The Philadelphia Diaries: Menu United

Dear Diary 

I have tried several times to keep you but have failed miserably. My heartfelt apologies! As a peace offering, this is going to be my most sincere effort…so let’s start over, shall we?

 

                                                                                                                        August 21, 2021

Hola!

I’ve been in US of A for more than three weeks now and, honestly, I have been having a great time :D! I will be here for a year and in you I shall jot down- new things, fun things, not-so-fun things, strange things, bad things and everything that I find interesting and unique so that I never forget these 365 days. Let me forewarn you, I won’t write every day, don’t get your hopes up, you know me, and I am here to work, study and learn…but I will, from time to time.

Everyone I have met have been warm and friendly and it’s a beautiful weather here. I’ve been to New Jersey, New York and Philadelphia and each place is unique. But I shall come to that another day…today, it’s all about food! From the time that I knew I was going to come for the fellowship, I was mentally preparing myself that I will have to cook. I actually started watching people cook while at home, for the first time, with interest. I transferred all my PayTm balance to my mother. I deleted Swiggy and Zomato once I landed here. And before moving into the hostel at Philly, I bought several ingredients to cook. I arranged everything very neatly here on the kitchen shelf and my family was quite proud of me. But alas, all my good intentions are yet to be executed! 

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I personally feel that the way to any city’s heart is through its food! And I am charmed and disarmed…the food here is amazing and I will tell you about some of the best that I have had till now.

 

Ethiopian Eats

Looking for food, flavour and friends, well it’s Ethiopian food for sure. I tried it for the first time at New Jersey and absolutely loved it. At the heart of it lies the injera, a massive flat bread over which are served different curries and stews. You circle around it, eat together and use your fingers to dig in. You can imagine the injera to be like a thick fluffy dosa, laid flat on a large dish with an assortment of sides over it. Injera is made out of fermented tef, a grain indigenous to Ethiopia. Not only is it healthy but has a unique tangy flavour to it. The stews (wats) are infused with a variety of herbs and spices, a conglomeration of Middle East, Asian and Mediterranean influence. The result is…well, delicious. You can choose to eat with key wat (beef stew), doro wat (chicken stew), tibs (lamb, goat or beef cubes stir fried in niter kibbeh, a spiced infused form of ghee), kitfo (raw ground beef), misir wat and mesirkik (lentil and split pea stews), or shiro (chickpea stew), they are all different but equally delectable. The berbere is the secret ingredient, ground semi-spicy chilli peppers mixed with multiple other spices including garlic, cumin, coriander, ginger and fenugreek, that adds the unique taste to all the dishes. At the end, you are sure to end up licking your fingers to let the taste linger on.

S’mores and More

A cool night, a fireplace and old friends…what more can one ask for? Well some more…a sweet treat to add to the magic of the night! In ancient Egypt there grew a mallow plant near swamps or marshes and was simply called marshmallow, which was used as food for the Pharaohs. The roots and leaves of this plant exuded a gooey substance which was used by the Greeks for its anti-inflammatory property to soothe cough. Then came a French candy maker who added sugar and eggs to this sap and made small balls out of them to soothe the throat. Today, the sap has been replaced with gelatin, but the name has endured and endeared. Chocolate has always been the food of and for the Gods dating back to the Aztec God of Wisdom, Quetzalcoatl. Derived from cacao bean in probably 350 B.C., it has travelled the world and lived to see the rise and fall of civilisations, all enjoying it in every form. In 1893, Milton S. Hershey, an entrepreneur came in possession of a chocolate press left over from the Worlds’ Columbian Exposition in Chicago and he began using it in his factory to make simple bars of one of the most popular brands of chocolate today, the Hershey’s chocolate bars. Come the 1800s, Sylvester Graham, a minister from New Jersey, was committed to promoting healthy lifestyle including a bland diet, thus creating a cookie, the Graham crackers, made of wheat bran, wheat germ and ground flour.

It was no Willy Wonka who put these three ingredients together even though it seems straight from his chocolate factory, but a group of young girls from the Girls Scouts of America who came up with this unique recipe. It was first published in a guidebook called Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts with easy recipes for food to cook in an open campfire. Toast marshmallows till you are satisfied, sandwich them between two Graham crackers and a chocolate bar and let it melt your world! I cannot thank my friends enough for introducing me to s’mores and I will always want ‘some more’!

My Big Fat Gyro Wrapping

New York + Food truck= Gyro

Greek version of shawarma of the Arabs and doner kebab of the Turks, bread rolled with chicken or lamb chunks in Mediterranean milieu is as satiating to the taste buds as the country is to the eyes. Gyro, derived from the Greek word ‘gheereezo’ means ‘to turn’. It is essentially a stacked pile of meat, being roasted upright on a rotating grill. It is cut off in slices and wrapped within a pita roll with tomatoes, lettuce, onions, parsley, Tzatziki (Greek yogurt), fried potatoes with a hint of paprika or cayenne pepper. Its origin can be traced to the Armenian refugees in Greece in the early 1920s. A second theory is that it originated at the time of Alexander the Great. The soldiers in his army would skewer cut meat on long, sword like blades, rotating them over fire. But it was only after World War II that gyro came to the west of the Atlantic. It soon became one of the most popular global fast food. In New York, it became popular in the 1970s with the New York Times declaring, “The Gyro, a Greek Sandwich, Selling like Hot Dogs.” But as easy as it is to eat, it’s equally difficult to get the pronunciation right! While Americans call it “jai-roh”, the Greek pronunciation is “yee-roh” with a characteristic twist of tongue and roll of ‘r’. But I got the best advice from a Greek friend, “It’s better to just say ‘jairoh’ correctly than ‘yeeroh’ incorrectly!”

This is the only image taken from the world wide web because I was too busy gobbling the gyro to take a picture. With a National Gyro Day coming up on September 1st, I cannot wait to try one at Philadelphia.

The Cheesesteak Mistake

To be honest, I had been looking forward to this more than my fellowship in Philadelphia. And it did not disappoint. Philadelphia has two famous, must-try rival joints, Pat’s and Geno’s, both across the street from each other. The day I reached Philly, I went to Pat’s King of Steaks. I was greeted with a sign instructing how to eat a Philly Cheesesteak. It is exactly how it is described in ‘visitphilly’, “a long, crusty roll filled with thinly sliced sautéed ribeye beef and melted cheese”. Cheesesteak is more of a misnomer; it is a sandwich. Fried caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, ketchup and pepper can be added as toppings. 

Pat Olivieri, the son of an Abruzzi government worker who migrated to America with the rise of Mussolini, was a hot dog vendor. In 1930, Pat’s brother brought thinly-sliced ribeye and Pat frizzled it with onions, putting it in a bun and creating the original version of cheesesteak. A regular cabbie happened to try it and suggested Pat to start selling these instead of hot dogs. The aroma drew in taxi drivers for the new ‘steak sandwiches’. Later, he opened his shop and went around local theatres bringing his sandwich-with-a-twist to the stars and then luring them back to his shop. The pictures of the celebrities enjoying the cheesesteaks adorn the shop wall that overall has a very ordinary look to it. His creation on the other hand is simple yet extraordinary. “Cocky” Joe Lorenzo, an employee at Pat’s is believed to have added provolone cheese to his own sandwich and inventing the present version of the cheesesteak, although Joey Vento, the owner of Geno’s, claims to have added the cheese to his sandwiches. Whatever the case may be, ‘it’s wit cheese’ for sure! Cheesesteak has now become synonymous with Philadelphia, an icon of the city, an integral part of its culture. People from the city, however, do not add the prefix Philly, it has always been theirs. Just keep plenty of napkins, let the fat drip, forget about the health and calories and slip into food coma!

I Love Cheesecakes and I Cannot Lie

New York Style Cheesecake is believed to be the true, unadulterated cheesecake. But here’s the truth, this sinful dessert was created in Greece with excavated moulds dating back to 2000 B.C.! Cheesecakes were in fact served to Olympic athletes as a good source of energy. It’s hard to imagine cheesecake being in the menu of Olympic Village today! But originally it was made simply from flour, wheat, honey and cheese. The oldest recipe is attributed to Athenaeus of Greece, in 230 A.D. With the Roman conquest, the recipe passed on and crushed cheese and eggs were included in the recipe. The baked pastry was served warm on special occasions. Great Britain and Eastern Europe also modified the recipe in the years to come. It was only in the 18^th century that cheesecake arrived in America. Cream cheese is an American addition to the original cheesecake. Cream cheese was accidentally made when a New York Dairy farmer was attempting to make the French cheese Neufchatel. The classic New York Cheesecake is just the cake with no fruit or flavour added to it. 

Being in the city centre and a walker makes everything close enough including The Cheesecake Factory. It was not long before that my solitary walks traced their way to The Cheesecake Factory! Here, it’s a massive restaurant with more than just cheesecakes. I would have had the original one, but I gave into temptation and ordered the one with fresh strawberries. I had the most enjoyable time instigating my tastebuds and all I remember was going ‘mmmmm’ with every mouthful of the dessert!

While I would also like to write about Western Chinese, Mexican and Turkish cuisine in America, I have started feeling hungry with so much of food for thought and I shall continue later.

 

Signing off for tonight…

 

Philo in Philly

MS

 

Into the Wild

It was sometime in early October of 1993, a man sitting on the window seat of Rajdhani Express Chair Car compartment was busy with a set of simple felt pens and scribbling and drawing something on what looked like a drawing book you would find in any stationery store. While the other passengers were busy chatting and enjoying the food that was getting served at intervals, the man seemed to be in a world of his own, looking out of the window, putting the pen to his head and tapping and smiling as he carried on with his work, filling up the pages. After getting off at New Delhi Station, he headed home to meet his parents and the very next day he was off to work. In between work, he stepped out to go to the main post office at Parliament Street where he handed the drawing book which was neatly wrapped in a brown envelope to the window where registered posts were being accepted. This was the first of the three handmade story books the man made in a period of two months for his little daughter who loved listening to his unending tales and was still at Kolkata while the father had been posted to his home town in Delhi. No prizes for guessing the father and the daughter duo but today, after almost twenty eight years, when I find that the reverse has happened….she has flown away to a new and beautiful world  across the oceans and the continents ….here I am sharing a freshly baked kiddo story for her….with the hope that she likes it.

They were the best of friends

Poopie, Shubham, Piyu and Archish

Always to be found together

Seemed friends forever.

Off they went on an excursion

To explore the forests and the wild

Landed in the Tigerland of Ranthambhore

With school friends, teachers and more.

 

Met by a friendly forest guide

Who promised to always be on their side

He said his name was Salman

Promised to show the kids tigers and bison.

 

The kids sat in a mini bus

That drove them round the forest as in a circus

In search of wild animals

But found none and saddened were the pals.

 

Determined to see the real wildlife

With little munchies in backpacks, torches and water

The foursome slipped out of the lodge at night

Out went the brave hearts into the moonlight.

 

Holding hands they moved ahead

Saw some animals in the forest bed

The elephant herd lay quietly on the ground

Clicking pictures without a sound.

 

So many animals they saw that night

But the tiger was nowhere in sight

Wanting to see the King of Ranthambhore

Deeper into the forest went the fearless four.

 

Suddenly they heard a blood curling howl

Surely the pack of hyenas were on the prowl

The kids for once showed fear on their face

And ran faster than in an Olympic race.

 

They found the entrance to a cave

Entered the place that looked so safe

As they heard the howling hyenas at the gate

Soon to enter and mayhem they would create.

 

With nowhere to run and hide

And no guns and sticks on their side

The end at the hands of hyenas seemed imminent

When they got from behind a whiff of a dirty scent.

 

Turned around to see His Majesty

The big stripped tiger, high and mighty

Looking at the frozen to death children

Walked towards the front of his den.

 

The hyenas saw the entrance blocked

By the biggest tiger who roared

They were ten and the tiger was alone

But still they fled as the tiger’s eyes shone.

 

The tiger sat at the entrance in guard

As the kids now waited to be devoured

They heard strange noises as if the tiger was in pain

Noises subsided as the sun came.

 

The kids with their heads turned down

Suddenly felt some soft furry brown

Opened their eyes to see before

Tiger cubs one two three and four.

 

They looked so cute and loving

Kids could not hold back their patting

The cubs started loving and licking

The fear of the night gave way to gentle giggling.

 

Then they saw the tiger…nay the tigress… come their way

The cubs left the kids, went Mama’s way

The tigress lay down flat

The cubs sucked milk from Mama cat.

 

By now Salman reached the cave

Saw the sight and was amazed

He knew Rani the tigress well

He too fearless entered her dwell.

 

The cubs and the kids played again awhile

They gave the cubs names before bidding bye

The chubby was named Cheeku

The toothless one was called Tootsie

The lazy was named Sloppy

And the fastest was called Footsie.

The friends returned home happy and safe

With endless stories of their adventures

Salman Bhai kept in constant touch

Sharing pictures of Rani and her cubs

 

When one day he mailed

Tootsie had gone missing

Rani was out searching

Failing to find her cub

She would just sit and sob

She was becoming sick

Ignoring the other three who were growing big

Salmaan’s last mail said

I want the Famous Four

To return to Ranthambhore

And help me search Tootsie

The loving brother to Cheeku, Sloppy and Footsie.

Will the Awesome Foursome go?

Darling Poopie, I cannot draw on the machine, so have added pictures. So finally, I must say, no matter how many years you add to your age, no matter how many degrees you add to your right and left, your Daddy will still remain your story teller Number One….kal bhi..aaj bhi…kal bhi.

 

SS

War & Peace

How long must a man go on

Till he finds some time to rest

Must he go on and on and on

Till he’s fully put to rest.

 

How long must a man run

From early morning till late at night

Must he go on and on and on

Till his body’s put alight.

 

How long must a man run

To reach from poverty to richness

Must he go on and on and on

In the endless pursuit of happiness.

 

How long must a man run

To escape from all his fears

Must he go on and on and on

Till the eyes go dry of tears.

 

How long must a man run

To be a man for the world to see

Must he go on and on and on

Till you realize what you wanted to be.

 

Stop!

Enough!!

No more!!!

So I want to wave the flag today

The white flag of surrender

Let the victors take the spoils

For I wish to end my war

Put an end to this endless, mindless running.

 

I no longer want to be a winner

For I have realized this is a never ending race

Endless running takes its toll

Physical and mental

And I no longer wish to be drawn

Into this battlefield anymore

There are runners more able and fitter than me

It is okay for me to just walk along a bit slower

Let glory be to those who deserve more

The daily grind of numbers

The constant ups and downs of graphs

Often in sync with your troubled ECG

Losing of a good night’s sleep

No, not any more

For I wish to be at peace with myself

For now I wish to take it easy

Take it slow, take it one step at a time.

 

I no longer want to change the world

Let those who eat green eat more greens

Let those who go to this temple or the other

Let the right be right and left be left

For I have realized

I just cannot change the world

I just cannot stop the world

Let it go round and round

All by itself, in its own motion

For I am just a speck of dust in the universe

For I am just a drop in the ocean

And I refuse to fight another man

Get drawn into endless debates

Lose my calm, lose my health

Turn into a demon now and then

Stalk, troll, blame, shame…

No, not any more

For I wish to be at peace with myself

For now I wish to take it easy

Take it slow, take one step at a time.

 

I no longer wish to have more and more

For how much is enough

Is a question that remains unanswered

When I see a man in tatters

Why do I feel guilty

When I see a boy selling pens on the road

Why do I feel guilty

When I see a hungry girl outside the eatery

Why do I feel guilty

And why do I just turn my eyes away

Avoid looking at these souls

Living in hunger, pain and poverty

Their state is not my doing

My enough is enough

Their enough is not enough

So I must accept today

That I cannot change this all

My war of guilt within must end

But not the desire to do my part

To sprinkle a little happiness

To spark a little hope

For those who cross my path

For now I am at peace with myself

For now I wish to take it easy

Take it slow, take one step at a time.

 

"You may say, I’m a dreamer

But I’m not the only one

We hope someday you’ll join us

And the world will live as one.”

 

SS

PS. This piece is inspired by the songs of my all time favourites, Bob Dylan and John Lennon

Sur Saadhana

As she stepped out of the aircraft at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Airport, she felt a sense of calmness and serenity. She wondered whether it was the air she was breathing in this holy city of Benaras or was it the memories of her past in this city that gave her a feel like no other place. She was accompanied by her son, Tirthankar, and daughter-in-law, Anusuya, who was six months pregnant. While the son carried the two cabin luggage cases, Sabita carried a copper kalash that she clasped tightly. It contained the mortal remains of her husband, Gopal, who had passed away after a prolonged illness at Kolkata. The dutiful son had planned everything well and the waiting cab took them straight to the luxurious Hotel Surya, Kaiser Palace. After a good meal, the trio went out to the place where all roads led….the Holy Ganges. They hired a boat exclusively for themselves and enjoyed the breathtaking view of the ghats, the pristine water and people of all hues crowding the banks. They witnessed the magnificent Ganga Aarti from the boat in the evening before retiring to the room.

Early next morning they went for a darshan of the Kashi Vishwanath Temple and then to the Dashashwamedh Ghat where a priest performed the puja, post which the kalash was emptied into the flowing waters of Ganga. Sabita had tears in her eyes as she saw the ashes flow away and a gentle hug from Anu comforted her. They sat near the water front for long without uttering a single word as they remembered the times with the man they all loved and respected. For Sabita, the loss was even greater. For the last two years, she had been nursing Gopal at home herself and doing everything, from making his juice to feeding him, giving him a wash and handling the bedpan. She did not want to leave him at the mercy of the professional nurses, so she even gave up her well-paying job in a government organization.  She would now be very lonely, for Tirthankar and Anu lived at Hyderabad, both working at a tech MNC.

After a while the family returned to the hotel. The young ones were keen to go and see the other historical and religious places in the city before returning to Kolkata next day and wanted Sabita to join them, but she said she wanted to be left alone. After the couple had left, Sabita went out of the hotel and started walking in the tiny by lanes of Benaras. Her Google Map App was working well and she soon reached her destination-Sur Saadhana Vidyalaya….the board outside the dilapidated building looked faded, but the sight of it made Sabita smile. As she was admiring the board, a man in a short white cotton kurta and white dhoti came and stood next to her. Sabita turned and saw a man whose face was radiating. He had curls of hair hanging down to his shoulders and his fair complexion and smile seemed out of this world. He softly asked….”What is it that you are looking for?”

Sabita touched her ear lobes in respect as she spoke, “This is the music school of Pandit Kailash Nathji. He is a famous teacher of Benaras Gharana and his fame is world-wide. Almost forty years ago, I came here with my parents and sang before Panditji who liked my audition very much and wanted me to join this residential Vidyalaya. But being the only daughter to my parents, they just did not let me join and slowly, my musical journey gave way to worldly life of office, home and children. I am here once again in the city for some personal work, so thought of paying a visit to Panditji, just to pay my respects to the great man.”

The man folded his hands and bowed his head as he spoke, “I am Gyan Prakash, son of Pandit Kailash Nathji, who left for heavenly abode about seven years ago. Now I run this Vidyalaya. I am touched by your love for music and respect for my father. Why don’t you come inside for some time and see the school?”

Sabita was overjoyed. She instantly bent down to touch the man’s feet but he immediately moved his feet away…."No don’t do it please. It is me who should be touching your feet.”

As they entered the Vidyalaya, a soft chorus of girls singing bhajans could be heard. The singing stopped immediately on seeing Gyan Prakashji till he signaled them with his hands to continue. Sabita felt as if it was only yesterday that she was here and she remembered every bit of the school distinctly. It must have been her deep desire to be here that the one off visit, decades ago, had left an everlasting impression on her mind. She felt the missing inner peace in her as the music filled the air. This is where I belong, she said to herself. This is my home and it is so good to be back.

One of the girls offered her water from an earthen pot in a steel glass and it tasted so sweet and cool. She was loving her presence here. She wanted to open her arms and go round and round in circles singing her long lost songs of love and devotion but did not want to look foolish before Panditji and the young girls who were observing her as they sang. She sat on a mat on the floor with Panditji seated on a wooden bench before her. Sabita felt overjoyed and just could not hold back her true feelings as she spoke her heart out…

“Panditji, it may sound foolish but I feel I should ask you once….can I join the Vidyalaya now? You can say no and I will not mind one bit for I know I am asking for the impossible.”

“Music is in real terms the purest form of worship of God. This cannot happen in a day. It takes lots of hard work, you have to undergo innumerable hardships, make great sacrifices and go through endless devotion to be able to acquire the ability to get close to your God. Once you are there, you are blessed forever and then nothing else matters. It is a long and difficult road and is best done when young. It is not that you cannot do it now but to turn back the clock, to start living a life of an ascetic after having been exposed to a good and comfortable life is all the more difficult, if not impossible. If my father approved of you, surely you must be a good singer but then to turn the clock back and lead a life of renunciation, isolation and abject poverty is not going be easy. Even for me, it will be a herculean task since all others in the Vidyalaya are young and can be moulded easily in the right manner. This task can be a challenge for both, you and me, but I am willing to give it a try.”

“Guruji, I want to do it and am willing to pay the price and lead a new life here. I feel I belong here.”

“Okay then. First go and tell your people at home and surely they will not agree with your decision. You will be cut off from them completely except a postcard that you can write once in a fortnight. No mobile phone, no laptops, no social media, no fancy clothes, austere food and minimal living amenities are what you should expect. I will open the door for you and you can give it a try. When you think you cannot continue and wish to return to your real world of friends and family, I shall not object. Not many can survive this life.”

Sabita returned to the hotel where Tirthankar was walking anxiously up and down the lobby, looking at his watch and the entrance door wondering where his mother had gone. They went to their room where the mother told the son about her wish to pursue her dream of learning music in its purest form and what Guruji had said about the living conditions there. The son got furious as he heard the price his mother would have to pay in trying to achieve her goal.

“No…No…No! This is simply out of question. I will not let you go and live this life. You are not in your senses. With Baba’s demise, you have also lost your brain and ability to think right. You do not have to stay alone in Kolkata anymore. You will join us at Hyderabad and let Anu and me take care of you. We will hire a good music teacher there for you and you can do your riyaaz and saadhana there without anyone disturbing you.”

Sabita was adamant. Anu spoke up, "Tirtha, Ma has worked all her life. She has sacrificed her wishes and dreams for the sake of the family. All her life she has worked so hard at office and at home and lived a life defined initially by her parents and then by her in-laws and finally by your father. She has never complained about it. Now she is free from all such bondages and wishes something for herself. Let us give her an opportunity. It is quite possible that she will not be able to adjust to the lifestyle of the gurukul after having lived in air conditioned rooms and cars and staying connected with friends and family continuously. She may just be back in no time. At least she will not have the regret of not having tried pursuing her life’s dream.”

“Anu, please don’t take her side on this issue. You may want to see your mother-in-law go away so that there is no interference in our lives but that is mean of you to even think of letting Ma live a life she just explained. It is like living in a jail. I will not let my mother rot there as long as I am alive.”

Before Anu could react, Sabita held Tirtha’s arm and signaled him to stop. “Anu is my daughter and you will not speak to her like that. I have made up my mind. I will return to Benaras after closing down all the accounts and legal matters. You will inherit everything. I will be sending a fortnightly postcard to Anu and shall keep you informed of everything. I know it will be difficult for you to lose both your parents all of a sudden but such is life.”

After a month, Sabita reached Sur Saadhana Vidyalaya with a small and simple suitcase and was welcomed by the other girls and Guruji. One of the girls took her to a small room on one end of the residential block. The room was big and had a big window but there was no fan above or a bed below. After putting her things down, she went to meet Guruji who explained her routine.

“Welcome to the Gurukul. We will initially work to cleanse your body and mind and then initiate you into the world of music. This would take three months. In the first month, you will be doing the most menial jobs of cleaning the floors and the toilets. In the second, you will be allowed to cook and water the plants and then in the third month you will be allowed to do Guru Seva where you can sit in the music classes but not be allowed to sing with the others. However, you can do the chores for me. This is the phase when you will be closest to being completely cleansed of all the worldly desires and vices and are ready to step into the world of music and devotion. On completion of the three months of a rigourous tenure, I shall give you diksha and your new life and journey shall commence. But as I said earlier, you will not last beyond fifteen days of the first month and if you do, I shall be the happiest person other than you to see you becoming a part of this gurukul and taking music to greater heights.”

Sabita nodded her head and went on with her prescribed routine. She was determined to succeed and nothing could stop her. She worked tirelessly from dawn till late into the night in cleaning up the floors and toilets of the residential building. She stayed away from the music classes and the absence of fan and bed was felt only in the first few days. After that she would be so tired that she would sleep off in no time and wake up on time without fail. Guruji would come inspecting her work from time to time and did not find one instance of her failing to do her job well. For Sabita, her sources of joy were twosome. One was the little girls who called her Didi and often tried helping her in her work and second was the occasional glimpse of Guruji. His presence was magnetic and the aura he emitted made her feel enlightened and joyous which was difficult to explain. When Guruji spoke, it would always be so respectful and graceful. Sabita told herself, if there is something to look forward to after all the hardship and saadhana, it is learning music from this man. I will not get deterred with anything and no problem will ever keep me away from my Gyan and my Guruji.

Sabita would write to Anu every fortnight. She would always be positive and speak how well she was and how much happiness she found in her new life. Anu too would send her a fortnightly postcard keeping her informed of every small detail in tiny handwriting trying to fit a big essay in a small space. By the time Sabita finished her second month, she got the news of the birth of her grand-daughter. That was one day she really felt like going home and being with Anu and Tirtha to hold the little angel close to her bosom, kiss her, love her and sing for her. But now having traversed the most difficult period, she could not waver one bit. Another month and then she would do what she was born to do. So she just went to the residential block and kissed many a girl there. The girls could not understand why their Didi was behaving so but they too liked being loved and kissed by a woman they felt closest to, after their mothers, at the Gurukul.

Slowly the days of the third month went by and Sabita could now sit in the singing classes and practice on her own in her own room. Her singing would liven up the residential block where she now lived and the girls would be enthralled by her range. Guruji, too, would come into the room quietly and sit in silence enjoying her singing. He knew, in Sabita, he had a disciple who would be next scion of the Benaras Gharana. The day of Diksha had come. Sabita found that a new saree and accessories had been kept neatly folded in her room as she came back in the evening from the class. She went for a proper bath in the Ganga, changed into the fresh new clothes and went to Guruji’s chamber. Guruji had everything kept ready for the puja with incense sticks burning and a small wooded fire lit as Sabita sat with folded hands and eyes closed while Guruji chanted softly the mantras in Sanskrit. The puja took long and then when it ended, Sabita bent down in complete devotion, put her head at the feet of Guruji who put his two hands on her head and asked her to get up. She got up and Guruji was the closest he had ever been to her and she looked into his eyes as he spoke…”Your pariksha is over and you are now initiated into the Gurukul fully. The only thing left is your Guru Dakshina.”

“I have nothing to give you Guruji.”

“Yes you have…” and in a flash wrapped his arms around Sabita’s waist and pulled her to him.

“No Guruji…No!”

But in the quiet world of the Vidyalaya, Sabita’s cries for help were lost and after a while she walked back to the residential block. All the girls were waiting for her there for they knew what Diksha meant. They went with her to her room and tried to hug her and console her but Sabita was completely stoned and showed no emotion. She even asked the girls to leave her but they stayed put there till dawn and all went back to their daily routine. Sabita, too, went to the class and acted as if nothing had happened and kept staring at Guruji who was trying to avoid her looks. In the late evening, Sabita went back to Guruji’s chambers once again. This time when the Guru embraced her, she was waiting and stabbed him in the back with a sharp kitchen knife. This time his cries could be heard by the girls waiting outside. Sabita opened the chamber door and let the girls inside. Then all of them went out together for a bath in the Ganga and hoped the holy river truly had the magical touch not just to cleanse but to heal their wounded bodies and souls. They hugged each other, cried aloud and then all dispersed to different places in the country.

Next morning at Benaras, the police were baffled at the death of Guru Gyan Prakash who had multiple stab wounds on his back. Who could have done this to the pious man who was loved and respected, not only in Benaras but beyond? The finger prints were far too many for the forensics to decipher. All the students of the Vidyalaya had vanished but the police could do little, as there was no register with names and addresses, no pictures, phone records of anyone and no witnesses to the crime.

Around the same time at Hyderabad, a bell goes ting tong and Tirthanakar is overjoyed to see his mother standing with her small suitcase. He calls for Anu and hugs his mother tight…."I will never let you go away from me even for one day now”…and started crying like a baby. From inside emerged Anu with the baby in her arms and gave the little one to Sabita who picked her up and kissed the forehead and started rocking her gently. “I will now sing and sing only for her, sing to get her to sleep, sing to wake her up and sing for her as she grows and glows.”

A year later, Tirtha and Anu were driving back from office and the All India Radio playing in the car announced....Vividh Bharati ke Sangeet Sarita karyakram mein aapka swagat hai....Welcome to Vividh Bharati's Sangeet Sarita program where we will listen to the rendering of Raag Malhaar by Sabita Devi....

SS

Sunshine

On a cold winter’s night, in the lobby of a multi-story building in East Delhi, two men looked on from behind a third, who was seated in front with his hand on the screen of the mobile phone, as the booming baritone of Amitabh Bachchan’s voice rang through the Sony screen of KBC…“This question is the fifteenth question and the right answer will fetch you fifty lac rupees. So Tej Bahadur ji, are you ready?”

“Ji Sir.”

“So here it is on your screen.. Mangal Pandey belonged to which regiment when the revolt of 1857 broke out? And the options are A, B, C and D”…. as he read them out once in Hindi and again in English.  “You do not have any lifelines left, so do not take any chances. Lock the answer only if you are sure, otherwise your reward will fall from twenty-five lacs to three lacs twenty thousand only.” The young lad sat at the KBC set in Mumbai staring at the options carefully, trying to eliminate the incorrect options as the audience looked on with pin drop silence.

At Delhi, the person sitting on the chair was being egged on by the other two people, “Give the answer, Ramesh.” And Ramesh confidently replied, “The answer is D- 34^th Bengal Native Infantry.”

Hello, I am Ramesh and belong to Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh where I did my schooling and then did my graduation from the Open University. From the beginning itself, I used to read a lot of books and magazines on history and sports. I even started preparing for the competitive examinations for a job in the state government but, as luck would have it, I had to move to Delhi with my maternal uncle who enamored us with stories about the beautiful city and job opportunities for young men. Soon I realized that getting a good job with a graduation degree was near to impossible and so, to make ends meet, I joined Mamiji in ASS or Alert Security Services. While my job is boring and poorly paid, it has not stopped me from reading and keeping my love for quizzing alive. People in the building pose questions at me randomly and the right answers often get me anything from a ten to fifty rupee note as bakshish. I got married to Lata a year ago and she stays with my parents at Azamgarh. She is a nice and simple girl who sings beautifully. We’ve hardly lived together but I quite like talking to her and do video calls daily.

My job has a standard routine and all days are almost alike. With eight of us on duty at any given time, I don’t think any thief will ever dare to rob this place. We just run errands like checking the water levels and switching on the lights and making calls on the intercom. But like all jobs, we have had our bright spots.

Roshni worked as a cook in a couple of flats in the building. She would come during the afternoons and then leave by evening. She was a young, tall girl with real big and beautiful eyes. She always kept her long, black hair oiled and neatly tied up. Unlike other maids, Roshni would always be dressed in colourful sarees and that made her look attractive. For the other guards she was just another servant, who would come and go during the day, whose identity card had to be checked and the register signed every day. But to me she always stood out different and special. I made it a point never to miss being at the front desk at her usual arrival and departure times. Initially, she never took notice of me and but slowly some telepathic signals from me, possibly, reached her and the ignoring stance gave way to a knowing smile. As days passed, the smile improved to monosyllables like haan…na…theek hai. My universe started rotating round her and one look from her made my day shine.

And then she suddenly went missing. Roshni did not come to work for a couple of days and I felt sad and restless. I did not have her telephone number and was ashamed to ask the other maids. I even checked the office register but could not find it there as well. When she returned, she had a bandage on her wrist and she refused to look at me while showing her identity card and signing the register. I asked her, “What happened…how did you get hurt?” She kept quiet and went off to work. But I was determined to know her story so, by the time she finished her work and came down from the lift, I too was done with my shift and was waiting for her outside the building. I followed her to the bus stop and got onto the bus along with her. Before she could put her hand into her tiny purse, I pulled out money from my pocket and paid for the tickets…”Do ticket Seeelampuri ke liye dena.” She did not protest. The bus moved on from one stop to another and we stood silently next to each other.

We got off the bus one stop before her destination and started walking. It was then that she spoke up.

“Ramesh, you are making a mistake by following me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“So tell me.”

“My name is not Roshni, it is Rubina Sheikh. I am from Bangladesh and I am married. My husband has a meat shop and there are many from my native place living here. It is easy to get the Aadhar and the ration cards made with our new identities. All you need is to grease some palms and it is done in no time. If people knew my true identity and religion, all the Agarwals, Jains and Guptas in the building will never let me enter their houses. My husband often comes home drunk and abuses me both verbally and physically. This is quite common in these parts and so you should not get so upset about my injury. I have gone through this many times.”

I stood still as I heard Roshni and then turned brave and softly but confidently…. “Roshni, I dream of you every night and wait for you during the day for a glimpse of you. What you said about yourself maybe important to others but not to me. For me it is you that matters and not your religion, not your name and not you being married. I, too, am a married man but cannot think of anyone but you!”

She looked at me in the eye and smiled.

“Ramesh, we are now getting close to my house, so you must go back. If anyone were to see me with you, my husband will make my life hell and may also come after you as well.”

Saying this, she walked away briskly without looking back. I saw her disappear into the dark alley and I turned around to go back to my quarters. I did not know how she would react after I had opened my heart to her but then things turned out good for me. She would now find a couple of minutes to talk to me and for me those few minutes were the best moments of my days. Was I falling in love with her? Maybe yes, and yet I would religiously talk to my wife and parents back home daily but that call now seemed like routine duty more than any sense of longing, something I felt here while waiting for Roshni. She had by now shared her mobile number with me and we would often talk…we would share jokes and whenever I found her sad and low, I would try and lift up her spirits and get her back to normal. It seemed her husband’s behavior was going from bad to worse by the day and my leaning towards her stronger. I would insist on her sending me a picture of her every morning and she would oblige. I, initially, called it her attendance marking and then later named it as my sunshine picture of the day, something that would brighten up my day. She would at times pack some home cooked food for me. We connected discreetly lest others in the building were to come to know about us. This hide and seek of ours was fun.

Each month I would send home one half of my salary. I worked an extra shift in a nearby nursing home and the money I earned from there I would to keep it separately hidden in a trunk in my room. When I had a good sum saved, I bought a pair of small gold earrings to give to my wife as a surprise gift on our first anniversary. I showed it to Roshni one day and asked… How does this look?

You bought it for me? She asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

I could not say no and she smiled and kept the gift in her bag thanking me profusely. I felt like holding her tight in my arms right there and am sure she would not have resisted but I held myself back.

On the evening of my anniversary, Roshni was near me but stood away from the mobile screen as I talked to Lata. I had also put up a picture of our shaadi on my WhatsApp display picture to mark the occasion.

Don’t cry Lata. I will come home soon during Diwali. I have bought sarees for you and Ma and kurta-pyjama for Babuji. I long to have food made by you. When I am home, we will go to the mela together and watch movies…we will have Pepsi and popcorn….achcha gol gappas as well. Ek gaana suna de…

Mere piya gaye Rangoon

Wahan se kiya hai telefoon

Tumhari yaad satati hai

After the call, I went for my daily walk followed by the daily bus ride with Roshni. She seemed very tense and sad that day. She did not utter a single word.

Next morning she did not post her sunshine picture. I kept looking at the WhatsApp after every few minutes but she did not come online. In the afternoon she came and handed me the small box containing the earrings that I had given her.

No Ramesh. It is wrong on my part to take our relationship forward anymore. Ours is a hopeless relationship which cannot go on beyond a point. You have a happy family and a loving wife who trusts you. My family life is completely ruined and I cannot spoil yours. You are a good man and I know it will be difficult for me to stay away from you but I never would like to be called someone who wrecked another woman’s life.”

I saw her eyes moistening as she walked away pulling out her handkerchief from her small purse.

I was shattered and I fell down in the KBC of life from twenty-five lacs of prize money to zero. I could not sleep that night and many nights after that. Tried calling her and texting her but she did not respond. She was firm in her decision. I understood what Roshni had said and am now trying to accept my fate. I have changed my regular afternoon shift to night shift so that I do not encounter her. I have now adopted a kitten, who was born in the basement of the building, and feed her milk and food. She sits near me as I keep awake, sitting before the burning twigs as the chilly Delhi winds freeze us to the bones, and sing with my fellow guards, in our own dialect, songs of love and longing. And then, of course, there is KBC at night where I suddenly become the hero.

I have booked the train ticket for going home on Diwali and bought the gifts I promised Lata, plus of course the ring, of which she knows not . I still have some pictures of Sunshine saved on my mobile and do see them to brighten up my days. Wondering if I should keep them or delete them…..I think I will keep them.

SS

The Last Rite

Eid was the biggest day and the family gathered together to enjoy the wholesome feast at Mustafa’s house at Shopian, Kashmir. On the table lay wazwan of Gushtaba, Rogan Josh, Tabak Maas, Dhaniwala Korma with Chicken Pulao and much more. Incidentally, the word wazwan is said to have come from ‘waz’ or chef and ‘wan’ denotes a spread of meat curries and other dishes and is also popularly called the feast fit for kings. The reason for celebrations this year was even greater as his son, Tauseef, was home, taking a quick short break from his unending work. Tauseef was a young rifleman in the Territorial Army and, inevitably, he would be on duty on almost all the family get- togethers and festival celebrations since his seniors would remind him and his fellow soldiers that these would be the days when the police and the army had to be on higher alert than on normal days for fear of attacks by militants. The residents of the Valley lived in a state of perpetual fear not knowing whether bullet fired from the gun of the militant would knock them off or the one fired by the security forces. The dance of death was more often seen than the dance of joyous celebrations  which had, literally, become the Eid ka Chand….seldom seen.

Post the feast, a teary eyed mother and his sisters bid Tauseef adieu. Mustafa could hide his emotions well and put up a brave smile to wave Tauseef goodbye as he switched on his bike’s key and drove away waving to all. About half an hour later, Mustafa’s phone started ringing…it was Tauseef calling…

Tauseef, what happened? Have you reached your barracks already?

No Abbu. I will go there later. I just met a few old friends. They want me to spend some time with them. Just in case anyone from my command calls to find out about me, tell them, I am at home and will be returning to the barracks slightly later. Won’t stay here for long.

Who are these friends? Do I know them?  You should not delay as it is already getting dark and the roads are not too safe….chinta hoti hai…

Keeping the phone away now Abbu…Khuda Haafiz.

Allah Haafiz….do call or message me after you reach the camp.

Mustafa kept looking at the screen of his mobile waiting for that one text message from his loving son Tauseef who was his favourite among all his children. Even though all the relatives and friends cautioned him not to join the security forces….Indian forces as they would often refer to it.. but Tauseef was not to be deterred. Even though a lot of his school friends had joined the militants and were hailed as heroes by the locals, Tauseef was always determined to wield the gun for the country. He was treated by a section of people as a traitor and a pariah. He just ignored them.

Mustafa was thinking…5pm he left our house and called me at 5.30pm. Even if he were to spend two hours with his friends…it would be 7.30pm when he should have departed from Balapora…. From there Bashirbagh Camp should take him another twenty minutes to reach….so by 8pm he should have reached….it is already 8.30pm and there is no message or a call. This is not like Tauseef at all! Let me call him up instead. He dialed the last number on his phone…..

Sorry, this number cannot be reached….came the recorded voice message.

Mustafa was now worried as was his wife and his daughters. They sat around him in a circle as he kept dialing Tauseef’s number….all waiting to hear his voice and know about his well-being. It was not 10pm and Mustafa got panicky. He kept on dialing uninterruptedly but there was no change in status of the response….

Sorry, this number cannot be reached…please call back later…

Mustafa dialed Habib who was also in Tauseef’s command.

Habib Beta….Assalam Walekum….Mustafa Chacha bol raha hoon…Tauseef’s father.

Chacha, Tauseef has not returned to the camp till now. Our Commandant is also very upset with him. How can he be so irresponsible? He was given a couple of hours of special leave for Eid and it is almost twelve hours and he has not reported back.

Mustafa narrated the whole story to Habib.

Chacha, you please report the matter to the local police. I will also tell our commandant and we will do whatever we can to trace him. Don’t worry. He must be sleeping somewhere now after a good round of drinks with his friends.

Mustafa knew his son well. He was always very different. He was completely clean with no smoke and no drinks ever. But he did not refute Habib and kept the phone down. He wanted to go to the local thana immediately but was stopped by his wife as there would be no one there at that hour and they would anyway not be able to do much so late.

Mustafa did not sleep that night. He just twisted and turned in his bed. He did not get up fearing others would get disturbed. What he did not know that no one in his house was sleeping….they were all awake with eyes closed, just waiting for morning to break. Sharp at 6am, Mustafa wrapped his warm shawl and walked to the thana which was about a couple of kilometres away. It was pretty dark and sun was still some hours away from peeping out from behind the clouds over the snow clad mountains. He reached the small hutment with the board hung outside. There was no one around, so Mustafa sat down on the steps of the police station waiting for help to arrive. Finally, the policemen arrived around 9am and after finishing their tea and breakfast and Mustafa got an audience.

Sir, my son is missing since last evening.

The potbellied man in khakhi, sitting behind the desk laughed…He must have gone to the other side. We get such complaints every day. Go home now. He will come back soon, well trained and equipped and when we put him down in an encounter, we will bring him to your home for you to do the last rites….ha ha ha….

Mustafa was outraged at the clichéd comment but controlled his anger. He pleaded before heartless people who took him to be a mad man. Fortunately, Habib arrived at the station in his uniform and then the wheel started turning. A case of missing person was registered and all details were noted.

Chacha, you now go home. We will start our search now and get back to you with our findings.

Reluctantly, Mustafa went home and every day, for the next six days, he would arrive at the police station sharp at 6am to be disappointed by 10am and again to return at 4pm in the evening and once again return home without any news of Tauseef. The mood in the house had completely changed. The chandni of that one evening had given way to amavasya for the remaining six days.

On day seven, the station master shouted… Chacha come quickly…we have found…we have found….

Mustafa rushed to him…..Thank Allah, you have found my son.

Nahin Chacha….we have found his bike in Kulgam. Sorry to say, it is completely charred.

Mustafa sat down on the floor holding his hands over his head.  What he feared most seemed to be coming true but he still nurtured hope….after all Tauseef’s body had not yet been found.

After much search of the area where the bike was found, the police found Tauseef’s clothes in a ditch. Mustafa went there to see and he saw the beige trouser and brown shirt, the very clothes Tauseef was wearing on that fateful day, the only difference was that today they were soaked in blood and mud.

The police also found a piece of his shirt around the place that the bike was found and assumed that there was a scuffle first between Tauseef and his abductors before they would have overpowered and kidnapped him. The police claimed that ‘the case is under investigation and we are trying to trace the body.’ Actually, no one was looking for anyone any more. For them it was just another case and the file was open yet closed.

Mustafa accepted his fate and believed that his son was no more. He was surely killed by militants who hated all those who joined the Indian forces. But sadly, since the body has not been found and the police file is still open till date, so Tauseef cannot be declared dead and his last dues and pension for his family cannot be paid. All of Mustafa’s begging fell on deaf ears, which only wanted solid evidence and that was not there. A woman did come forward to confirm that she had seen Tauseef fighting with four men but that evidence was treated as not admissible.

Mustafa was helpless, so he decided to take things in his control. So now, for the last ten months, every morning he sets out from his house with a shovel and spade in his hands. He walks to the spot where the clothes were found and starts digging.  He hopes one day he will find his son’s body. Nowadays, some of the neighbours and friends have also started going along with Mustafa and they dig around the places and they have helped to increase the periphery of the search. In the evenings the search party returns home, rest and walk out the next day with shovels and spades.

I just want to give my son an honourable burial. I know he is no more but everyone deserves a proper departure before he proceeds to Allah’s home. He also deserves to be honoured by the country he wore the uniform for, fought for and eventually gave up his life for. My son deserves some respect, some honour and deep inside, as a father, I want to lay my son down gently one last time.

SS

NB. This is inspired by a real life story which appeared in the national newspapers. The names have been changed and some factual details have been dramatized in the narrative.