with his siblings and that they were now all gone. He was urging us to make peace. He taught us how temporary life was to be squabbling in his Death.

I know he missed his grandkids. I remember his expression every time we had to leave for the west. There was such loneliness and despair in his eyes it made it difficult for me to look at him.

Ironical I did not see that look that last time I left. There was no one at the door to see me go. And deep down there was this something…was it my soul, that was so heavy so very very heavy. It knew I think that this was the end.

I have not lived a single day without guilt here in Canada. I have been forever guilty. Of not being with him in this last stage of his life. The irony was that I was working on it. I saw myself back in India by the end of 2012. But Death did not heed my plans.

In deference to the best memory I have of him – of the man who always gave it a good fight – I have returned to living life. In deference to the memory I have of him of keeping silent about his deepest feelings, I am avoiding friends who want to come console. My response to all who ask is “I am OK. I am fine. – Bhalo achi” True, most of us have by now experienced a loss in our lives, but each one of us are different in the way we take it. This is my way- Babai’s daughter’s way.

I am not sure about after life. But in me he lives. As he lives in Bula. As he lives in Babun, Monu, Arijit, Debu and Isha
He wrote, he painted and forgave everybody. I will try to keep that legacy alive.

Incredibly Indian

After my trip to the Indian capital last December I was going to write a piece “Maa Tujhe Salaam” on the Republic Day this year impressed as I was with the airport, the metro and the malls of Delhi
But life has its strange twists and turns. I found myself back in Delhi on the eve of the Republic Day under very different circumstances.
My father lay critically ill in the hospital and my sister and I were the chief caregivers. Just like one realizes the true worth of friends and relatives in a time of crisis, does one realize the culture of a place. Delhi is ruled by scavengers! Soon enough I began to see that the cab drivers, the helps at home were all cashing in on the hapless situation we found ourselves in. They were out to maximize their gains in the face of our vulnerability. I looked for angels in the crowd and for the first time in many years found none!
Everything was a struggle. From getting my father a bedpan to getting him cleaned up and into a fresh pair of pyjamas. The inhumanity, the lack of reverence for a human life both amazed and disgusted me. The nurses were in a perpetual daze administering wrong dosages of medicines and relaying half baked information.
When it was time to leave the hospital, and I asked for an ambulance, my father was actually made to step into the ambulance and then ordered out! One had to literally scream to get their attention to the fact that the reason the ambulance was ordered was because the patient was a patient! And people who did their duty at the hospital lined up for their bakshish!
While the doctors were excellent- all surrounding facts almost negated the fact that they were so.
I hired 24 hours attendants for my Dad, who slept while my dad moved himself around to the bathroom on his own.
Unfortunately we lost our father the second time into the hospital. And when it was time to move him to the crematorium, a drunken ambulance driver tried to order the bodily remains out with no reverence to the fact this was the last journey of a person – a living being a few hours ago! The crematorium employee wanted money to hand over the ashes and the pundits were shockingly mercenary.
Thanks to one family of women and an old pujari, we finally found some solace and peace in performing the last rites.
Is this what Incredible India is all about? True the size of the population puts a strain on the infrastructure but whatever happened to the tehzeeb North Indians were known for? In its run to become an economic superpower, Indians are slowly losing their values – the essence of what made India dear to us.

...not a very nice person

I am not a very nice person today. I am moody, unpredictable and crabby.

When everybody in the world is showering good wishes on me.

Why is this so?

I had built up a hype for this day and just a few days before, let all the air out and decided to retreat within that nice quiet space which nobody likes except me. Why did I do it? I dont know. I just go there sometimes and its really nice and peaceful if people would just let me be!

And in this frame of mind the big day started..I know, age is just a number, but so are revenue and sales and profitability. We chase these numbers all our lives. I think its nice to acknowledge the number that is age and be grateful for the fact that one made it there.

How did it start and how has it been going?

The midnight call and song from Tutuda and Rinti..Nice
The lovely card from Shona ...nicer
Shona grumbling about my non cooperation movement...hmmmm
Shona consoling himself counting off the things he did manage to give me Swaroski bracelet etc etc..not very nice Shona like that guy who nearly married Kareena in 3 Idiots and I know you are not that person!:)
6 a.m call from Nahida and my not finding the phone in the bedroom and then missing the phone on my cell phone as well! Drat it Nahida! Why does this always happen? I guess you call in your time more than mine! There there...I'm being nasty ....not very nice
Yes predictable no not boring but yes infuriating. How nice if that was a ring on the doorbell and it would be you wearing your million dollar smile? hmmmm
Album posted by Rinti. Nice and predictable. Had excepted some verbiage there but what could she say?
No surprises from Rati as well....call from her quite a nice short call nice...
Call from Subi...nice always nice
Call from Monu when I was in the bathroom...and after I rushed out and took the cordless back with me she hangs up...hmmmmm not very nice
Call from Babai and Ma. Ma's operation scheduled next week...not very nice
Call from Putts...nice. Her asking me not to get irritated with my parents not very nice.. Not her that is. Me nasty me..not very nice
All the Facebook wishes...nice..predictable but nice
Sudipto's legitimate comment??? hmmmmm still has me thinking? How can any wish be illegitimate? There is no known law against wishing!
The card from Arijit...very nice. I know Shona bought it. So much more they mean to me your hunting out the right cards
Call from Babun and Tuhina..nice
Wishes from Debu...nice
Snowfall today hmmmm
Sun predicted this afternoon ...nice
Rolling off from Mississauga project...not very nice I liked this project but my work here is done
The sun is out now and someone left a box out there. I opened it to find a holiday gift hamper. No no Coach handbag Who has sent this? ...Nice

The day is half over. I have got myself in a better place now having walked out of the quiet place nobody wants me to be. Dont know how the rest of the day will unfold. I have got gift cards from Alice Fazooli,Old Navy and AMC Movies. Will be one of these..I suppose

For those who are wondering it really is no different from any other day. I do not feel any older..not even any wiser.

It has been a good life and all of you have helped make it so! So cheers! And thank you for being there when you were there

...for oft when on my couch I lie

in vacant or in pensive mood..they flash upon my inward eye....

I was not just sharing poetry when I posted this on Facebook last year. I was sharing my mood.

Each Fall around November 1st...I get into this 'vacant and pensive mood' and walk down memory lane.

It's funny how a certain date floods you with memories of some framed pencilled sketches, a gray vest...a labor of love. Of someone who you thought the world of and who you thought thought the world of you. Strangers now in this over connected world. Strangers who could die and make no difference to the other.

And fill you with wonder. How transient the greatest moments of one's life can be.

The truly creative mind...

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.
Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off...
They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating
Pearl S Buck

This quotation is fading on my book of poetry

Random Thoughts

What would thoughts read like if you could transcribe them verbatim as they occured?

Here are my thoughts from 5 pm today for about 30 minutes

Anu turned 21 today. Wonder how her day went. Wonder if they saw my message or wrote me off as forgetful as usual. I actually have thought about her a number of times today. Always I go back to that summer in Kota where the lady downstairs was commissioned to stitch baby clothes for Anu. Nadu's wish were the Jaipuri baby razaiis. everybody seemed to be having babies that year...and I doubted if I ever would have that pleasure. I think I landed in B'lore the day Anu was discharged. I remember letting her lick some honey. I do not really know if Anu has a sweet tongue. She does not talk much when I'm around. Only observes me probably wondering how her mom could be friends with me..If she doesn't it must be because I fed her honey. If she has, it must be the honey.

Gosh it is really hot today. Look at me...barely 26 degrees and I'm wilting like a pansy. Shame on you Indian! Wonder why pansies have such a connotation? They are pretty hardy flowers really...Its surprising how I've taken to wearing dresses on hot days. Stopped wearing them when my dad caught me snapping while decorating the front yard with rangoli. I thought I looked Mary Pintoish in that first dress. Heeheee Arijit's comment was so funny. Is that your new nightie? Its very smart...

Should I pick up a peonie for the garden? The flowering season's almost over. Oh there's one with a bloom still on...my garden is going the way my life is..with no certain plan, a scatter here and there. Its not really lack of time it is lack of creativity I think. The geraniums are doing well, the begonias are dying, the tomato plant is confused in the upside down container, still wants to grow the right way..Amazing how names have form now, Cyclamen, Forsythias, geraniums,lavender, tulips..

Arijit has watered the garden and is glowering at me now because I am watering it again...The garden looks like how one would look post operation when you ask for water and they wet your lips with ice! Leaving you wnating for more...I better get this down before my mind travels somewhere else

What color was your Monday?

I write. Sometimes. No correct that. Rarely. Only when I feel like it.
So when Jo asked me last week to pen a couple of lines about the fall pictures I posted, I gave a tongue in cheek response instead of telling her I cannot turn it on and off. The desire to write or paint. That I do very well all the time – give tongue in cheek responses I mean . Good I never made a profession of writing or painting. I would be out of pocket all the time. I should have made a profession of giving tongue in cheek responses but then not everybody appreciates my humor.
I was humbug enough to believe I was the arty type once upon a time, but the truth is I have always been a hard headed practical person. Even when my heart was broken into a million pieces I was thinking of how to pick things up and start again. Quietly, scientifically, practically.
So what makes me write today? Random things. Extreme feelings. Deep anger, deep sorrow, deep appreciation of my blessings, unexplained feelings for things I still do not understand. Like death.
It is Monday today that not very good day of the week. My day started when I was in the vice like grip of something that felt like a hangman’s noose and yet oddly comforting. It was about 3 am .It was my daughter probably in the grips of a nightmare as a result of all that trick or treating.. I fell into a fitful sleep after that wondering if I should call my husband in India and take an update on dad’s operation. I looked at my blackberry and saw the dear man had posted an update. To me and other silent beings on this earth. I was mad at these silent beings. And sorry for Amit. That’s how my day started. Most of my long commute was spent in talking to him and then the kids. As usual, he talked me out of my anger. I looked out of the window in wonder to see a car pass by with at least 3 inches of snow on its roof. Took my thoughts in a completely different direction. It had been a fairly bright weekend. Where was he coming from?
Surprisingly, even though there was this massive crash on 401, I reached Finch before time and hopped on to the Viva blue to sit in front of a shivering lady from Jamaica. She was very interested in the recipe for Palak Paneer which I obligingly wrote down for her- giving her tips on how to make it more tasty and shamefully salivating at that early hour for a dish I do not even like! My body like my mind acts in really unpredictable ways sometimes! And all my hardheaded practicality cannot figure that out.
I had time to pick up a frothy coffee from Country Style and marvel at all these Canadians bundled up. Was it really that cold? Or was my new peacoat that warm? At work, I was actually happy to see people who usually do not bring out the best in me and beavered away at my computer. I suddenly felt like writing to Nahida after a long time. So I did in between many interruptions and a meeting I did not know why I was attending.
I caught up with the project gossip over lunch and then took myself and my blackberry for a walk. I felt like the Fat Man who walks alone. Don’t ask me what that means. It is a graffiti I see everyday and feel sorry for the Fat Man.
By now, I’m sure you are seeing the halo round my head? The palak paneer recipe giver, the patient listener to office gossip, the good friend to Nahida and of course the Fat man who walks alone to lose these unwanted pounds? I suddenly take an impulsive picture and post it on facebook. More goodness for the world. The halo gets a deeper hue.
Then I suddenly see the date and remember. This used to be a special day for me . How many years ago? The halo has disappeared and I feel like connecting with Nahida again. And then see the last posting she has made. About Ms. Meera passing away.
Less than two months ago Ms. Meera had called me – sounding as excited as a school girl. She wanted to talk to my kids. She asked me to tell them about her. I promised her they would. I remember another promise I had made to Sarita’s mother about coming back to see her in Lucknow. And I see myself now as someone who could not keep promises. Where did they go? Can they hear me? Feel my regret? I so want to know.
So that was my Monday-blue Monday-green Monday-yellow Monday-blue and purple Monday. What color was yours?

My best friend is a Muslim

And I am very sad to say this.

Because I had always thought of her as Nahida, a human being a sterling character and my favorite pillar. It never mattered to me that she was a Muslim.

It still does not. But over the last 20 years, there have been so many riots, blasts, insurgences, Babri masjid tumbling down...things that have somewhere silently frayed the fabric. The first person I always thought of during these riots was Nahida. My heart felt for her and tried to imagine what she must be going through. But while our lives have mirrored each others and we have always slipped into each other's shoes efforlessly, I recently realised that this was one thing I never could do quite the same way. I really could not feel the hurt she must have felt when she could not rent homes, when she worries about Anu. I can only imagine that it must be manytimes fold how I felt when my insurance agent did not believe me recently. And I feel that I have failed my friend.

Games I play

I play some games. Silently by myself.
When I used to walk back home from college in Bellary with the sun beating down my head, I used to play this game...cloud cover the sun. Sometimes there would be no clouds in the sky. I then used to desperately wish if a cloud appears from somewhere then this wish will come true. And most times, a tiny little bit of fluff appeared!! Promise!:))
Then I play this game of toss. I always wish on heads. Most times, heads appear. My wishes themselves may not come true but my mind is immediately calm.

Then I wish on missing items. If I find this. .....Like I lost my Nigerian beaded belt in the Continental flight when I moved from US to Canada. I nevr thougt I would find it. When I was waiting for the truck to arrive at 4815 Bloomburg Drive, and was worrying about dad, I wished I would find it. And I found it in the bag I looked in at least 10 times before.
I wish on the Magic Fortune cookie. And it mostly tells me what I want to hear. Funny isn't it?

I am a proud Indian. ARE YOU?

Sometimes there is this simmering rage inside me. Like now.
When my 'Indian-ness' is questioned by someone entirely un-Indian.
I know this sounds like a take on Sharukh's interview on NDTV.

But my anger had been triggered off from elsewhere. And watching Sharukh on NDTV fuelled it a little more

Just because I live in Canada or US I do not become a non Indian. I still invest in India, have a home in India and uphold the values of a true Indian in the global world. I am India's ambassador out in the world and a darn better one than those who spew communial hatred in India.

Am I a dollar chaser? Are you a rupee chaser? What's the difference? As long as my dollar is going into India and into Indian economy and not the fat greasy palms of the bureaucrat you may be grooming to keep your Indian business running.

To me being an Indian is tolerance, live and let live, and accepting of all cultures and beliefs. To me being an Indian is to appreciate the goodness in others while giving my best. And to treat every individual as a human being before I treat him as a Muslim, Christian, Dalit or Brahmin.

That India is holding its head high today is because of people who had similar values Gandhi, Sai Baba, Narayan Moorthy, Ratan Tata. Who focused on the best in India and the real issues. They are the Indians I relate to.

Not the petty Indian crab who tries pulling you down by deceipt, sarcasm just because he perceives you to be more successful than he. And happier than he.

And therein lies his failure and unhappiness.

I feel like ending this with a Bah!!! And those who know me will know the intensity of my feelings with just that.

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