TELL ME WHY

While the world is at war against Corona, against China, against racism and much more, I am at war with God. Often ask Him…tell me why? And as usual he smiles and throws some more problems to overcome, every time more complex than the previous. That’s His way of keeping us moving, changing, fighting and possibly surviving and for some thriving. This week two pieces of news shook me up and made me ask Him the same question again.

He was just forty two, hale and hearty. Whenever I met him or spoke to him, he seemed to always have a genuine smile on his face that I could see and feel his warmth. He treated all with respect and love and everyone had a good word to speak about him. Yet, one night, he went to sleep, never to awake. While condolences and messages of shock on WhatsApp were floating around, I happened to see a note written by his niece that I share with you. My friend, Ubaid, was not only taking care of his own family, which we all do, but the families of his younger brother, who is no more, and his elder sister.

“Ever since I came into this world there was always another man behind me besides my parents. I was brought up with all the necessities that a child needs and studied in one of the better private schools and as time passed with his useful advice and, at times, paternal yelling, I passed 10^th standard and he was the one who rejoiced the most when my results came out. By the time I reached 12^th, he told me of his wish to see my name on the school board of merit. When the day the results were to be declared, he got up early and stood by me and typed my enrolment number. When the results popped up and it said I had not only done well but had scored a centum in commerce,  he was flying in air for I had fulfilled his wish. He hugged me tight, kissed me on my forehead and was over the clouds as he shared his joy with his friends. In between work, he would find time to accompany me to colleges for my admission. He even bought me a scooty to travel to college. After I completed my graduation, he helped me get a job in a company where he had worked earlier, where everyone knew me as Ubaid’s niece and I benefitted from the goodwill he had left behind. He then started looking for an alliance for me and chose the person as well.  He finalized everything and spent all his money on the ceremony which no one does in this world…settled me down well in in my new world. I am very lucky to have got so much and I tried to make you proud by living a good life with my in-laws. And all this happened because of you, Mr. Ubaidulla, my Godfather and my Bestest Uncle who treated me as his own child. I am not able to accept that you are no more….that you are gone forever… there are no words to express how much I am missing you…so much burden you took while alive, may Allah grant you the best place in Jannat…love you forever.”

I asked Him, “ Tell me why Ubaid?” and got a deafening silence as an answer.

Band of Brothers with Brother D'Souza

On the WhatsApp there is one group that is a close second to MyHome. This is called the Band of Brothers. We are a close knit family of friends who were there in 10-C of St. Columba’s School, Delhi in 1980. The reasons for the thick bonding are twofold. Most of us joined the school in kindergarten and remained in the same section for over a decade. The second reason was Brother D’Souza who flew in like an angel as the class teacher in 10-C. While there was always a small group of bright ones in the section, the vast majority of us were mediocre and below the median. We had suffered some very bad teachers and, needless to say, we, too, were more interested in everything other than academics. And in such a situation, a brilliant teacher and guide walked in and we had found our messiah. Even to this date most of us believe, if there was one man who changed our lives for good, it was Brother D’Souza. The way he taught, the way he got involved with us in extra-curricular activities and devoted so much more time, beyond school hours, for some of us weaker ones was absolutely magical. We are indebted to him forever and there can be no words other than praise and respect of the highest order reserved for him. 

The other day someone told us that Brother D’Souza was now living in Chandigarh and had not been keeping well. He is down, possibly, with Alzheimer’s and he has to always wear a name and address tag. When one of the boys went to meet him, the guard in the home where he stays told him, “Sir walk ke liye jaate hain, pata nahin kab vapas aayengein.” It seems he goes for long walks everyday and often people in the city help him return home. He is also not keen on meeting visitors. Someone also shared a short video of Brother D’Souza, taken some time back, where he was wishing Happy New Year and you could make out the immense effort it was taking him to speak those few words. This for a man who could speak for hours together on almost every subject under the sun is unbelievable. Each one of us felt sad seeing the decline in the man who for us was not just a teacher at school but a mentor and guide in life and our love for him would rank next only to our parents for he changed our lives for good, forever.

And I asked Him again, “Tell me why Brother D’Souza?” and as usual he kept silent.

And then I got a beautiful forward this week from David Ogilvy who was born in 1911. He is the last word on advertising and at the ripe age of 109, he wrote a piece which seemed like the only bright spot in a gloomy world. While by the day end I realized that original Mr. Ogilvy had expired in 1999, someone had created the note and given credit to the advertising guru for reasons best known him. Since I had forwarded the piece to a few people, I had to send out a note in apology for having fallen prey to the fabricated news that WhatsApp University manufactures daily and makes them go viral.  One such person, to whom I had apologized, however said, “Never mind if David is dead or alive, this is indeed a very positive piece and yes, we all have a little David inside us to fight the Goliaths.” So let me share some of the things this impersonating David wrote as the Goliath of a pandemic keeps spreading and is now knocking at our doors.

Do you know the best things about mums? They are eternal optimists. It’s as if they have an invisible coating of Teflon. And no amount of pessimism can make a dent in it. It has taught me to be optimistic and pragmatic too. Look only at each day and do the best on that day. Because today is what you have in front of you.

Diseases always have been the bane of our existence. Nobody is 100% prepared for it. We all do our best to cope with it. This too shall pass.

You see, in all the centuries that have gone by, one thing has remained constant, unchanged and untouched by human progress. Our emotions. You still love, laugh, cry, hope, believe just like the millions who walked the earth before you did.

Take things one day at a time. Be generous in your empathy. Everyone needs an extra helping these days. Tighten your belts, be thrifty, learn to enjoy the things that are free in this world- a sunrise, a sunset, fresh air…be safe and don’t be a prisoner of fear. WFH also means Work, Cook, Clean and Wash From Home. So be helpful around the house.

All this will pass. Believe me, I have seen worse times. And I have endured. You will, too, I know. Because there is a little bit of David in everyone…

And, finally, I told Him,” Please don’t tell me why for I will find my own answers, I will find my way out of this fight. Help is welcome but I am David and ready. I will look at each day and do my best. I will still love, laugh, cry, hope, believe and be optimistic about tomorrow. So you can give me more. I am David.”

SS

The Language of Love

Rama Krishna Puram or just RK Puram was the township in Delhi where I grew up from class three in 1972 to the time I got my first job in 1988. This government housing colony was spread over a huge area in South Delhi, had houses big and small. Some were very small, one room tenements and then there were a few which had four bedrooms with servant’s quarter. It all depended upon the level of the government official who ranked anywhere between the LDC or Lower Divisional Clerk to the Deputy and Joint Secretary.  The good part of living in such housing complexes was that it was completely cosmopolitan. In this one huge colony there were about fourteen sectors with people from all over the country coming together…at one time four community Durga Pujas were being celebrated in RK Puram and it was only with the advent of the ‘Bangali Colony’ CR Park that there was a place which could boast of more pandals in Delhi. People of all states and languages lived together in almost perfect harmony. When the riots broke out in Delhi in 1984 after the death of Mrs. Indira Gandhi, our elderly Sikh neighbours took refuge in our house during those ghastly days and I am sure there were many similar stories of brotherhood in every street. The only undercurrent of class divide was felt at a very strange level and it caused the most heart breaks of our times.

The Card

Pradeep Sharma was the goal keeper of our local football team. He was reasonably well built and often made some great saves to keep our team afloat. We called him Kalu for obvious reasons and, in our times, we never knew things that have become so important now…racism and colour of the skin. Not that the others like me had a better complexion but, interestingly, it was not us but Pradeep’s own family who had given him this nick name. So we just continued calling him by the same name and not for once did he ever complain about it. Kalu studied in the Delhi Government School in Sector 7 where many of my friends studied.  Everyone knew that the school was not known for academics and it had another handicap…the students in middle school were being taught English for the first time. Apart from playing football together, like many of the teenagers of his age, falling in love was quite a normal phenomenon. Often boys would discuss the pretty girls in the colony and their escapades and encounters. After many a passing affair, Kalu declared his undying love for Anju.

Anju lived in Sector 12 and studied in Auxilium Convent School in Sector 9 which was about half a kilometer from her house. This was among the better schools in the place and, of course, it was English medium.  Kalu would very often bunk school to make sure he reached the school gates at 1pm when the girl’s school got over. Every day he would put on an ironed shirt and trouser and watch Anju walk out of the school gate and he would silently walk a few paces behind her till she entered the gate of her house. Whether Anju knew about Kalu’s existence and persistence we did not know, but surely every girl, after some time, would always feel a shadow lurking behind if someone followed he  and Kalu would also hang around her place again in the evening when she came out to play with her friends. In doing so, Kalu, often, missed the evening practice sessions with us on the field.

This went on for quite some time but Kalu never mustered enough courage to talk to Anju who he heard speaking in English whenever she was with her friends in the evening. Kalu’s English was at best a one liner, “Hello, myself Pardeep.” Yes Pardeep, that’s how he would pronounce his own name. In some days, Kalu came to know about Anju’s upcoming birthday as he had overheard her speaking to her friends in the evening. Kalu felt that would be his day when he would make his mark before his lady love. He asked me to come with him to a gift shop where he asked me to select a couple of good birthday cards. Yes, he did tell me who it was for, so I picked a few but Kalu rejected them all. He chose a rather large one with roses printed on the cover. He brushed aside all my protests for he knew what he was buying. He then went home while I went for my round of football, post which we friends gathered at Munna’s Dhaba for a round of tea and biscuits. Kalu walked in and you could see happiness in his eyes. He put his hand forward and asked us to take a look at the envelope he held. We took out the card and were completely stunned to see it. On the rosy card, Kalu had nicely cut out a heart shape in the centre and had pasted his picture there….a smiling Kalu had poured all his love into his creation. When the fold was opened, Kalu had written ‘Dearest Anju’ on top and at the bottom he had written…. ‘I love you’….signed Pradeep. While many of the friends were all in praise of Kalu and exclaimed “ab toh ladki ek dum patt jayegi bhai”…I did not have the desire to break the boy’s heart, so just kept quiet and smiled.

Next day, Kalu, dressed in his finest attire, was waiting at the school gate. As Anju came out, along with her school mates, Pradeep stepped forward and handed her the card. She was not surprised as by now she had seen him hanging around many a times. She opened the card and started laughing and then she handed the card to her friends and they, too, started laughing uncontrollably. Pradeep was unnerved and walked away. Next day, Pradeep was again there at the school gate and walked up to the girl who started talking to him in English, not in a gentle tone, but pretty much harshly. Pradeep may have been a novice in English but the facial expressions and the tone of the speaker told him that the girl was not impressed. Pradeep walked away from the scene with his head hanging low. That evening we had an important match and Pradeep let go of a couple of easy goals which he, on any normal day, would have easily stopped. He lost the girl and we the match.

The Wail

He studied in one of Delhi’s finest public school where wearing the green tie everyday was a must. He rubbed shoulders with the children of top bureaucrats and well to do business class homes. In school speaking in English was mandatory even though each one of the children could use the Hindi cuss words with ease when poked and provoked. She studied in a Bangla medium school and regular government servants would send their children there. Needless to mention the school did not have the reputation or the class to be even counted in the same league as the boy’s school. Both the Bong boy and the Bong girl lived in Sector 12 of RK Puram. Her house was on the ground floor and on the fourth floor of the building across the road lived our suitable boy. The days of smart phones and Whastapp were still decades away so they would see each other from their rooms, both trying to study hard but hardly studying. From exchanging glances from their windows, by slightly parting the curtains, to meeting off and on at various places including run-ins at the market place, they met as often as they could but the longest time they would ever get was during the Durga Pujas when the flags of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite were flown high on every Bengali homes and the season of high romance was everywhere…sitting in the pandal, eating rolls, going for immersion…And so it was with our two young hearts.

When the time for the real test came, the boy told his parents about his intent to marry the girl next door, there was complete unrest at home…seemed the days of French Revolution were back and  the flag of Egalite was brought down. No. No means no. How can you even think of marrying a girl from Bangla medium school? Have you lost your mind? We spent so much money sending you to an English medium school and this is how you wish to throw it away? This is completely unacceptable! More than the parents, it seemed it was the boy’s elder sister who, having studied in best of school and college, English medium of course, had poured water over the plans of the duo.

Partho, our Bong Boy, was a good friend of ours. I would often would go to his house and enjoy some of the finest English music that he played on his wooden Sonodyne music system. …Paul Anka,  John Denver and many more. I knew about his lady love and would also take pleasure in catching a sight of her looking up at Partho’s house.  We had another common friend, Sourav, whose parents had gone to their hometown in Bhagalpur that summer. An empty friend’s house meant party time. Many of our close mates came together and while some of us bought the chicken and the other eatables, others cooked the food. Then there were always a majority for whom a party was a gala time to drink to the brim. And so it was a boisterous evening and went on late into the night with songs being sung out of tune and a bit of rowdy dancing too. Then, one by one, most of them left for home, a few staggering back with great difficulty. Partho and I stayed back in Sourav’s place and planned to spend the night there.

I was rudely woken up by Sourav while it was still dark outside. He said, Partho was high and was blabbering something non-stop in another room while reclining on the sofa. Sourav and I went closer and could now hear clearly what Partho was saying…Jhuma…Jhuma..Jhuma…he initially spoke softly and when he saw us, his voice gathered steam and he started calling the same name over and over again, much louder than before. We knew who Jhuma was and tried consoling Partho but the poor fellow was so heartbroken that he did not care and kept repeating the name in a drunken stupor almost the entire night with Sourav and me watching this drama helplessly. Next morning, after waking up and coming back to his senses, our man did not remember anything of the all the tamasha he had done at night.

Fortunately, Partho’s family finally agreed and we were invited for the wedding. We had great fun at the wedding and after a day when the groom’s side organized the feast, Sourav and I supervised the entire setting from the flowers to the lighting and the placing of the chairs and table. We were excited, after all it was our first ever dost getting married, and we felt we had a hand in bringing the couple together. The two are happily married for over thirty years now and have two fine daughters. I just remembered one of my teachers in college who was against the snobbery of English speaking people and would say, “To such people I want to ask, what language do they speak when they make love?”

The Matchmaker

Meet Sid or Siddharth, the smooth guy. He was studying English Honours at Delhi University and was a cool person who was always in control of all situations and spoke impeccable English. He was quite a hit with all old and young alike in the Puja pandal. Jayanta had been keenly observing a girl for quite some time and now that it was Durga Puja time, once more, and he felt this was the right time to express his undying love for her. Jayanta and I were together almost all the time and he had expressed his fondness for the girl to almost everyone including Sid.  The Bir Bangali, however, could never muster up the courage to face the girl directly or speak to her. We would just be the platonic romantics happily watching the girl, following the girl quietly but never ever speaking to her till one day we were to find out that she has ‘taken’. But this Puja would be different and Sid said he would ensure that he introduced Jayanta to Pronoti, the love of his life, so he proclaimed. Panchami, Shashti, Saptami and Ashtami went by with no action and with just one day to go, Sid took charge. He saw Pronoti walking out of the Puja Pandal  and immediately asked Jayanta to come along with him. The two men increased their pace and soon caught up with the girl. Sid called, “Pronoti”, and she stopped. Now Sid, along with Jayanta, were face to face with the girl. And here is the conversation in pucca English, taught by Christian missionaries and, mind it, the girl was a student in a local Hindi medium government school.

“This is Jayanta. He is a good boy and he wants to be your friend….I just want to say, nothing physical, just friends!”

Jayanta froze and started looking all over the place except the girl. Pronoti looked completely dazed and was saved by another friend of hers who, by now, had come along and they walked away together. 

Moral of the Story: Don’t let others speak for you, especially, when it comes to expressing your love. All Jayanta had to do was forget all his English and Hindi and just speak those lines, immortalized over the ages in all movies, ‘ami tomake bhalobashi ’ and the story might have had a happy ending.

SS

CHULBUL'S STORY

My mother spent most of her time playing on the window sill and balcony on the topmost floor of a tall building in Mumbai. She had many friends with whom she spent all her time. They made love or fought with each other and when there was nothing to do they simply lazed around or preened and paraded. One day she saw her friend, Jeena, build a rather dirty nest beneath one of the windows in a neglected part of the house. Though the place was safe it was rather dark and dingy. After a few days, Jeena called my Mom to show her a pair of beautiful eggs she had laid. She also reminded my mother to build one in a safe spot.

My mother had a different idea altogether. She was very free spirited, and true to her name Juno, wanted her babies to be born in a place where they would be able to see the beautiful world that God had created for them. So she picked a flower pot, kept on the window ledge of the same building, in which a beautiful mogra plant had blossomed. She had a special liking for that pot. I believe she had met her partner there and they had once fought many a battle with other pigeons to win this pot. This part of the house got lots of sunshine for a large part of the day, the creek could also be seen from here and every evening God’s canvas threw up a different image of the setting sun in vibrant hues chosen from the Master Artist’s choicest palette.

 

Juno

In the beginning I was growing inside an egg while my sibling grew in another. My mother had laid us in the early part of May under the shade of the mogra .Young Juno, quite a beauty among her peers, gave an awful lot of time incubating us for most part of the day to keep us both warm. She had to take extra care since the Dark One, the crow, was always hovering around and, I believe, though I have yet to see him, King Kite too has his palace in the terrace right above us .His shrill call is enough to chill the blood of all the smaller birds, they say. Mom’s greatest nightmare was always about King Kite swooping down and picking one of us. On the eighteenth day, the 23^rd of May 2020 to be precise, I came out into this beautiful world. An excited Aunty, who lived in the room on the other side of the glass window and had been taking a lot of interest in us, named me Chulbul the very instant she set her eyes on me. My little brother or sister, too, hatched within a few hours but, sadly, did not survive. Mom quite liked the name given by this lady from inside the house. So that’s who I am- Chulbul.

The day I hatched

This lady would come to water her mogra plant every morning and had, I understand, told my mother that she would water it from the other side very carefully without harming her eggs. So, even now, whenever she comes with a small mug of water my mother flies out, though she never really goes too far and always keeps an eye on me, and lets her water her precious mogra slowly and carefully.

I am four days old

Mom never left me alone the first week and would always keep me nice and comfortable under her tummy. I snuggled in there and slept most part of the day. When I was a week old, she started leaving me for short spells every day to get food for her and me. The first day she left me I was very scared. I was shivering with fear till she returned. The good Lord, however, has given me sharp claws and a nice pointy beak, a little too big for my size, to protect myself and, as it goes without saying, to eat well. Mom would get the food in her beak and feed me herself. She still does that. The Aunty from inside the house would see me every morning and comment, “Look at Chulbul, he seems to grow a little every day and in no time he will fly out.” Jeena also came to see me. Mom asked her about her eggs but she just shrugged and said that they had not hatched yet. I heard the Aunty tell her husband, while taking photos of me, that Jeena was a very careless mother and would not incubate her eggs for long. Though she had laid her eggs before my mother and they were in a safe and secure place, she never really kept them warm and would disappear for long hours. Recently, she had laid a third egg, too, in the same nest but for all that she knew, Jeena had practically abandoned her eggs and would spend her time elsewhere. I understood that Aunty did not approve of her ways.

Jeena's nest

All the soft and tiny hair that I was born with gradually fell off my body and my colour too changed as the days passed. Soon in place of the fluffy light hair that I was born with, I started growing feathers- small, round and dark ones. These days I have become very naughty. My mother tries to keep me warm beneath her but I always manage to wriggle out. Sometimes I just peep out from under her and take a good look around me. There are lots of other plants around and many birds come here apart from my mother’s pigeon friends. My dad too paid us a visit once or twice but these days he does not have much time for us. He has told my mother that he has shifted to a better place since he finds this place rather boring, especially after that girl, who used to sit by the window and study for hours, has left the house and gone to stay elsewhere.I realized mom has to now raise me single handedly.

I have met the Dark One, and his wife, Blackie. I don’t really like them. Even the Aunty from inside the house does not like them and keeps shoo-ing them away whenever they start cawing. There is also Scooby, the squirrel. He is very swift and loves to nibble on all the new leaves and fresh buds. But he really has sharp ears and the moment he hears Aunty’s footsteps he makes a dash up the metal grille and is out of the scene in no time. I admire him. Yesterday a group of very pretty green birds ,with  rings of red round their necks and curved red beaks, came and sat for a long time on the wire outside.  I loved their bright colours and long tails but mom does not seem to be very fond of them. Do I catch a hint of jealousy? She always tells me to stick to our kind. Honestly, between you and me, I quite like these green birds. I often see them flying around in large groups. Grandfather Oogway also came to see me. He is probably the oldest and wisest pigeon around here. He said I will grow up to be a champion!  

A Week Old

My Friend Scooby

I am now two weeks old. My mother has to leave me alone for long stretches, almost three to four times a day. I don’t blame her really. She has to feed herself and also take care of my hunger pangs. I start to scratch her and nibble at her throat and push and pull her whenever I feel my stomach rumbling. She has been very patient with me. Guess what, she has this habit of putting me under her tummy and kind of sit on me. I think she has this crazy idea that if she keeps pressing me down, I will become fatter. Basically, she wants to protect and keep me warm so that I can grow well. What she fails to realize is that if I am all squashed up under her I can’t see anything. There’s so much to see all around. Recently, there was a bit of thunderstorm and some rain too. I had felt a few drops fall on me. Lot of gusty winds blew too. I felt cold and at night it was somewhat scary even though mom kept me well covered under her wings. This was the first time I experienced rain and storm. Mom tells me that the rainy season is approaching and I will have to learn to fly before that. Sounds very exciting!  Anyway, I am digressing a little but what I want to say is how I hate being all squashed up under her tummy. So I have mastered the art of slowly finding my way out from under her, coming out from beneath her tail and going over to the other end of the pot. Who doesn’t like a bit of freedom?

Mom and Me

What a Sight

This morning I caught my reflection on the glass pane. I think I am growing big and robust with dark feathers, more like my dad. I heard the other pigeons say that my father once ruled this part of the building. His name is Rufus Lamarck. Does the name ring a bell? These pigeons keep talking about some Game of Pots.

That's Me- The Stunner, jus' two week old!

Ciao!

DS