testing times...

Why am I constantly judging, evaluating, assessing those whom I claim to love the most?

Measuring them against some yardstick that I have unilaterally made and punishing them and in the process myself when they fall short.

Why can I not just love and open myself for receiving love?

Yes our love is not perfect – it is at times possessive, jealous, selfish – but nor are we - we are only human.

random reflections

How happy my mother would have been to hear my friend telling the prospective groom’s parents that her daughter had never ever made even a cup of tea, in fact she had never stepped into the kitchen for any work; and that the proposal was not turned down on this account – the boy’s father said that they were not unreasonable enough to expect the girl to do household chores after coming back tired from office.

Exceptional, I thought, till I heard the same story from another friend and then another one and another one….all in a matter of just two months. Almost the norm, it seemed.

Couldn’t help remembering how my mother laboured to teach me the essentials of cooking and stitching (lack of this would be reflection on her parenting and I will always be grateful for her persistence because it added to my independence); and her indignance that, when it came to matrimony, she could never ask the boy’s parents about his household skills despite her daughter being as qualified as the boy; my father evading searching questions about my household skills and maintaining a very non committal stand because he hated to lie and the truth could jeopardise my matrimonial prospects!

Back then, household skills in girls were considered essential and often valued more than looks. While putting forth marriage proposals, parents highlighted the (sometimes hugely exaggerated) culinary / tailoring/ embroidery skills of the prospective bride. In matrimonial advertisements this translated into “homely” girl. Very few people may now associate this word with its actual meaning (they wouldn’t use it otherwise) – “not attractive or good-looking, lacking elegance or refinement, of simple or unpretentious nature”.

Attitudes have changed – earlier parents of boys prided themselves on the fact that their son had not even taken a glass of water by himself, now parents of girls were competing on the same issues - their daughter has not lifted a little finger at home, she has never entered the kitchen, cannot thread a needle, make a cup of tea…. and so on.

In this oneup(wo)manship between genders, we seem to have overlooked the necessity of knowing basic cooking, cleaning and sewing. I believe these are not a matter of pride or shame - rather they are survival skills which every individual irrespective of gender needs to know. Shouldn’t we ensure that our children learn how to rustle up a decent meal, keep a clean house and also be able to mend a tear, stitch their buttons or shorten a hemline?

SK and Sasha: Thank God for both of you!

SK wrote this for Sasha on her birthday. I found it so beautiful I wanted to share it.

As life, like a spider, has weaved around me
a cobweb of relationships
your friendship comes unconditionally
no strings attached

I have worked so hard to be heard,
learning languages to make myself understood
and you say everything without a word
in your magical, unspoken, optical language

And as I struggle to find meaning,
happiness and self-actualisation,
Here you are - happy with your bones,
stuffed toys and your family.

Thank you for being so basic, you are my anchor...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

grey matters to me

Look around you in the urban milieu and it is likely that you will see very few grey heads. You may sight shades of brown, red, orange, purple, blonde, golden streaks, bald pates, and the ubiquitous black but rarely grey.

As my grey began becoming noticeable, I had many friends suggest that I should start coloring my hair. “You will look younger”. Many asked me whether I was depressed. They thought I was disinterested in my appearance hence this speculation.

I said, "I am forty – am I not entitled to a few grey strands for all the experience and wisdom I have gained? The grey has not come without a price. It is more than what you have paid for that which is available on the shelves of the supermarket or the beauty parlors."

As I touched fifty, I proudly sported an Indira Gandhi – like band on the left side and definitely more salt than pepper all over. “At least do something now – you look so old”, said a few courageous friends.

Look old – but am I not old? Is it something bad? Should I be ashamed? Do I have to hide behind coloured hair? I find that with increasing grey I am addressed with greater respect, people offer to carry my bags, offer seats in crowded places, do not interrupt while I am talking (or hyperventilating), and few dare to take liberties with me. I am sure my grey hair has a lot to do with this. I can vouch for the fact that what one lacks in grey matter can be reasonably covered with grey hair. Try it. I for one am proud to be grey.

Those were the days my friend......

As I am growing older, I find that my childhood memories are occupying my thoughts more and more and growing sweeter by the day. Is this the beginning of old age? Am I looking backward because I am beginning to feel somewhere deep down that there isn’t much to look forward to now?

Nostalgia really hit me a couple of days back as birthday wishes from family and friends flooded in. I was engulfed with an acute and intense longing for my childhood, the single storied house with a little gate quite disproportionate to the size of the house and rather inadequate for preventing any transgression. But it was locked every night religiously and in my mind separated the big bad evil ugly unknown from the safe familiar secure warmth inside.

The aangan where I learnt skipping (the rope), played a version of squash without a raquet, lazed on wintry afternoons but which became scary at night when it had to be crossed to reach the loo which was on the other side of the aangan. I would insist that my mother or brother accompany me and wait outside the loo. The chhat where I would go when I wanted peace and privacy (of thoughts), or just to watch the world go by on the roads below and let my imagination take flight, where many a secret was shared between me and friends, from where you could shout and talk to friends on their chhats or signal them to come if you had been forbidden to step out.

Babuji and Bhabhiji, old enough to be my grandparents and who loved me like that. No achar would be bottled till I had tasted it after mixing and approved it. How important I felt – namak aur dale, mirch theek hai, tel kam lag raha hai kya…Bhabhiji’s bhandaar – I knew all the items on all the shelves and often she would hand me the key to open the lock – she made me feel I was the mistress. In turn I taught her to play Chinese Checkers and Ludo and in no time she was playing better than me. But I couldn’t bear to lose so I would cheat. I am sure she knew and now I think she enjoyed the interaction with me more than the game. She was love personified and I wallowed in it.

The hateful trips to Katra with my mother for routine shopping which were so boring and the infrequent trips to Civil Lines which I died for - particularly if it was with Babuji in his sky blue Ambassador. I used to feel so important alighting from it and accompanying him to the toniest shops where my parents wouldn’t even peep into. The chaat wala thela with his signature bell which was enough to make my mouth water. I could have chaat only when my mother was not at home because she considered it unhygienic so I looked forward to Thursdays when she went for satsang.

Munnilal of Munnilal ki dukaan which stocked everything anyone could possibly want (in those times). I loved running errands to his shop especially with my friend Bhus because it was an “outing” for us. The day I was allowed to go to Munnilal’s dukaan (which was just a lane away) without the maid, I had felt so liberated, so grown up. The servants who were never referred to as such and had more authority than me, the dhobi, the mali and malin who were the storehouse of all the mohalla news (Breaking News of those times)

My friends Jaishu, Deepa, Nimmo, Bhus, the neighbourhood didis - Rani Munni, Choti Munni, Badi Munni, Cheena-Meena, Bibbo. Each one had some sterling qualities and my mother never tired of complaining that I did not have any. Till today, I can never eat the Hari ke samose and dalmoth from loknath in Chowk without remembering Raja Bhaiya who was the one who used to bring it.

Back then, however, I thought I had the most rotten childhood. I considered my parents strict, rigid, judgmental, un-understanding, and orthodox. I did not like the clothes or shoes they got for me, there were too few and not stylish. There were so many restrictions on my movements. I was embarrassed by the fact that I could not go unescorted anywhere (there was always a maid trailing behind me) and had to be back home before sundown. And so on and so forth. I knew they loved me more than life itself but I took that for granted – I had not known otherwise. I was in a hurry to grow up, spread my wings and fly away and do my own things.

I did all that and for many years did not turn and look back. I neither had the time nor the mind space. Today, I am longing for that love, that security, that simple life, simple pleasures, the company of my childhood friends, the neighbourhood chachas, chachis, mamas, mamis, babuji, bhabhiji, didis and bhaiyas. I want to hide in my mother’s lap. I want to be free of all cares, responsibilities, duties, obligations…

Duniya bhi ajeeb sarai faani dekhi, yahaan ki har cheez aani jaani dekhi,
Jo aakar na jaaye vo budhapa dekha, jo jaakar na aaye vo jawaani dekhi.

My mother’s favourite couplet

I believe in angels

Is this what comes to your mind when someone says “angel”?

Or this?

That’s because you may not have had the good fortune of actually having met one. They can come in any shape, size and colour.





When I visualize an angel this is what it looks like. Can you see the halo? Look carefully, it is clearest in the tail portion.





(Latin angelus; Greek aggelos; from the Hebrew for "one going" or "one sent"; messenger).
Angels are messengers of God in the Hebrew Bible , the New Testament and the Quran. The term "angel" has also been expanded to various notions of "spiritual beings" found in many other religious traditions. Other roles of angels include protecting and guiding human beings, and carrying out God's tasks.

happily everafter.....

My daughter is on the threshold of marriage, and my head is full of advice – do this and don’t do that.

As though by following these she will sail smoothly through her marriage. As if it is that simple. As if there was a formula for success.

As if I followed all the rules.

I didn’t. I probably broke every rule in the book. And see where it has landed me – married to the same man for 28 years, squabbling, nagging, finding fault, not seeing eye to eye on anything except in defiance, but not willing to exchange places with anyone else .Would like to believe that the spouse feels the same way (known devil is better than.....)

I tell myself, my daughter too will find her place in his heart and mind, grow to love the idiosyncrasies, stand up for her rights and opinions, be the co-navigator, the wind beneath his wings and live through all the highs and lows together everafter.

God help me

Every Thursday I go for satsang along with my mother-in-law. To begin with I used to drop her and fetch her, then slowly started sitting through it. The idea was that it would give her an opportunity to socialize and at the same time spend some “quality” time. Apart from the bhajan singing and chanting, there is usually a discussion on God, the importance of the holy name and chanting it and other philosophical tenets of the particular sect. I do not completely understand or subscribe to all the views but I continued to participate because at least once a week I thought I was doing something religious.

Last Thursday, the discussion veered around belief/non-belief in God and that death would be cruel for those who did not believe in God (at least this is what I understood). While we all know that death is inevitable, it is true that most of us live our lives as though we are immortal, despite reminders. And even the most pious amongst us seems to be as afraid of death as anybody else. When we hear a diagnosis of cancer, the first reaction is fear – fear of death. Why should non-believers be more frightened of death than believers, I wondered. In what way does belief in God lessen the fear?

This discussion set off another train of uncomfortable thoughts. Am I a believer or non-believer? Essentially how would belief/disbelief in God impact the everyday life of an average person? Its not as if non-believers are “bad” people, nor can one say that believers are “good” people. And who defines “bad” and “good’? Does life have more meaning for believers than non-believers? Or is it vice-versa?

Till that instant, if I had been asked whether I believe in God, I would have said “yes” without much thought. But the point is, I had never really thought about it. Like I am born a Hindu, it seems I was born believing that there is a (?) God (s). And so for 52 years of my life I never questioned the existence of God or my belief. I have questioned practices and rituals but not the existence of God.

I wondered what makes believers believe. As I got thinking about it, I could see more arguments for not believing in God. Yet it is not so. Only a small fraction of the world’s population is atheist.

Then what is it that has sustained this concept through the ages? For the common person has it been the proverbial security blanket - something to clutch and hold on to when disturbed and bewildered by the vagaries we call life?

Or that which is beyond human comprehension is conveniently attributed to God. (Many such divine theories have bitten the dust over the ages with new scientific discoveries.)

Or has it been promoted tacitly by society to ensure some degree of order in the human world?

Having said all this, I still cannot let go of God. I feel insecure and incomplete without my belief. Why I wonder? Is it just a habit? My comfort zone? Am I secretly afraid that I will be punished if I let go of this belief (which just means I believe in someone all powerful up there watching over my thoughts and actions)?

Or is God Hope? Hope for better things, hope for forgiveness, hope for meaning which I can’t see today, hope for miracles, hope for guidance, hope for redemption, hope for another chance…..

My head is full of questions and doubts. Wish I could just open the lid and empty it out. And be a simple person for whom faith is all there is. Faith and simplicity go hand in hand. I am neither simple nor do I have faith.

GOD HELP ME.

Mummy ka magic

Becoming a mother is momentous enough but becoming a mother-in-law is much more so – here is an adult whose nappies you did not change, whom you did not baby talk to, who did not cling to or hide behind your pallu (proverbial or otherwise) , who did not keep you awake at nights as a baby and then an adolescent and….. so on but who is calling you “Mummy”. When my son-in-law to be addressed me for the first time as “Mummy” I was overwhelmed – cannot pinpoint the emotion – a mixture of happiness, tenderness, motherliness (don’t know whether this qualifies as a valid emotion). It evoked in me the same feeling as when my daughter uttered Ma for the first time (which was quite late and even after she was addressing me as Nitu as I was called by everyone else). "Mummy" is a magic word. Till SK had not uttered it, he was a nice boy and all that but it ended there. But after that, I worry about his health, his eating habits, his comfort and discomfort, I look for things in the men’s section of lifestyle stores that he might like (otherwise I would just skip that floor or drag my feet behind my husband). My daughter cannot understand this and is beginning to show signs of spousal rivalry( aka sibling rivalry) and I do not know how to handle this. If I had had two children, maybe both of us would have known what to do but here, both of us are new to this emotion.