ज़िन्दगी भी Passenger train की तरह है

 ज़िन्दगी भी Passenger train की तरह है,

मान लो आप जौनपुर से दिल्ली आने वाली train में बैठे गये ,

तो रास्ते मे लखनऊ , अलीगढ़ station सब आयेंगे,

और आपकी train वहां रुकेगी.

ज़िन्दगी भी वैसी ही है,

कुछ Station सुख देंगे ,

कुछ दुख देंगे,

लेकिन गाड़ी का हर station पर रुकना भी तय है ,

और

गाड़ी का दिल्ली पहुँचना भी तय है.

Beautiful dialogue from "Saas bahu Achaar Pvt Ltd" (Zee 5)

My मच्छरदानी which was supposed to protect me but became a cage

 My मच्छरदानी which was supposed to protect me but became a cage

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was a child, I was introverted and shy. On the contrary I had an elder sister, Namrata who was quite a leader, had lots of friends and was very popular. I would sit at home, drawing, painting or reading. I would listen to children's voices skylarking outside and wished I could join them, yet I never could dare.

In summer holidays, we would go to my grandmother's home in a small town. Late evenings meant that I would be fed and then bundled in a मच्छरदानी and told to sleep. I'd lie there miserably, waiting to hear my sister's footsteps on the porch.

She always came. She would come running, open the door and without caring for anyone, call out my name,ordering me to come out to the waiting car sent by my parents who were with their friends a few houses away. The program would be either a late night movie show or just children playing while parents partied.

Every day I waited, and every day she came. I felt like Cinderella rescued by a fairy.

Then decades passed, i grew up, and then at some point, some setbacks happened. I lost confidence. I stopped going out, comforted by own loneliness.

Then one day I took a flight with my sister. Conversation flowed. She asked me what's wrong. I told her everything. She smiled at me, and said "What are you doing with your life? Go out there, give it your best shot. The world needs you." She didn't stop at that, she kept counseling me for hours.

And then, something wonderful happened to me. It was as if I was still in the मच्छरदानी, miserable and lonely. It was as if she came running on the porch, her footsteps loud and clear. It was as if she called out my name again. Called me to come out and play in the sun.

Truly I was in a metaphorical मच्छरदानी, a cage made of my fears.

Thank you, for pulling me out of the shadows in the sun.

The horse cart that stood

Lore has it that one day my grandmother, who was still a teenager then,  got tired of waiting around for my grandfather to come back home and of many other things that bothered her. So on a spur of a moment, she decided to go bathe in the Ganges with some girlfriends. She left behind all her homely responsibilities for a couple of days and was gone.

When my grandfather came back from whatever business he had gone to attend, he heard about this and predictably, lost his temper. No respectable, decent lady leaves behind her domestic responsibilities and goes running around , that too without permission.  He decided to travel there and get her back to the place where he thought she belonged.

 He found her running wild (in his words) /feeling free finally (her words). She did not take to being forced back home kindly.  After many arguments flying back and forth from both sides, they sat side by side in a horse-cart, driven by a horse rider, which made its way back home.

The horse-cart came to a strategic point where two roads were bifurcating. One led to his village and one led to hers (where her parents lived).

My grandfather asked the horse rider to stop the horse-cart there. Then he turned to her and asked confidently  “Which road do you want to take ?”

She did not miss a heartbeat and replied instantly  “The one that goes to my home, not yours.”

Hell broke loose. Women were not supposed to speak that way back then.

The horse-cart did not move either way. It stood still while some more arguments flew back and forth. Then silence fell. 

After some time, he repeated the question again. Her reply was the same. The horse cart stayed where it was. 

Twilight fell. Same question. Same answer. 

All entreaties, requests and threats fell on deaf ears. The lady refused to conform. The lady refused to buckle under the pressure. The lady refused to relent.

The horse cart stood there, bathed in the twilight crimson slanting sun rays. It stood alone, mute, in front of a woman’s willpower.   Finally, the horse rider turned back and literally begged my grandmother to agree with my grandfather, so that he could make a move, end this tumultuous journey and go back home. He begged my grandfather too, to do something,  just anything. Just so that the horse cart could move. I am not clear about how it ended. The end was not important anyway.

My grandmother passed away eighteen years back. She led a full life, streaked with her free spirited determination. It was a life that celebrated so much, that even her passing away seemed so insignificant in front of her incredible, path breaking spirit. She had a determined twinkle in her eye, a sense of humour that never quit and a strength of purpose that defied the conservative customs around her. She started studying on her own at the age of eighteen, and supported her family after my grandfather passed away. She took care of her ailing father-in-law till his last breath. She encouraged other women in her village to study and support their families. She fought with people who would make the lives of widows living in their homes miserable. To many evolved people, she was the spearleader in making reforms for widows in not just her own, but many villages. To many conservative folks, she remained a rebellious teenager, till the end of her life. But if growing up was losing hope and becoming miserable, then she refused to grow up.  

Now when I look back and chart my mother’s life, and then my sisters, and then mine, I see one common thread in all. Our absolute refusal to bow down before the pseudo-conservative fabric of this society. I also understand why in our lives, sometimes our horse-carts stood there, while we refused to bow down. Till the sun bowed down and said “Please ladies, have your own way. I surrender.”

Voyaging in the strange seas of thought alone

It was not this way in the beginning. When Alma started learning the alphabets and writing, the school teachers had panicked. And we had panicked. She did not seem to know that words are separate entities and wrote them all together with no gaps. More worryingly, she would write b, d, p and q as their mirror images. Only the small letters, though. The biggest fear we all had was that probably Alma was dyslexic. We rushed to a child psychologist who had laughed it off. He told us that we were just overreacting. Yet, he said that Alma needs a lot of personal attention. She is not the kind you send off to school, sit back and expect great results from. She needs a guiding hand. A teacher has lots of students and she probably cannot give her the time she needs. He told me something about different children are like plants which need different conditioning. A rose needs certain conditions to grow while a pansy needs certain others.  I had realized then that Alma is like the plant which needs a lot of sun, a lot of water and a lot of love. I will have to give up my ‘me time’ and completely focus on her for some years.

And then followed lots of sessions with me teaching her the alphabets again. I gave up reading and even listening to music, just so that I could be with her and teach her. It was no use. She would continue to make mirror images. She was puzzled why that was wrong. Afterall does direction matter, as long as the formation is right ? Of course it does. But try explaining this to a determined four year old who refuses to see your point.  I realized then that Alma is a very stubborn child. Yet, I knew that this stubborn nature of hers  may take her far, one day in the future.  I also realized that she is a very imaginative and a creative child too, and therein lay the key to her lock.  

One day I thought of something and then said “Alma, did you know that ‘b’ loves you ?”

That got her attention immediately. Her big, round eyes widened up “b Loves me ?” 

“Yes ! Yesterday ‘z’ had come over and was telling me that ‘b’ loves Alma. That is why when you write ‘b’, it tries to hold your hand. It faces towards your hand, hoping it could hold your hand.”

Alma beamed with happiness and got her notebook and pencil. And just as I had expected, she wrote ‘b’ a few times, in the correct direction.

“And who else loves me ?” She asked in excitement.

“I have heard some rumours about ‘p’ loving you too. Sadly ‘d’ and ‘q’ don’t like you much. They turn away from your hand and refuse to look at you.”

She absorbed what I had said to her in silence, storing it all way in her memory. The rest of the day, she wrote those alphabets hundreds of times in her book, thinking hard. That’s all. She had mastered them. She never made mirror images of alphabets again. 

The rest of the teaching and learning followed the same pattern, with me realizing that conventional learning methods were not for her. So we both sang out the spellings of words, and made stories about numbers. We felt that ‘1’ was a little boy, ‘3’ was lonely, ‘7’ was rather handsome and ‘9’ looked arrogant. As she moved into higher classes, the stories only got wilder and more imaginative. It was perfectly normal to be up at  3 AM and discussing long theories on science and maths. Sometimes I would feel that she is doing fine and relax.  And then a falling grade would give me a jolt, and we would start the imaginative learning methods again, till she was back in form.

She loves science with a passion, bordering on obsession. She would buy books on Stephen Hawking. She loves to marvel on the theories of origin of life. Her eyes would get a faraway look, as she would talk about them. Once when I was listening to her, I smiled and said “The marble index of mind forever voyaging in the strange seas of thought alone ?” She loved it so much that wrote and pasted this on her cupboard. 

Living with Alma is fun, even though it is challenging at all times. She is an insomniac, which means that I have never really slept well since she has been born. It is perfectly normal for her to walk in at 2 AM, wanting to share an amazing scientific fact with me. It just does not occur to her that normal human beings need to sleep and wake up at a certain time. Somewhere along the course of time, I decided to junk the clock, just to keep pace with her.

And on one such day she told me that a green dustbin which had been designed and created by her and her team members has been awarded by ‘Kids for Tigers’. It was an original design, keeping the environment in mind. And on one such nights she tiptoed to my room and whispered in my ears “Lets go somewhere, just anywhere. Let’s catch a flight and just go.” My eyes were still closed as I made up my mind to take her somewhere, anywhere.

And then a phone call from her school. She has to go to Malaysia. To participate in the International Young Inventors Project Olympiad. All because of the famed green dustbin.  I usually do not send the kids for any trips on  their own. But this was different. This was not just a trip. As she looked at me anxiously with pleading in her eyes, I knew that there was no way I could say ‘No’ to her. There was no way I could stand between her and her destiny. She was going to represent her country in an international event. Her school. Her country. She had been chosen.  

Now as she is giving finishing touches to her new project , and packing for the journey, I look back and realize that this was coming. All the circumstances and each of the events in her young life were preparing us for this. 

It seems that in a life full of adverse ’d’s and ‘q’s, she has been found by the ‘b’s and ‘p’s.

She is going to spread her wings and she will fly. And I will watch her flight with a heart bursting with pride.

Go, my child, travel with the winds, and never look back. Don’t let anything come in the way of the  voyage of the marble index of the your mind.  

  

My Eclipse Baby

‘Your first day on this earth was not a day. It was night.’

And I started the story. I was telling this story to a fifteen year old. I was telling a story about the day when she took her first breath on this earth. But before that moment, there were many, many moments, which all got connected to this moment, and which gave birth to many other moments after.

In April 1998, I conceived for the first time in my life. The joy was absolutely exhilarating. Both Naval and me were over the moon. We had worked hard to finish our MD and PhD and finally, we were feeling settled. And now, a baby ! I was amazed at how quickly it had happened. Usually, I never get anything easily, but now it seemed that God was being too kind. The following days passed in happy delirium, listening to peaceful music, looking up at the stars and thanking them. 

A month after I had tested positive, I suddenly realized that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. We were racing to the casualty in the middle of the night, too numb to even worry. I remember the cold feeling growing inside me.I had difficulty breathing. I was holding my breath when the doctor told me that I had lost the baby. When I started breathing again, my breaths hurt my chest. The pain was so intense. We made our way back, on a moonlit night, broken with the knowledge that you had gone away.

I wish I could tell you in a sane way about what happened next. But I know I can’t. I saw tears in Naval’s eyes for the first time in my life. And that was enough to scare me more than anything else. I can’t even begin to tell you about the pain, the horrifying, dizzying pain that I experienced. Both physical and emotional. It was the death of my most cherished dream. But I had to go on living, in hope, that somehow, someday, maybe the baby who has gone away will come back to me.  The hot summery months were the worst. The hurt, the guilt, the anger was relentless. The humid monsoons were no better. September and October found me mentally exhausted and broken. Also completely hopeless. I started imagining my  life without a baby. No, not just a baby, but without that baby who had visited me once, but left me, abandoned me. With no explanation. Just gone.

The cool November breeze soothed my broken soul. I saw flowers blooming again, and one morning, I just looked up and thanked God for giving me that baby, just for a little while. I was grateful that you and me were one, even if it was for a very short time. Soon after, I realized that you have indeed come back. I was pregnant again. But this time, I was cautious. I refused to look or feel happy. I carried you to term, silently, thanking God every day but never taking my happiness for granted. I would start and end each day, in painful caution and dread.

A week before you were to be born, I was told that a major solar eclipse is going to take place around the same day of your birth. I was a regular visitor of the AIIMS Antenatal clinic. One day, I was asked by one of the senior professors to make an appearance on TV for this eclipse, advising expectant mothers not to panic. I just did whatever she told me. I was too focused on you and your movements inside me.

The day of your birth. 10^th August 1999. The sun rose as usual. Everything looked in its place. I packed a bag, said goodbye to my room and my goldfish. Naval and me made our way to the labour room. As we stood downstairs, waiting for the elevator to arrive, I saw two young boys standing with us. One of them was looking at me. He had the kindest eyes, I thought. He was talking to his friend. His voice was soft and sonorous.

In the next one hour, birth was induced. I waited patiently. The sun rose high in the sky. The day got hotter. I started feeling the contractions at noon. I kept wiping the sweat on my brow. Yet, by 3 PM, nothing much had happened. I was looking at your heartbeat monitor, willing you to take birth. 

At 3.30 PM, Naval walked in. We were talking quietly when he happened to look at the monitor. I was saying something but he was not responding. His eyes widened in terror, and then suddenly he was calling for the doctor in charge and the nurses. I looked at the monitor, and my heart sank. The baby’s heartbeat was going down, suddenly, steadily, rapidly. The steady graph was relentless and determined. I was frozen in shock and terror. Déjà vu took place. I felt a familiar cold feeling gripping my heart and squeezing it. I closed my eyes and willed myself to die.

Suddenly I was aware that I was surrounded by many frantic medical people. Someone was tying an oxygen mask around my face, someone was transferring me to a stretcher. Bright lights around me. Lots of shouting. I was being wheeled in for an emergency cesarean. I started crying.  I did not care about the fact that they will cut me open. In fact I wanted it. I was crying because I felt that I will still lose you.

The next few moments took upon an element of a dream. The sun was setting in the sky, I was aware of this. Dusk was falling. They were giving me general anesthesia. I was losing consciousness. I was falling from a great height in the darkness. I felt weightless, light as a feather. I was terrified. Just before losing my consciousness, I experienced an illusion. I saw the OT door opening. I saw my idol, Marie Curie walking in, wearing a long grey robe, looking at me straight in my eyes. She sat down next to me and said ‘Nothing in this world is to be feared. It is only to be understood.’ Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe I was losing my mind. Yet I felt peaceful suddenly.

 I closed my eyes and flew away from the realms of this earth.

When I gained consciousness, my eyes were still closed.  I was in immense pain. It hurt to even breathe.  Then I heard my name ‘Dr. Sujata ? Dr. Sujata ?’

I suddenly remembered everything. The baby ! What happened to the baby ?

I heard the same voice calling my name again. Who was it ? That voice was familiar. In an insane moment of clarity, I remembered that it was the voice of that boy who was looking at me with kind eyes in the elevator. With my eyes still closed,  I asked weakly ‘Who ? Who is this ?’

He answered ‘I am your anesthesiologist. I saw you in the lift today. You’re going to be fine.’

I nodded. Then I asked finally ‘And the baby ?’

I heard that kind voice again ‘Your baby is absolutely fine. She is a lovely girl.’

And I was weeping. Then coughing. Then weeping.

He said ‘Don’t stress yourself. Here comes Dr. Naval’

I never heard that voice again. He was gone. 

But I know. He was God.

Call me insane, but  the world no longer seemed sane to me either.

Naval held my hand and said ‘Do you hear that loud bawling ?’

‘Yes’ I said ‘lots of babies are crying, it seems.’

‘No’ He said. ‘That’s only one baby crying. And that’s our baby. She is a roaring lioness, I tell you’. And we both laughed.

They carried you towards me. You were crying angrily, red in your face. The moment you were placed next to me, you stopped crying. I stared at your red face, your long, curling eyelashes making shadows on your cheeks. 

I could hardly believe that you are mine.

‘Am I awake ?’ I asked Naval.

‘Yes, you are awake. And so am I.’ He smiled.

The night was a mirage. The moon shone brightly. You refused to sleep. And from that moment on, your history of insomnia was established, which carries on even today.

I was awake when the sun rose in the sky. It was red, and then changed into a golden yellow. As I stared out of the window, I realized that it was getting dark. Then after some time, still darker. I asked Naval ‘Is it evening already ? I must have slept ?’

He said ‘No. It’s the eclipse.’ Then I remembered.  The famous, total solar eclipse which was to start from the Atlantic Ocean and end just after reaching India. We had no visitors that day since no one moved around that day. I looked at you, sleeping peacefully.

We sat alone, Naval, me and you for many hours in the shadow of the eclipse. We sat alone, three of us, in a quiet companionship. It was as if, the walls of our room had melted away and we were directly looking at the moon, in a glowing twilight. The universe seemed to begin and end with us. The silences around us seemed to speak a strange language, which I understood.

You are not an ordinary child, I knew. 

The forces of this universe seemed to shift and align just because of the event of your birth. I kissed your forehead where the moon had left a scar of moonlight. I breathed in your heavenly scent. I looked into your eyes which told me stories about a distant land.

You were here. Finally.  

Happy birthday, Alma. You are a fey little moon child. You always have an air of mystery about you, and a sparkle in your eye which no one on earth can decipher. 

You walk like a gypsy and stare wondrously at the sky at night. Even though you are a leo, a sign which is ruled by the Sun, you are also a moon baby. When you were born, the sun and the moon forgot to walk on their usual path. I hope you will live your life in the unique way in which you were born. 

I miss you, Singapore

I miss you, Singapore.

I miss that fat, jolly lady we met in Bugis, who was selling those lovely watches. The one who gave away an animal print watch to Alma and asked her if she needs another  one for her boyfriend ? I remember Alma blushing and saying that she does not have a boyfriend. I remember her gay laughter when she said that she should find one soon.

I miss that young, pretty girl in Clarke Quay who was running this restaurant where she was taking orders, serving, bringing the bill and thanking, all by herself. Her shop was right in front of a plush Persian restaurant where they had a lot of staff, lights, the works. After she served us, she stood in front of her shop with a placard announcing happy hours. I saw her yawning and rubbing her eyes. She was tired. Suddenly a hot looking  dancer started dancing in front of the Persian restaurant. Everyone was attracted to that place like magnets. I saw our young girl watching this quietly. I called her over to ask for our bill. I made sure that I tipped her well. She needed it.

I miss that cab driver who guessed that we were Indians and asked eagerly ‘So how is my friend, Mr. Modi ?’ He seemed to know all about the tea-selling background of our prime minister We laughed while he shared his knowledge about the pot-boiler like Indian politics.

I miss that Indian girl who I met in Kopitiam, while ordering my iced tea. She had guessed what kind of

version of Iced tea in my mind when I ordered one, and told me that I will get another version here. She guided  me with my choices, even when she did not know me.

I miss walking upto Merlion, dazzled by his whiteness and indifference, spouting water, standing supreme, even though he was much smaller in size than I had imagined.  I had thought he would be majestically tall, but he was minutely cute instead. He had expressive eyes, no smile, and a lithe fish body beneath that aggressive face.

I miss those three monks who were talking and laughing while looking at Marina Bay. Their soft, flowing spiritual robes were a sharp contrast to the hard, angular lines of Marina Bay Sands Hotel. As I stood with them, I was struck at the way spirituality and technology have merged in the same frame. 

I miss boiling water in the kettle and making cup-o-noodles with the family around me. Those meals with bland, watery noodles, Britannia cake and potato chips were the best ever, far better than the meals we buy for thousands of rupees in upscale hotels. We would simply pass one cup around, and all four would just dig in our forks and eat from it. 

I miss walking down two blocks with the kids to McDonalds, where our burgers would cost just fifteen dollars, and we would fall on our soft, white beds and eat while watching thriller movies on ‘Fox movies’.

I miss that moment when  we had to take a ride in Universal Studios and drinks were not allowed on the ride. Unfortunately, Sitab had bought a tall glass of some sugary, slushy dink just a minute before and we all were forced to drink that as quickly as possible to finish it off. I remember laughing and making icky noises as we attempted to drink that off in record time. 

I miss the late-night drinks and chips session while we would sit together and talk away, laughing and comparing notes, checking out the photographs of the day.

I miss that stud guy in a shop who had tattoos all over his arms and a punk look. When I asked him if the T-shirts he was selling was for ladies, he looked at me arrogantly and said ‘I don’t serve ladies’. Alma and me smiled and decided that he was the hottest thing ever.

I miss you, Singapore. I will be back. 

I did not call you because...

Alma : “When I was out with my friends, something struck me. As it got later than we had planned, the mothers of all my friends called them up. Except you. You did not call.”

Me : I did not call you, Alma.

I did not call you. Not because I was not concerned about you. Or because I was not thinking of you.

That day when I came home and saw your room looking unusually clean and tidy, I instantly knew that you had gone. A whiff of your favourite deodorant was lingering in the air. You had left just some minutes back.

As time passed by, I imagined you sitting  with your friends, talking and laughing. In my mind’s eye, I saw you looking like a doll, all grown up and pretty. I knew you must have been wearing your favourite black T-shirt and jeans. I knew you must have been having fun. As the minutes passed by, I wondered when you will come back. But I did not call you.

…Because I know that when you are out having fun with your friends, and ‘Mom’ flashes on the screen of your mobile, your heart will sink. With anxiety. With guilt. You may feel defensive.  You may stop smiling. And I did not want you to stop smiling.

…Because I know that years of   counseling you has made sure that there is an internal curfew system inside you, which means that you will know instinctively when it is too late, when it is no longer safe, when something is just simply wrong. You are a sensible girl. This weight of my faith in you is far heavier than any restrictions or panic calls I may make.

…Because I feel that you need to have your time, your space. I may be your parent but I want you to know that your life is yours alone. I am here to guide you, but not to take away from you, what is yours.

….Because I know that soon you will spread your wings and  fly away.  You are just three years away from  adulthood. Your favourite deodorant scent will no longer linger in your room, where you have been living since you were a baby. You will pack your bags and leave, visiting me sometimes, but gone otherwise. And I want you to start being accountable only to yourself. 

…Because no matter how far or how long you may be gone, you will always come running back home, where all troubles melt away with a gentle touch, a kind word and a glass of hot chocolate.

I did not call you, Alma. Because I do not need to. The golden chord that binds us is too powerful. We don’t need phone calls. 

Our time has come

It happened one morning. I received a call from my mother. ‘You have to come to Noida today.’ Usually Mummy is very considerate about my lab timings and personal obligations. I could gauge from the tone of her voice that I had to leave everything I was doing today, and I had to go over to her.  No matter what.  I did not think twice. I told her that I would be there.

I kept wondering what could be so important to make my mom who always says ‘Come whenever you want to, whenever you are free’ so emphatic today. After some subtle enquiries I found out that today was the day when the foundation stone for ‘Tirupati Eye Centre and Research institute’ would be laid.

During my drive to Noida, my mind was wandering. It meandered in our early childhood when my mother would read out stories of Albert Schweitzer, the German doctor who set up a small hospital in an impoverished area in Africa, where he tended to thousands of needy patients in the worst possible conditions. It required a lot of sacrifice and hard work. My mother hoped that we would inculcate these values. The other story that my mother often told us was of Marie Curie, the hard working woman scientist who received two Nobel Prizes for her pioneering work in Physics.

It was no surprise when after two decades or so, two of my sisters became eye specialists and I drifted in research in Biophysics.

I was pulled into the reality by the sudden halt of my car. I was here. I saw my parents waiting for me. ‘Where is Mohita ?’ I asked

Mummy told me ‘Snowy is very unwell. She is tending to him, but I am sure she will be here soon. Let’s go to the site.’

As  we drove in the late afternoon, I was thinking again. Of Mohita. That determined girl who has skilled hands and a steely willpower. I have seen her growing up in front of me, crossing over a million hurdles and obstacles   to come to this point when she will be starting a journey, sailing towards her cherished dream.  This girl does not know the meaning of ‘can’t’. If she decides something, then she just has to do it, even if hell freezes.

We arrived at the site where a small crowd of few of Daddy’s staff members and a pundit waited for us. I stared at the site. Long grass bales glistened in the afternoon sun. There was nothing but the smell of earth and grass. And the sun.

My parents sat away from the site of the puja. I was made to sit with the pundit. I looked anxiously at the entrance. No one. Where was Mohita ? I looked at my mother in concern. She nodded at me, encouraging me to go on. The pundit starting chanting the mantras.

Suddenly there was a mini-commotion. The pundit stopped chanting. I looked up. And smiled. There she was. Dr. Mohita Sharma. She alighted from the car and sashayed inside, with her staff members following her. The star had arrived. When she walks, the minions step aside. Such is her presence.  

She came and sat with me. I looked at my parents again. They were both smiling at us. What a beautiful moment it was.

The pundit started chanting the mantras again. The fire was lit. We sat there, following his instructions. There was a hush in the air. I could hear the long blades of grass swaying around us. An unreal feeling took over me.

I had an out-of-body experience and I floated above us, looking at us from far away. My dad, sitting there, looking at us, nodding. This was his dream. A hospital with a research institute. How hard he has worked for this. How many emotional and physical setbacks and challenges he has overcome for this. He has always been patient, always been optimistic. I looked at my mother, the backbone of this dream, the one who would optimistically build up dreams for Dad and Mohita and push them, cajole them, persuade them, remind them to make them into reality. A million times their dream was threatened and destroyed, and they would patiently build it up from scratch again.

I thought of Vasavdatta, studying Medicine many, many miles away. I thought of Alma, at that moment studying in her coaching center. I thought of Sitab, working on his homework, clutching his pen in his small hands.

And then I looked at Mohita, the person who is doing this all.

I looked at the wasteland around me. In some years, this would transform into a hospital where patients would be walking in and out. Maybe then, we would look back and remember this moment. We may be here today, gone tomorrow. But this moment will always remain, a part of this universe.  

I thought of the many miles, the many years we all have travelled to be here. I looked at the past, waving goodbye to us. And I looked at the future, smiling at us. That moment suddenly became timeless. A moment without a beginning or end. Our moment. Nothing can stop an idea whose time has come. Yes, the time has come. Our time has come. 

That strange lesson

Their arrival was noisy. 

Early on a Sunday morning.  I was woken up from my slumber at an unearthly hour (for Sunday). Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I saw a young lady standing outside my doorstep. A couple of identical looking little boys in identical clothes were standing with her. Before I could say anything, she invited me for lunch on the same day, in a booming voice. She told me that she was my neighbor who was moving in today, there was a house-warming havan, pooja and lunch. I was seriously taken aback. No one walks in unannounced at a stranger’s doorstep and invites them for lunch there and then ! I invited her inside just to get to know her better. She followed me in my living room, the two boys following her. Then followed a real strange conversation. Strange, because she was talking in painfully broken English, jumbling up words, stumbling over basic grammar. Her voice was loud and sing-song. She insisted on speaking in broken English even when I spoke to her in Hindi. The meeting was not a success. I felt odd, having that conversation in my own living room. I declined her invitation politely, since I had other plans for the day. I think she took that as a rebuff and she left abruptly, her identical kids walking out with her. The behavior of the kids surprised me too. They were not your usual boys, inquisitive or excited. They looked scared and they were huddling with their mother, as if expecting something scary to occur anytime.

I dismissed the strange woman from my mind. However, in the coming days, I heard a lot about her. Neighbors complained that she fought with whoever she could find, in her loud, angry voice. I ignored the whispers, but I did keep a distance from her, which was not too difficult as I am usually very busy minding my own business. However, as it always happens, the kids of our locality would not leave her alone. They found her an easy prey, and would love to tease her endlessly. They would ring her doorbell and run away, doubling with laughter as she would come out and scream obscenities and shake her fist at them. They would make up stories about her and heckle the twins who refused to be friendly with them and ran scared.

One evening, when I arrived home, tired and weary, I was told by Alma that a huge fight had broken loose outside our door. Sitab and his buddies had rung her doorbell and run for their lives. She had managed to catch Sitab and had blown him up. Instead of feeling guilty, Sitab had laughed at her and corrected her grammar. She intended to meet me and give me a piece of her mind. Mercifully, she changed her mind and did not come over. I warned Sitab to stay away. And life went on.

But a month later, hell ensued again. This time, Sitab’s friend had rung her bell. She came out, like a volcano erupting and without caring to know who the culprit was, screamed at Sitab. When Sitab attempted to tell her that it was not him who had rung her bell, she only got more livid. A horrible argument took place. She decided aloud to meet me and tell me what a terrible son I have raised. 

Alma stood there, looking at me. I sat with my head in my hands, weary, exhausted and drained. Either I could wait for her to come over or I could just settle this just now. I thought for some time and then finally called Sitab. He came to me, looking angry and defiant. I started by first asking him exactly why this pack of boys that he belongs to, insists on teasing this poor woman and her scared twins ? He burst forth with stories, long stories justifying everything, ending with how she blames him - only him, even if he is not the culprit.

Finally, I got up. He looked at me, a bit unsure and a bit scared. ‘Where are you going ?’ He asked.

‘We are going. You and me. To the lady’s home.’ I was resolute.

He quietly followed me. I had ‘that look’ in my eyes, and he knew that I will not change my mind.

 We rang her doorbell. She answered it, with her twins in tow. On seeing us, she literally pushed us outside, complaining loudly. I could see that she did not wish to invite me inside. I politely interrupted her and told her firmly that we need to take this conversation inside, sit and work this out. She looked helpless for a while, but conceded finally.

On entering the home, we were taken aback. It was not the usual family home that we are so used to seeing. It was bare. No sofa, no paintings, no wall hangings. Just a run-down mattress on the floor, a few necessary things here and there. The walls reflected a mournful, silent aura. No warmth, no beauty, nothing that resembled a home, especially not a home where two small kids lived. I looked around, and then I saw Sitab looking around. The lady sat in front of us, the kids as usual, huddling with her. I looked into the kids’ eyes. There was fear and confusion in those large, round eyes. 

The lady started talking. She talked on and on. She talked about how everyone targets her, about how no one respects her, how no one wishes her well. I just let her. Yes, I let her take it all out, the anger, the frustration, even the helplessness. After some time, her voice softened till she became quiet.

I sensed Sitab sitting next to me, looking at the little boys in a bewildered way, then looking around at the bare home in a confused manner, and then finally looking at the lady in a sympathetic way.

Finally, I got up. I assured her that from this day on, Sitab will make sure that no one will ever bother her again. I looked at Sitab. He hung his head and nodded quietly. Then we left.

On our way home, I said ‘Sitab…I…”

He interrupted me abruptly  “Please don’t say anything. I am feeling so bad. So guilty.”

I looked into his eyes, and for the first time in his young life, I saw empathy. I held his hand. He squeezed my hand hard, as if trying to get a grip on conflicting emotions.

Things were smooth from that point onwards. Sitab did keep his promise. He would not let anyone tease her anymore. He guarded her home protectively, like a fierce puppy.

A few days back, I saw a pickup truck in front of her home. I was told that they are moving away. They left, without saying goodbye to us. They left, as suddenly and as mysteriously as they had arrived.

But I am grateful to them for teaching a valuable lesson to Sitab. To empathize. A lesson which will make a gentleman out of my boy.

About getting older... and younger

Its strange that I feel that I was older, much older some ten years back. Because at that time, I was the ‘oldest one’, my kids were tiny and would listen to me. I was free to admonish them, shout, scream, and I would be obeyed. I felt I was an authority figure, their mother after all. They would look up at me, literally and figuratively, with wonder and respect in their eyes. I would hold their tiny hands and steer them in the right direction. They would throw their arms around my knees and rub their grubby faces on my legs while I would stroke their curly hair. They would ask me for permission to do this or that and would really fear the consequences if they would do something naughty.

Now as a mother of teens, I feel that I have grown younger and even smaller. They are both taller than me, so they tower over me. They look down at me while talking, and smile indulgently. They have realized that my act was just that. An act. I was not wiser than them. I just seemed so because I was taller and steadier, while they were little and unsteady on their feet.   Sometimes they pull my cheeks and laugh in unison. They treat me like a pet, or maybe a little sister. They have stopped calling me ‘Mamma’. Instead they call me ‘Chhugli’, a pet name which was given to me by my sister when I was a baby. When I express my worries or concern, they laugh and tell me not to worry, the can take care of themselves. When I lose my temper and scream at them, they burst into helpless giggles, till I compose myself and get my act together. 

But sometimes, they can’t. Take care of themselves. At such moments, they realize that they are in trouble and they need me to work out this cloud of confusion, or just to bail them out. I see that old, childish look in their eyes again as they seek me out and sometimes, ask, beg or even demand to be bailed out, asap. And then I am their mom again, the wise old owl. But those moments are rare. We go back to them being wiser and me being the ‘little one’ again.

I often wondered about this strange phenomenon that has occurred in the last few years. Then I found this line in a blog and it touched a chord.

 ‘I preferred to think that she, too, was a kid, passing undetected through the land of adults." 

Yes ! This is exactly how Alma and Sitab think of me. They feel that I am a child, just like them, maybe even younger. They refuse to believe that I belong to another world, another generation. And that touches me more than anything could.

I know this is just a twilight zone. This too will pass. I know that time will not stand still, but sometimes I cant help hoping that maybe, just for a moment, it will...