I have noticed that celebrations, be it birthdays or anniversaries or marriages, seem to be getting bigger and bigger and of course costlier and costlier. (And simultaneously, relationships are becoming more and more fragile and tenuous. People are willing to pay any price to be exclusive / unique / first-to-do-this or that; but unwilling to invest time and effort in relationships).
Nobody wants to be left behind in this race and few have the courage to stand out. (Somewhat strange - considering that you can only be a loser at the end of it – of resources if you are lucky, and much more if you are not).
So, even my maid whose monthly income from all sources would be about Rs. 5000.00 per month hosts a birthday party which boasts of balloons, festoons, fairy lights, chocolate cake, soft drinks, a magician and return gifts. She borrows and borrows without a qualm and when I try to reason with her to avoid these unnecessary expenses she actually misunderstands my motives (jealousy she implies! You people don’t want us to progress!!!).
While I am smarting, I suddenly remember all the applications for loans and withdrawals from Provident Fund accounts for weddings, that I recommended and forwarded for sanction as head of a branch and wonder why I am dissuading her – she’s borrowing to spend for a birthday, many of us borrow to spend on our daughter’s weddings. What’s the difference really? We are both spending beyond our means. And why do we do that? To live up to or surpass the aspirations and expectations set by some X or Y or by what is glamourised in movies and TV serials? What is it in human nature, which makes us ape extravagance and not emulate simplicity?
It must be this aspect of human weakness that has prompted the reality show “Shadi 3 crore ki”. As I pondered my first idle thought was - why only 3 and not 5 or 10? And what will they show I wondered. Not much ingenuity would be required with a budget like that unless one had the choice of arranging the wedding in the minimum amount and pocket the rest!
Second thought – in our country where traditionally the wedding expenditure is largely borne by the girl’s parents, what kind of impact will it have? After all, parents of daughters in this day and age too, lament the fact that they are unable to find a befitting match unless they are willing and able to shell out dowry. Or they have to compromise on the qualities / qualifications / social status. Many, instead of being proud rue the fact that their daughter is very highly qualified or earning well because an equally qualified boy comes with a prohibitive price tag. In fact, daughters are being eliminated in the womb because they are seen as a burden (the chief one being expenditure on marriage).
Censors object to heroes /heroines smoking on screen because they feel it will incite/inspire young people to emulate them – in similar vein I fear “shadi 3 crore ki” will fuel unrealistic aspirations and increase the burden on girls and their parents.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Painful parting
It’s not so long ago that my husband was posted to Bombay. (I mean 20 years is not a long time ……). How hard we tried to get a change but that was not to be. How we cursed his Personnel Dept for their rigid stance. I came very reluctantly, very unhappily. And then I fell in love with Bombay. Pure, unconditional and consistent - despite the squalor or the bursting at the seams local trains or the ever dug up roads, the traffic, the concrete, the weather, whatever….. 'twas the love of a mature woman as she aged from 33 to 53 years and Bombay became Mumbai.
I discovered myself in Bombay. It is here that I shed the burden of guilt for being a working mother. It is here that I learnt that it was OK to ask my husband to help me with household chores. It is here that I learnt not to distrust strangers. It is here that I got and overcame a dreaded disease. It is here that my daughter grew up without fear of molestation or eve teasing. I learnt to value the maids who taught me quite a few lessons in professionalism. I understood what it meant to pursue your dreams and gathered the courage to shrug off my boring job. I shed a lot of unnecessary baggage.
Now suddenly its time to bid adieu to my love and move on to Delhi.
My first memory of Delhi is when my mother and I (10 years old) accompanied my father on his official trip. While he went to work, we went on Delhi Darshan – Jantar Mantar, Qutab Minar, Ashoka Pillar, Humanyun’s Tomb, Purana Qila, Red Fort, India Gate, Rashtrapati Bhavan, Parliament House, Connaught Place and the University. It was awesome considering that I lived in Allahabad and all my outstation trips were confined to various uncles, aunts and cousins in Lucknow, Gorakhpur and Kanpur.
So when I qualified for admission to B.Sc in Miranda House, I was thrilled. But my wings were trimmed before I could fly. After much debate and discussion and heartburn, it was decided that I was too young and impressionable for Big Bad Delhi and so was packed off to Jaipur instead.
My tryst with Delhi was destined and three years later I was there for my post graduation – none the wiser but definitely older. I reveled in the (relative) freedom, couldn’t get enough of Nirulas, Giggles, Softy at Standard, D’pauls cold coffee, Univ Coffee House, Tib Dhabs. Loved the DU campus, the Physics Dept., and the dashing prof. who made me weak at the knees and whose sheer existence made the choice of Physics seem worthwhile. I made lifelong friends, one of whom I married.
I can’t quite pinpoint when the infatuation with Delhi wore off. Delhi lost its charm (even when viewed from a place like Patna, our first posting after marriage). It seemed too brash, too cunning, too rude, too matlabi, too hot, too cold- too “everything” for me.
Now back to Delhi – a wee bit wiser, and a lot older. Let’s see what it holds……..
I discovered myself in Bombay. It is here that I shed the burden of guilt for being a working mother. It is here that I learnt that it was OK to ask my husband to help me with household chores. It is here that I learnt not to distrust strangers. It is here that I got and overcame a dreaded disease. It is here that my daughter grew up without fear of molestation or eve teasing. I learnt to value the maids who taught me quite a few lessons in professionalism. I understood what it meant to pursue your dreams and gathered the courage to shrug off my boring job. I shed a lot of unnecessary baggage.
Now suddenly its time to bid adieu to my love and move on to Delhi.
My first memory of Delhi is when my mother and I (10 years old) accompanied my father on his official trip. While he went to work, we went on Delhi Darshan – Jantar Mantar, Qutab Minar, Ashoka Pillar, Humanyun’s Tomb, Purana Qila, Red Fort, India Gate, Rashtrapati Bhavan, Parliament House, Connaught Place and the University. It was awesome considering that I lived in Allahabad and all my outstation trips were confined to various uncles, aunts and cousins in Lucknow, Gorakhpur and Kanpur.
So when I qualified for admission to B.Sc in Miranda House, I was thrilled. But my wings were trimmed before I could fly. After much debate and discussion and heartburn, it was decided that I was too young and impressionable for Big Bad Delhi and so was packed off to Jaipur instead.
My tryst with Delhi was destined and three years later I was there for my post graduation – none the wiser but definitely older. I reveled in the (relative) freedom, couldn’t get enough of Nirulas, Giggles, Softy at Standard, D’pauls cold coffee, Univ Coffee House, Tib Dhabs. Loved the DU campus, the Physics Dept., and the dashing prof. who made me weak at the knees and whose sheer existence made the choice of Physics seem worthwhile. I made lifelong friends, one of whom I married.
I can’t quite pinpoint when the infatuation with Delhi wore off. Delhi lost its charm (even when viewed from a place like Patna, our first posting after marriage). It seemed too brash, too cunning, too rude, too matlabi, too hot, too cold- too “everything” for me.
Now back to Delhi – a wee bit wiser, and a lot older. Let’s see what it holds……..
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
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!
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!
Friday, October 8, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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
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
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