Friday, February 13, 2015

Valentine's Day? Bah, Humbug!

What Scrooge was to Christmas, my husband Vijay is to Valentine’s Day.

Before you jump to the conclusion that he is affiliated to a certain righteous political party that doesn’t approve of young couples holding hands and kissing, let me clarify. Vijay’s problem appears to be more around the meaning of Valentine’s Day itself.

‘I’m in Singapore from the 9th to the 16th,’ he announces to me.

‘Aw.’ I say wistfully. ‘You won’t be here on Valentine’s Day.’

‘Thank God.’ He says, rolling his eyes. This attitude immediately causes me to flare up.

‘Now wait a minute. What does THAT mean? You don’t want to spend Valentine’s Day with me?’

‘It’s not that.’ He protests. ‘But what is all the hoo-ha about anyway? It’s just another day.’ He gains both courage and conviction as he speaks and affirms ‘It’s stupid.’

‘Well, I don’t think it’s stupid.’ I say. ‘What’s wrong with having a day to celebrate love?’

‘Bah!’ And for a moment there, I’m sure he’s going to add ‘Humbug.’ But he doesn’t. Instead he continues ‘This was all okay when we were younger, but…’

‘Oh, so you mean that romance has to die now that we’re an old married couple.’ I’m trying to keep from getting upset but it’s not really working. I’ve got my hands on my hips. ‘ Since we’re boring old parents-of-3-kids, there’s no concept of anything to do with fun, spontaneity or surprise, right?’

‘Hey.’ He’s clearly trying to lighten the mood. ‘We’re fun and spontaneous. That’s what led to 3 kids. And weren’t you surprised about having twins? And…’

‘Forget it.’ I mutter and go back to reading my book. Or pretending to read it.

I’m really thinking about whether this is finally it. We’ve been married 12 years now. I’m approaching my 35th birthday. It may actually be time to give up on trying to revive that spark. The first few months of our courting, even the first few years of our marriage. When it was just the two of us, no family, no full-timers, talking late into the nights, aching to get to know each other more fully. Cut to the present, where a lot of the conversation seems to be along the lines of ‘It’s your turn to put them to bed.’

Vijay can see that I’m peeved. Usually his default course of action in such a scenario is to pretend that he hasn’t noticed, in the vague hope that I will come out of it myself.  But today, he seems to sense that it’s cutting a bit deeper than the usual irritation, and ventures. ‘Does this stuff really matter to you?’

‘Nope.’ I say glibly. ‘Just another day, right? How do such little things matter?’

‘Right.’ He says, relieved. ‘Just a little thing. After all, the bigger thing is that we’ve been married eleven years.’

‘Eleven?’ I can’t believe it. ‘It’s our 12th year anniversary this month, and you don’t know that?’

‘Yes, yes,’ He says hastily ‘Eleventh, twelfth, it’s the same thing…’

‘It is NOT the same thing.’ I hiss, slamming down my book. ‘This is too much, Vijay! You don’t understand the value of an important occasion…’

‘Our 12th anniversary is an important occasion?’

‘It ISN’T?’

‘More important than any other anniversary? Now, don’t be silly…’

‘Vijay, just forget it.’ To my surprise, I can feel tears welling up. My husband is not only unromantic, he’s downright callous. ‘ No, the 12thannivesary doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Yes, well, you know, it’s not even like a golden or silver anniversary…although those are silly too, after all, why would…’

‘I DON’T want to DISCUSS it.’ I am totally fed up, and rise in a huff from my bed and start heading out the door. I fumble to put on my shoes near the front door. I can hear him calling me to wait and not be silly and do I know how cold it is outside, but I don’t care. The kids are asleep and I feel like getting some fresh air.

A blast of chilly wind hits me in the face and instantly I’m wishing I had grabbed a jacket on the way. This light sweater won’t let me survive long out here. It’s been a long winter in Delhi. Instinctively I start to walk briskly, and then break into a jog. It’s been a while since I got some exercise out in the open and running always helps to clear my head.

Is it perhaps the fact that my sister just got married, and I am just fresh from the wedding madness, and my own wedding seems now so long ago, and rushed by comparison. The memories have almost faded. There was no Facebook in 2003 either, so I don’t even know now where all those photos are. Were there even digital cameras? I can’t remember if we had one at the time. I pick up the pace and start jogging faster. In pretty good shape for a thirty-five year old has-been, I think to myself grimly. I’m practicing Yoga through the week and teaching Zumba on the weekends, and it helps. What’s the point though? Vijay never remarks on how well-maintained I am beyond saying stuff like ‘Don’t get any skinnier.’ Which is what my Mom says too. So much for that. Or stuff like ‘Wow, is this your Jhansi Ki Rani pose?’ when I’m doing Yoga in the mornings. It actually is the Warrior, but it pisses me off, the way he teases me when I’m trying to be all centered and calm.

The thoughts whirl around in my head and I’m not really watching the road all that closely as I circle around the block, but a quick flash of white fur catches the corner of my eye. Cat, scared by my presence, disappearing over a low wall. And this brings back a memory from last year.

Vijay and I were jogging together in a bid to get more fitness time and togetherness time ( which lasted until the kids decided they also wanted to go on Mama-Daddy’s-night-walk). We were secretly competing with each other to see who woul dlast longer and completed another block without stopping for breath, although we were also occasionally conversing between gasps. Suddenly, a cat, a black one, darted across the road. I know my husband’s idiosyncracies well, and one of them is the tendency to be ridiculously superstitious about things like this.

‘Did you see that?’ he gasped ‘A black cat just crossed the road.’

I was about to protest that we were NOT going to change our route just because of a silly superstition, when I noticed that my husband had instead of slowing down, sped up and shot ahead in front of me. I ran to catch up with him and he was already past the point where the cat had crossed the road.

‘Hey. Wait up.’ I shouted and ran faster myself until I was finally by his side again. ‘What’s with you?’

‘Nothing.’ He muttered, breathing hard. ‘Last round and then we’ll head home?’

I glanced up at his impassive face and he pretended not to notice.

It hit me with a flash as to what he was doing. He sped up and ran across what he considered a bad luck zone. So that he’d be the one to cross it first and not me.

We went home and never spoke about it.


I’ve slowed down now as I head home. I know now who was the one being silly. I remember reading in a book by Eknath Easwaran, one of my recent discoveries, about how true love is when the well-being of your partner matters to you more than your own. And in that department, I must confess, I feel I have a lot to learn from my older and wiser husband.

He’s stood by me through thick and thin, and that matters a lot more than Candy and Roses and a single day like Valentine’s Day.

I let myself in. He’s waiting in the drawing room for me and making a snack out of some leftoevers, even though it’s pretty late and he has an early morning flight. I come and sit down next to him. There are a few moments of silence.

‘Want a Paneer Pakoda?’ He ventures.

I look at the greasy, cold, unappetizing looking thing he is holding out to me.

‘Okay,’ I say agreeably. As he is handing it over to me, it falls to the carpet.

I bend to pick it up, but he takes it from my hand immediately, replacing it with another with a ‘Here, take this one.’

I smile at him and proceed consume the replacement Pakoda. It tastes pretty good. After a moment, when he thinks I’m not looking, he discreetly brushes off the fallen Pakoda against his sweater once and then pops it into his mouth.

We sit there in contented silence, munching our Pakodas. I’m thinking to myself.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey.

I hope someday I can be as romantic as you.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Chapter 2: A Funny Thing Happened...

(This is the second chapter from my draft novel loosely titled 'a Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Growing Up.' Let me know what you think!

Read Chapter 1 here)

                                                              Chapter 2: SchoolDaze

‘Gudia still isn’t up?’

My mother was addressing Kajal, who replied in a surly manner that she had tried three times to awaken me thus far, but that I was simply pretending to be asleep under the blanket. I shut my eyes tighter, trying not to stiffen at the sound of the approaching Mother.

She poked me through the blanket in a rather unloving manner, hissing ‘Gudia. Gudia! It’s already seven fifteen. Wake up!’

I waited a moment before stirring and peeping out through a crack in the blanket. ‘Mama.’ I whispered in a hoarse voice which I hoped sounded fevered. ‘I don’t think I’m well enough to go to school today.’

My mother’s eyes glinted. She put an experienced hand on my forehead which I tried to make hot through sheer will power, but Mama looked unimpressed. Her lips became a determined thin line and she straightened up and said, ‘Well, let’s just take your temperature and see, shall we?’

I nodded weakly, and then looked over at Chanda’s bed. She was still huddled in a corner. I wondered idly why I always had to be first to wake up. Another thorn in my side. However, it was a fact that the reason Chand slept huddled in a corner was that she still wasn’t used to having her own bed.

In the days when the three of us used to have to share a double bed, my brother and I were fiercely possessive of our respective sides of the bed. The arrival of Baby Chanda was not viewed as a positive event when it came to night-time and she was duly plonked in the middle of the bed. We spent a really long time bickering about how she was taking up more space than warranted on a particular side – eventually we came to a solution – Chand would have to sleep with her butt-crack exactly aligned with the middle of the bed, the line dileneated by where the two gaddas met. It was an extremely satisfactory compromise, we thought. Except for Chanda, of course, who muttered so resentfully in a continuous low monotone that one might have been forgiven for thinking she was somehow related to Kajal.

Mother returned with a thermometer and I popped it under my mouth. I was counting on the fact that Mom had better things to do than hang around and wait while the mercury rose. I was right. She disappeared into her room for a minute. Now was my chance. I glanced around to make sure no one was looking, and popped the thermometer under my bed-lamp, holding it as close to the bulb as I could. I could feel the heat against my fingers and just hoped the thermometer wouldn’t explode. I had a strong feeling this was going to work.

My sister stirred and I glanced sharply at her. If she woke up now and asked what I was doing, there would be no time for explanations or to buy her over before Mom came in. The sound of mother’s footsteps made it a moot point and I quickly popped the thermometer under my throat again. It felt satisfyingly warm.

I sighed softly as mother extracted the thermometer from my mouth and examined it. I closed my eyes, waiting expectantly for her to pronounce that I was far too ill to go to school today.

There was a long silence. Unable to wait any more, I opened one eye and looked up at Ma who was frowning at the thermometer and not looking particularly happy. She looked at me a trifle suspiciously and I immediately looked as forlorn and sick as I could. She ‘Hmmmed’ and then appeared to make up her mind. Brightening, she said ‘You’re fine. Come on, get ready. Off you two go to school.’

This wasn’t possible. ‘Ma!’ I protested ‘I’m sure I have fever. What does the thermometer say?’

The glint in the eye was back and it was dangerous this time. In carefully measured tones, she said ‘It says that somebody might be trying a little too hard to sham their way out of school. Again.’

That was it. It was no use. In my mind, I said ‘Curses. Foiled Again.’ Because those were the days that I used to read Champak comic and the big bad wolf always used phrases like that when he failed to trap an innocent rabbit into becoming his dinner.

Off to school it would be.


School wasn’t what it used to be, I thought a trifle nostalgically as we waited at the bus stop. I kicked at a small stone, scuffing my shined black shoes. Chanda and Gudia were magically transformed into Gitanjali and Yashodhara, by virtue of being dressed in our blue school uniforms, with the belts that bore the school’s emblem and the words ‘We Soar to Achieve.’ I often wondered idly what this really meant, but I had to admit it sounded kind of cool and went well with our school symbol – the Eagle.

In the old days, I could have fooled myself into thinking that I somehow identified with that regal bird. After all, when I was in the top grade at the Primary School, it had been kind of like that, lording it over the swarm of smaller kids. I was never considered for Prefect or any important position, but there was a certain respect that age commanded and by George, we were the oldest in that whole building. Apart from the ancient, decrepit teachers there but they didn’t really matter, and were merely a minor inconvenience.

Things were different now in the Senior school. A year had passed but it didn’t look like it was going to get any easier. The teachers were still either too strict or too sour, and the classwork looked like it was getting harder and harder. I wouldn’t really know because the classwork was also mindnumbingly boring and couldn’t hold my attention for more than three minutes at a time.  I spent most of my time daydreaming and glancing at the clock to see if it was time for recess yet, and after recess, if it was time to go home yet. Clearly, I wasn’t alone in this because while my marks never shone through for the obvious reason that I never studied, I managed to stay just above the class average. Mother dear was constantly unimpressed by the 75% that I regularly brought home on report cards, but I was unmotivated to try any harder.

In the bus, my mind wandered back to Nisha Ma’am. Nisha Ma’am had been my first grade teacher and the only teacher worth her salt in that wretched institute, in my personal opinion. She had taken charge of me on the first day, making me comfortable and actually personally dropping me off onto the bus herself for the first few days until I began to figure things out and stopped the heartrending weeping. I was filled with a feeling of warmth towards Nisha Ma’am even now when I thought about her.

She was a very nice lady but not a very subtle one. I remembered how at the first PTA meeting she looked at my father and exclaimed ‘Oh, but you DO have hair after all.’

My father had naturally been taken aback and not altogether flattered by the remark. Nisha Ma’am had gone on to brightly explain to him that all the Grade 1 students had been assigned the task of observing the colour of their Dad’s hair and coming back the next day to draw it in class. Little Yashodhara had apparently come into the class and solemnly declared the task was impossible for her to complete since her father’s head was devoid of any hair whatsoever.

My Dad, who was a trifle sensitive about his balding tendency, and out to me later that he did have some hair. ‘Look.’ He pointed behind his ears, turning his head slightly so that I could have a better view. ‘There it is. Black hair. Quite a bit of it. See now?’

I nodded dutifully as if noticing it for the first time and he said, a little less gently. ‘Next time, don’t tell your Ma’am that your Daddy doesn’t have any hair at all. Or no money for canteen.’


Despite the fact that I was a bit of a trial as a child, my father had a soft corner for me. He also harbored the deep and enduring hope that I would end up a doctor like him, and his father. I somehow really doubted that, but I didn’t want to disappoint Dear old Dad so I pretended that being a doctor was right up there in my list of things to do in the future, along with becoming a Champion Basketball Player, Genius Rock Star and Astronaut.

We reached the school, and it was time for Gitanjali and I to part ways. At the gate, I turned to her and said, seriously as usual. ‘You’re on your own now, kid. Walk away and go to your school.’ She was still in the Primary Wing. ‘We can’t be seen together else I will be associated with you and since that would really brand me as an unmitigated loser, I won’t have it.’ Those might have not been my exact words, but the gist was similar.

Today, little Chanda was being rebellious though. Usually, she would adjust her bag strap and walk away from me slowly without a backward glance. But now, she set her little chin resolutely and continued to walk by my side, matching me step for step.

‘What are you doing?’ I squeaked at her. ‘People will see us together.’

‘So what?’ She said carelessly, and everything about her attitude said that she was ready to finally start living life on the edge. ‘I’m your sister.’

‘But no one else has to know.’ I cried, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. How humiliating it would be if they made the association between cool me and this little ponytailed primary school drip.

The drip refused to evaporate though, and even though I lowered my head and quickened my step, she stayed with me right upto the point that I reached my own House line in the assembly. ‘So long, sister!’ She cried brightly making sure that everyone around for miles heard, while I cringed in embarassment. Finally, she trotted off towards her own school where she belonged, leaving me for once as the one seething in resentment and muttering malevolently, Kajal-style.

‘That’s your little sister?’ asked the House Captain, looking after her. ‘So cute.’

I couldn’t believe it. The House Captain was speaking to me and this time it wasn’t to tell me my nails were too long or that I was late yet again. I nodded along mutely, turning red and then starting to preen. Gitanjali Lal was so cute. Of course. After all, she was my sister.


If there was anything more boring than classwork at School, it would have to be the Assembly. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other restlessly. Despite the horrible summer heat of Delhi, we were expected to stand there for over 45 minutes every single day, listening to sanctimonious preaching and other nerdy kids who had been nominated, or worse, even volunteered to read out the day’s headlines. There were prayers, songs and speeches. It didn’t really seem to matter that every single day, at least one or two children were dropping like flies from the heat and dehydration. They would simply be picked up by the more well-built of the Prefects and transported to the Sick-Room to be given some sickly sweet Rasna or some other such healing concoction. I often wished that I would be amongst the lucky ones to faint, but it didn’t happen to me, and even though I had practiced falling down after swaying dramatically at home, I didn’t dare actually try it out there on the Assembly field. The teachers there were even scarier than Mom. Okay, that was pushing it, but they came close and one thought of someone accusing me of Shamming here was enough to quell any such fancy ideas for me. I still didn’t exactly know what Shamming was, but it was not favorably looked upon by adults, that much I had gathered.

The painful assembly ended with a painful rendition of the National Anthem. I was of course too cool to actually sing along and therefore I just mouthed the words listlessly. Like most days, today Kavitha S stood in front of me, her long oiled pigtails and the rim of her glasses glistening in the bright sunlight in front of me. She sang along loudly and tunefully, with a strange combination of solemnity and heart that made me want to kick her hard in the seat of the pants. Well, she didn’t wear pants of course, but a skirt like me, only about twice as long and I often imagined us standing right at the back of the line, and me suddenly pushing her over to topple all the kids in front of us like hapless dominoes. Like with most other of my fanciful ideas, I didn’t have the courage to execute.

Senior school was clearly turning me into a gutless little coward.


The hours passed slowly, with class after class. We had no PT period today. What a pity. At these those 40 minutes, happily spent out on the playground would have been a respite from the teachers, whose style of imparting wisdom largely comprised of getting students to read paragraphs out loud from textbooks that made no sense whatsoever.

The subjects all blended into each other in my head and recess came and went far too quickly. And as I listlessly checked the class timetable in my diary to see what was coming up in the second half the day, time suddenly started to speed up and move too quickly. The last period of the day was Maths.

Maths was taught by Chandru. Mrs. Chandrashekar. The bane of my existence. Why did we have to have the wretched subject every single day? The logic of the subject totally escaped me, and I was rendered further helpless by the fact that Chandru, being the perceptive sort, had long ago identified me as an A-1 trouble-maker and no-good-for-nothing-nik. While I had no desire to argue with her on this front, it irked me that she couldn’t just let me alone like the other teachers who either regarded me with an indulgent sense of humour or just plain couldn’t care less. There was no way to win with Chandru and therefore Maths was the only homework I actually ever did at home.

‘Ready to be scolded again today, Yashu?’ Asked Ankur, who sat next to me in class.

Ankur was a small kid, an inch shorter than me but with an ego that surpassed what I had heard about the proportions of the Great Wall of China. Everyone knew that he was from a rich family – he smuggled the latest Hot Wheels into class and showed them off, and his Uniform always looked shiny and new. He told us that he had 30 of them, one for each day of the month. I suspected this to be a lie, but never confronted him about it. Ankur had made it clear that his father could buy our fathers and I didn’t want that.
‘I won’t be scolded.’ I retored out of the side of my mouth. ‘I’ve done my homework.’ And I didn’t even have to hire someone else to do it for me like you, I thought spitefully.

Chandru entered the class like the silent snake that she was. Well, she was actually a brown, round creature who looked rather like a human hedgehog. Or a porcupine, with her prickly sarcastic remarks that left even the boldest student speechless, quivering at the knees, reduced to a mere pudding made solely out of shame. With such a gift, there was no doubt she had been born to be a teacher at this particular institute.

The first thing she did was to throw me a glance of pure, intense dislike. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought she always started the class with this. She then called out attendance in a bored manner. Snapping the register shut, she instructed all of us to bring our Homework notebooks to her desk and leave them for corrections before she started the day’s final lesson.

I looked through the brown-paper covered notebooks in my bag. I knew I had put it in here last night. It was the only notebook I cared about. It was the only notebook that was no longer there. My mouth went dry and the digging about in my bag became more frantic. Where was it? It couldn’t be. I had done those damned algebra thingies, I had even asked Mom to glance over them and see if they were anywhere close to correct.

Mom. Of course. She had said she would do it later. And then I had become engrossed in a game of German-Referree. There was no mystery about it anymore. That honest, virtuous attempt at a pre-correction round with mother had put me in this soup. But surely, Chandru would understand.

Ha ha ha ha ha, I was already laughing hysterically in the head and it took Chandru a while to make herself heard.

‘Eshodhara.’ It cut through sharply like a knife into my consciousness. ‘Where is your homewark? I spose you have not done it and have a new excuse?’

‘Ma’am.’ I swallowed as I stood up, ignoring Ankur’s snarky giggling. ‘I…did it, but I left it at home.’

‘Of course.’ Chandru’s voice was so sarcastic and dangerous that even Deeksha, the class dunce laughed along with the others. Chandru continued, for the purpose of entertaining the rest of the class. ‘I thought you might have come up with something a little more imaginative. Are you sure the Tooth Fairy didn’t pay a visit and pick up the wrong thing last night?’

It wasn’t even funny but the class laughed louder at this. I had only vaguely heard of the term Nuclear Bomb but I felt certain that it was something I would want to bring to school one day for the express purpose of blowing up these people.

Chandru appeared to lose her taste for this game and simply snapped at me. ‘Bring me your diary. I will have to write to your mother again.’ She spat out the worst abuse that she could think of toward me. ‘Buddhu.’

She pronounced it Buddu in her distinctive South Indian way and I knew the next day I would be hearing it repeated constantly courtesy my kind and sympathetic classmates. I glanced up at the clock and my eyes boggled. Still 30 whole minutes of class-time left before the Dismissal Bell rang. Chandru ignored me for the rest of the class, but my ears were ringing constantly anyway with her own personal Dismissal Bell of ‘Buddu.’

Yes - I mentally kicked at another stone, and sighed morosely to myself - School definitely wasn’t what it used to be.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

The Wannabe Author

'So what do I do if I want to get my book published?'

It's been a tiring day and this is the fortieth time that I have answered this question in the last three years.

But she is currently travelling with me in the car and it is my mission to be unfailingly polite with regard to this particular question. Especially considering how mystified I was myself about the whole process just a short while ago.

'You make sure you're happy with what you've written, first. And maybe if you like, I can introduce you to my publisher.' I pause for a moment and then add, gently. 'Although you know, all publishers have their own websites with the email IDs that you have to send your manuscript to.'

'Okay.' She nods seriously. 'And what about an editor?'

'They will assign you an editor, of course.'

'Hmmm.' She bites her lip, looking like she's considering something. 'So do I have to wait?'

'Well, they make you wait a while.' I confess. 'It took me months the first time round, and...'

'No, no. I mean, will I have to wait till I'm fifteen to write it?'

'Oh.' I look at her. 'No, you can write it even now.'

'NOW?' She says, wide-eyed. 'They're allowed to publish my book even when I'm THIS small?'

'Sure.' I say. Her excitement is infectious and my mind is whirring already. 'Sure, you go ahead and write your book and I'll help you find a publisher, and...'

'Okay, Ma! And you know what? When I have a daughter, I'm going to name her Nayani and when I have a son, I'm going to name him Kojum-koja!'

I sit back and listen to Peanut chatter about the story of Kojum-koja that they heard in school today. It doesn't feel like the end of a tiring day anymore. Heck, I'm ready for a whole another day right now. 

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Intelligent Conversations

Papad: Masi, why you mallied Shaunak Uncle?
My sister: Well, because I love him.
Papad: Don't you love US?
Sis: Of course, I do...
Papad: Why didn't you mally US?
Sis: Erm, I ...I can't...
Papad (pointing his little finger at her): I'll mally you, okay? I'll send you a message.


Pickle: Are you CLAZY?
Papad: Nevel in my LIFE..
Pickle: Are you CLAZY?
Papad: Nevel in my LIFE.
Me: What are guys doing?
Both look at me blankly and then Pickle volunteers: We playing Are you CLAZY Nevel in my LIFE.


Peanut: So mama if the earth is the mother, the moon is the uncle, right?
Me: Whose uncle?
Peanut: The moon.
Me: No, I mean, whose Uncle?
Peanut: Who's Uncle, I'm telling you MOON is Uncle.
Me: (frustrated) Peanut, I'm saying WHOSE UNCLE IS THE MOON.
Peanut: (more frustrated) I DON'T KNOW WHO IS THE MOON'S UNCLE!!!


Me: Pickle, say Tree?
Pickle: Tlee
Me: No. It's high time you learned how to say 'rrrr' 
Pickle: Lllll
Me: Tree!
Pickle: TLEE
Me: Tree...
Pickle: TWEE...
Me: Okay, good, getting close...TREE
Pickle (frustrated): Abbey, PED HAI! 
(Runs away leaving me defeated, yet again)


I wake up bright and cheery today. It's a cold foggy day but I'm determined to get a good start to the morning. 

I walk out and see my kids at the dining table. All three of them, already dressed for school, like little angel-eskimos. They look up at me with their adorable little grins. 

Peanut is the first to speak. She's bubbling over with enthusiasm as she exclaims, 

''Mama! Tonight I dreamed you were DEAD.' 

Good morning, everyone.


P.S - Crossposted the last two from my facebook page. Check it out and join for more regular updates than the blog :) 

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Chapter 1: A Funny Thing Happened...

(Just decided to publish a few chapters from a draft of a book I've written called 'A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Growing Up'. Let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more!)

‘Gudia. Come here. Read this!’
I glanced up towards her. It was no use telling my mother not to call me by that ghastly pet name. She was currently giggling about something as she read from a book. What was she up to now, I wondered, but abandoned my own reading to scoot on over to her like a good obedient daughter.
My mother was shaking with the silent laughter that meant she was really tickled. She handed me her book and said ‘Go on. Read.’
What was this, now? Hang on, this was one of the adult books. I knew because I had seen it amongst the other adult books on the high shelf in my parents bedroom that we had been warned to stay away from and which of course, I regularly nosed through when my parents were away at work. I looked at her uncertainly, but she nodded and pointed, ‘This paragraph right here.’
Okayyy. Fine. I read quickly. It was a paragraph about a guy who appeared to be undergoing some sort of medical check up. I frowned as I read, mouthing the words silently and unconsciously starting to read aloud towards the end.
‘...They then held us by the testicles and instructed us to ‘Cough’. There was one unfortunate fellow who heard the instruction as ‘Off’, and he applied himself to taking off with as much speed as he could muster from that crouching position.
They were still rubbing him with ice when I left.’’
My mother went into paroxysms of laughter again as I finished reading. I smiled politely, waiting for the shaking to stop.
‘Isn’t that hilarious?’ said Mom when she’d caught her breath. ‘Very.’ I agreed, and then hesitated ‘Er, Ma?’
‘Yes, dear?’ Mom said indulgently.
‘What’s testicles?’

At this, Mother dear stopped laughing all of a sudden. She appeared to be seeing me for the first time and examined me closely. She then demanded. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twelve.’ Come on, she knew that, surely. I knew she could be a little woolly headed at times, and I was after all only the middle child, but still.
Mom opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it again. She frowned. And then the frown cleared.
She informed me in a very matter-of-fact, decisive way.
‘If you’re twelve, then you already know, of course.’
I didn’t. How was I to know? No one ever told me anything. But once my mother said ‘of course.’... That was it – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and there was no point arguing it. Without offering anything else that might have been mistaken for an actual explanation, Mother dear turned back to her funny adult book and was soon shaking with silent laughter again.
Taking this correctly to be the dismissal that it was, I turned back rather morosely to my own Sweet Valley Twins book.
Somehow it didn’t seem very exciting anymore. *****
My mother hadn’t always been weird. She had been warm, affectionate, loving and a whole bunch of other good stuff, but it had all gone out the window the minute that my sister came along. At least, that was kind of the way that my own traumatized four year old self fondly remembered it.
Like I said, no one ever told me anything – especially in those days, and this was 1983 and a half. In today’s day and age, we have access to books like Topsy and Tim meet The New Baby, but in those days, there was nothing. Nada. Zero. The concept of telling a child that a sibling was in the offing was unheard of – children didn’t need to know anything!
Of course, there is a remote possibility that some attempt was made to apprise me of the impending arrival, but I was perhaps too distracted by a butterfly or something to register the fact. A very remote possibility, though and I only mention it in a bleak, martyr-like attempt at fairness. I was no moron.
As it happened, Mother Dear suddenly disappeared off the scene for several days. After a couple of days when it came to my notice, I made my enquiries only to be informed that she would be home soon enough and that could I please refrain from dropping kishmish all over the floor like that.
I must admit that when I said earlier that I was no moron, I may have been a little biased favorably toward myself . After all, in later years I was informed that I used to spend hours in a little play pen as a toddler, solemnly picking up and consuming little bits of kishmish that our enterprising maid Saraswati had strewn about in zig zag patterns on the play pen floor. This apparently kept me out of harm’s way and allowed the harried old lady to get on with her work. My parents seemed to think this was a quaint and admirable solution. In a later era, we might have considered this ground to fire a maid’s ass, but they simply patted Saraswati on the back and went off to their own busy day at work.
It was only my grandfather, ubiquituously known as Papa, who appeared to think that I deserved to be enlightened as to my mother’s whereabouts.
‘She is in the hospital.’ He said with a huge grin. For a moment, my love and respect for him wavered. Why did he look so happy about the fact that Mother was sick? He continued, his smile turning dreamy. ‘And she’s going to come back with Chand.’
This further mystified me. Mother was in the hospital - and she was going to come back with the moon? That was very strange and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it at all. I was very disturbed that night as I went to sleep. I needed my mother to say her usual ‘Goodnight. Sweet Dreams. I love you.’
But the very next day, my traitor of a mother returned with a whole new baby, whom everybody affectionately referred to as Chand or Chanda. I could see the writing on the wall: I had been ousted from her affections forever – it was easy to tell. She never let that thing alone so that I could have a go at it. I could only stand by helplessly as the little puckered-up stranger raised hell and carved out its place right in the center of the whole universe. I watched as my mother fed that baby - it looked as if the feeding was hurting her. My hatred of the thing grew. I knew it was evil from the moment I saw it.
My brother didn’t seem perturbed by the new arrival, just vaguely amused by it. He was more interested in his cricket and bullying of the neighborhood kids and hogging the television. It never occurred to me that he simply might have already been through this earlier when I was born. He was older than me by three and a half years, exactly the same age difference between me and the new It. We were now a well-spaced out family. And also a – well, spaced-out family.
That little stranger had grown up now to be a skinny eight year old who was no longer a stranger. Well, no stranger than the rest of us. In fact, she had turned out to be a pretty good companion for me; my sister and I were always together, constantly inventing games for our own amusment.
Most of the games were invented by me, but the point was that I finally had a willing compatriot and partner in crime or to put it another way, a guinea pig with the slight advantage that she could talk and therefore protested at times. It was true that the poor child was often bullied into being the scapegoat in these childhood ‘games’, but I tended to wipe away all feelings of guilt with the thought that I was greatly contributing to her education. As the more experienced sibling, I told myself sanctimoniously, it was up to me to share life experience with her so that she would not have to suffer the various troubles I’d seen. Besides, sometimes I even switched with her, so that she could pretend to be the pet- owner and have the pleasure of walking me as a dog instead.I, of course, was the majestically named Tipu Sultan. I think her dog-name was Bonbon or equivalent.
Since these were the days before iPads and iPhones or anything even remotely as mind-numbingly absorbing as these devices, we found ourselves with a fair degree of free time. My parents were both working and had limited time for us.
My father was a doctor. He was a dermatologist and it was a long time before I understood what the good Dr. Lal actually did for a living. Mother dear was in Customs & Central Excise and to this day I’m not very sure of what she did until the day she retired. We all exhibited a remarkable lack of curiosity about each other’s doings but co-existed, sometimes amiably, in our shared infrastructure, our home in Pandara Park, just a little off Pandara Road.
If ever my sister and I were bored, and there were many such moments, we would take the problem to Mother dear, only to be summarily informed ‘Educated children are never bored.’ Having solved the problem so efficiently for us, she would go back to whatever it was that she was doing: which on the rare occasions that she was home, was either cooking, reading, knitting or Sorting.
Sorting was a fascinating activity – whether you were blissfully occupied with it like my mother, or simply passive observers like my sister and I. It was my mother’s lifelong belief that nothing should ever be actually thrown away, and that if it was meant to leave your home, it would eventually disintegrate. However, in order to manage all the rubbish that accumulated as a result of such a wonderful principle, regular Sorting had to be done. Thus was born the concept of Sorting Saturdays, which wasn’t really the official terminology until much later. For us, it was more like ‘What the heck is wrong with Mama’ day and we watched curiously as she lovingly rearranged a chosen section of the messy house. Somedays it was our book shelf, consisting largely of Archies and Hardy Boys and she painstakingly arranged the books in alphabetical or numerical order, which we would ensure would last for about a day and a half. At the end of Sorting Saturday, Mother dear would heave a sigh of satisfaction while the rest of us, including my father often huffed and puffed in resentment at having been ignored by her for so many hours at time. It didn’t seem to matter to Mom that the sorted area looked exactly the same as before, minus perhaps, to give her some credit, one layer of dust, accidentally removed as a result of her enthusiastic fiddling.
Since my sister and I were normal children who gained no pleasure from making the world around us a tidier place to live in, we were left to our own devices on weekends. I had stoically taken charge of the situation at a fairly early age, and by now we already had a fair repertoire of games to choose from in order to keep ourselves occupied.
‘Want to play German-Referee?’ I asked my sister conspiratorially, as if it were a rare treat for her, rather than the game we played every other day.
This was a rather unique Game invented by Yours Truly. I, as the Referee was the one who would glide about on skates while hanging onto the collar of my sister, who, as German, was assigned the task of building up to a certain speed before suddenly wrenching herself free and veering off, leaving me hurtling towards some corner, or wall, or door, and on one or two occasions a rather surprised and disapproving Dad. The game was incomplete without the pretence that we had somehow ‘lost’ each other by mistake and wailing dramatically ‘Germannn....’ ... ‘Germannn...’ and ‘Referreee!’ The names of the principal characters in this

singular game were derived from one of the only movies we ever had the good fortune to see on the VCR that my brother proclaimed as his own, a movie about Football called ‘Escape to Victory.’ We understood nothing of the movie since Abhimanyu had already viewed it at a friend’s house and used our own TV simply to review his favorite parts, meditatively forwarding or rewinding to those bits - including one Bicycle Kick of Pele’s that I had unsuccessfully tried to emulate myself. But we had cottoned on to the fact there were people called Germans and Referees in the movie, and the names caught our fancy for our little skating game.
‘All right.’ My sister grumbled. As German, she kind of had the short end of the stick but being an innately good sport, she would soon get into the spirit of things. She didn’t have skates of her own yet. In our family, every novelty item was bought only once for the oldest child, and then years later when he had cast it aside, it would come to me. I had yet to cast anything aside in the direction of my sister, and it would be a few years before she had her own skates. For now, being German was the best she could aspire for. Her countenance brightened considerably at the realization that this was also yet another God-given opportunity to send me whizzing out the front door and maybe even down the stairs from our first floor flat.
And so another few pleasant hours passed on that lazy weekend. Mother busy with Sorting, Abhimanyu in something akin to a stupor, forwarding and rewinding the tape of Escape to Victory until my father finally lost it and banished him from my parents bedroom, which of course was the only place which could house the television. And me and Chanda alternating between barking at each other and filling the house with our cries of German-Referree, while Kajal, who had replaced her aunt Saraswati some years back stood muttering malevolently to herself in the kitchen about how things were so much better on weekdays when she was allowed to actually do her work without the interfering presence of the crazy members of this Family.