GAME OF POTS

When I was a kid, studying in class 4 or 5, naive and oblivious to the terrifying realities, I wanted to be a Bird Watcher! Alas, the famous saying is indeed true...’I was born intelligent, education ruined me!’  And so here I am, studying medicine. 

During the gruelling final year and internship I spent most of the time on my desk, my faithful companion from the good ol’ days (read the first line)!

Yehin doobe din mere

Yehin hote hain savere

Yehin marna aur jeena

Yehin mandir aur madina...Mera Desk!!

Now my desk is situated right next to my window and I have spent a lot of time staring out, at the sky, rain, storm, fireworks, traffic, slums, the upcoming highrises and the subjects of this post- Pigeons!

Pigeons are definitely a nuisance, to the window, the sill, the plants and even the Swachh Bharat Campaign! My mother made me take out my old toy gun just to scare them away...but the Colt  failed to ruffle feathers...apparently they are quite brave!

Pigeons are extremely stupid!!! They can enter through a window, but cannot find their way out...even if you leave the entire window wide open for them! They never bother to build a nest and end up laying eggs on slopes, probably training the foetus to fly!

But apart from these things, they also happen to be quite interesting creatures. For instance, they happen to sleep on one leg. A pair that often sits on the grille of the drawing room window, will always look in opposite directions, if one faces north the other will look to the south. And, they are fierce lovers!! Oh oh...I have also once seen a pigeon sneeze...true story!

After a pretty long introduction, let me introduce you to some of my Baker Street Regulars.

His name is Oogway, the oldest and usually in deep thought...the younger ones seek his advice before any important task.

This one is called Silas. He comes very rarely.

This is Fudge, for obvious reasons. He is a kleptomaniac with a fetish for clothes’ clips!!

Now let’s come to the heroes of this story-

He is Rufus Lamarck. Handsome and graceful, he is extremely shy of paparazzi. He has a ruffled up patch on his back and he stretches out his neck to reach twigs and leaves, thus following the Lamarckian theory!

And this one here is Mosaic...a jolly fellow, always out to have fun! Check out the mix of colours on his neck!

Both Rufus and Mosaic come to my window sill, they are quite used to my presence. They don’t harm my plants and neither do they soil my window...we share an unspoken bond.

There happens to be an empty pot kept at one end of the sill...The Iron Pot. Rufus and Mosaic spend their days sitting in that pot...separately! For they both have laid claim on that Pot. But who knows who the true King really is? It is for this Pot that both of them have fought many battles, lasting for hours, days, months and years...two years to be precise. And the fights are aggressive and ruthless ...at times I feel I should intervene, just to stop it from ending in bloodshed! For the record, Rufus is the reigning king, having defeated Mosaic on more than one occasion. But their Lordships are very civil to the stray pigeons who enter their realm during the day, letting them quench their thirst, rest in the shade before they continue their journey to lands far away.

 One day, two new pigeons came to the kingdom, Chip and Robin. They brought greetings from their distant feathery friends. Rufus and Mosaic were happy to have them as their guests, showing them around the place. Little did they know that they were facing a far more dangerous enemy than each other. They should have suspected, when the pair showed an uncanny interest in The Pot!

They made their move when both Rufus and Mosaic were away and declared themselves the King and Queen of the Pot! I was unperturbed, my old rulers would not let go of their kingdom so easily. Rufus came back and wild with rage sounded the war cry and attacked Chip. Chip and Rufus fought for a long time. All this while, Robin (rightly named after the eternal sidekick) kept a watch, not participating in the war but observing from a distance. And to my dismay, Chip won...Rufus was defeated! Mosaic would have probably heard the news, for he did not come, choosing not to attack alone.

And so I came to accept Chip and Robin as the new Rulers...but I missed my old friends. My mother kept telling me to shoo them away because they must be intending to lay an egg here. I refused to do anything...because I still believed that Rufus and Mosaic would come back and overthrow this pair. But my mom was right...they indeed started building a nest on the Iron Pot. Now my shooing was in vain for they would not budge! Chip did most of the work, got the leaves and twigs...Robin, well he was just around! So I assumed Chip to be the Papa Pigeon (but I’m still a little confused!).

Now my gardener who comes every Sunday has absolutely no patience for these pigeons. So I woke up one Sunday to find the Iron Pot gone!!! He had moved it. Oh no...now how will I know what happens next? And the worst part...now Rufus and Mosaic will never come back! So I searched the house and discovered it kept in the sill of another window. I immediately got it back. But the nest was gone. My mother was quite happy that now at least they won’t lay an egg...but she was wrong this time. We woke up next morning to find a white orb resting nicely on another pot!!! 

Chip incubated the egg day and night (see that’s why I'm still confused) while Robin kept watch. Mr. and Mrs. Parrot came visiting them that day, congratulating them. Now I was really excited to see the egg hatch! So I told my mother and gardener not to touch the egg. But they would not let the plant go without water...so he slid the egg without touching onto the Iron Pot, watered the plant and then slid it back to its own bed again! We were scared that Chip won’t sit on it again, having got a whiff of human interference. But I came to know later that this was just a myth. Chip did come back to it. Almost two weeks passed.

One day, just before leaving for the hospital I went to look at it and found that the egg...was gone!!! Just like that, vanished in thin air!! My dad was sure he had seen it that very day. We have no idea what happened to it. Could the Dark One , the Crow, have anything to do with it? Or was it a much stronger force...the Kite, that circles the skies once a day when all the others sit still, not making a sound, making it very clear who is The One King to rule them all!

Chip and Robin hung around for a few days, and then left...for good. Just the other day, I caught sight of that familiar rough back and a brilliantly colourful neck!!! Mere Karan- Arjun aa gaye!

And so continues the epic battle of Rufus Lamarck and Mosaic...who will win the Iron Pot? Well, we’ll have to wait for the next season to know!

MS

LOVE IN TIMES OF RUN

“Shibu, Group G is where all the good looking girls are.”

Thomas’ message a day before the big run was one that caused flutter in my heart. At last, after all the years of train rides when every time you boarded and looked at the names in the passenger list, it invariably contained a list of women almost all of them 60 plus. Even before the train left the platform, you would hear, ”Beta, mujhe upper berth mila hai…” before she could complete, I would happily give up my lower berth and straight jump onto my goal upstairs cursing my luck. But the desire to be close to pretty women never died as I transitioned from train to plane. But luck never smiled there as well. But now after 50 years of wait, fortune smiled on me…running the Mumbai Marathon with babes all around!

So, at 3.30am, I got up even before the alarm went off, took a shower and shaved…can you believe it? Normally on a holiday I love to skip my bath and here I was ready at 4 am with my best YSL cologne sprayed in abundance. Off to the run for fun.

Reached the venue well before time and stood in a long queue to take a leak before the 21 km run started. Startled by a young lady standing in the men’s line and fighting with the guard there insisting that she would use the men’s loo kyonki ladies toh aagey badh hi nahin rahi…. Then commeth the hour, commeth the man…the run started….for me with my doctor ruling out running with a history of spinal injuries, it was walking but walking at a brisk pace. And lo what did I see…

You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the women came tumbling.
Great women, small , lean women, brawny women,
Beautiful women, big fat women, tall women, short women,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Mothers, Aunts, cousins,
Cocking pony tails and rainbow nails,
Families by tens and dozens,
Mothers, sisters, mother-in-laws and wives –

Truly a colourful sight indeed. Very delightful to say the least. But I had a task to complete and a few young and old women to beat. Distracted but not distraught, I started my Long March to CST through crowds that were running , jogging, walking….the first leg was the crowded walk across the sea link. With sunlight an hour away, darkness hid the beauties from my sight. To add to it was the crowd, it was so much that it reminded me of Xerxes’ army in 300 and I was Leonidas, the Spartan, the handsome, the braveheart standing out, walking all alone battling the Persian beauties.

As I crossed the sea and turned for Worli village, I met her. With the sun peeping out slowly and the light blue hue all around I saw a young girl in her 30s…by the time you are in 50s everyone seems very fair and young. She wore a grey T with a Swoosh and a black bottom till just below her knee. As she crossed me, she just smiled…..’twas a slight simple smile but to me it felt like a beckoning call. As she surged ahead, I upped my speed and caught up with her in the next 200 metres. As I drew near she smiled again. A friendly smile from her but ‘twas like giving me wings to fly. Happy was I for sure!

An old jungle saying that Walkers can’t be Runners came true and she again moved ahead and gave a sign to catch up, catch me if you can... But then charged was I and started walking faster and faster. I could see her meandering through the crowds…you couldn’t miss her…I couldn’t miss her…..Once again I caught up with her and once again she smiled….remembered Dilip Kumar singing Nain lad gayi hain jiya ma kasak hoibe kari… the next 500 metres or so were memorable….matching step to step I kept pace never looking at time or the hundreds of others around.

Around the 10 km mark, remembered another woman, the woman who had run all the races with me all the past 25 years, the woman who till yesterday believed I would be doing the Dream Run of 7 kms only…reluctantly she agreed to my going for the half marathon but with a condition…keep me informed from time to time. It was 7.30am by then and my hand went to the pouch and pulled out the Kala Jamun or simply Black Berry. Keyed in my password, searched for D and texted, “10 done all fine”. This not only brought me back to reality but slowed my pace down. As I looked around she was nowhere to be seen.

Dil hai ki maantaa nahin…since when have we men listened to reason and so began my quest to search the Runner Woman.  I walked and walked, I sped and sped, overtook people by the dozens in fact by the tons but she was not to be found. As Bono sang ‘Alone Again…naturally”. Walking ahead around Copper Chimney met a colleague from office. She was jogging slowly at a neat pace and here I was walking. As I came abreast I raised my right hand to wave and she gave a knowing smile. She would have however felt slightly down with an oldie walking and trying to overtake her running. Must have hurt her ego somewhere, so instantaneously she changed gear and went ahead.

I was in race just to prove to myself that I could do half marathon within 3 hours and 15 minutes which was the time allotted as per age category. I wasn’t racing against anyone. And so I went ahead with a slim hope of seeing the woman in grey if I increased my speed. In doing so I again caught up with my colleague and waved to her again. She gave me a surprised look and shot past again. Within 500 metres I caught up with her again and then she gave up and let me go. Then came the next and only hill…Pedder Road where everyone started slowing down but my pace remained constant which meant I started overtaking people. This is when I met…

No, not her, but another lady in black with a beautiful check bandana. She too gave me a friendly smile and we started talking as she ran and I walked. By the time Babulnath Temple came, unable to keep pace, she smiled and signaled me to go ahead. This gave me time to pull out my phone and send a text to D…”15 done 6 to go all fine”.  This is where I just took off and walked faster than ever before. I was well aware that my time was good so wanted to set a benchmark for myself and so the speed was by all standards near running.  Still she was haunting me…will I see her now or now maybe after the run. 

Flying  down the last stretch as never before, clocked 2 hours 42 minutes 15 seconds. I didn’t raise my hands as I crossed the line but put my hands in the pouch once more and dialed home. D picked up and I shouted, “Completed and feeling great.” She said well done and within a minute came a text from the Most Beautiful Girl in the World, “Proud of you Baba”.

A FEW GOOD MEN

Calcutta, 1988: It was sheer chance that landed me in a PSU job where  I stuck around for two decades. A very sweet Mallu friend of mine from the schooldays showed me an advertisement by the only monopolistic insurance apex body that existed at that time inviting applications from fresh graduates for recruitment as probationary officers in its four subsidiaries. We had met in the post graduate classes after having parted ways at the end of the tenth standard. Insurance was to me as removed from EngLit as Plato’s poets were from reality but all the same I applied since I had nothing better to do and also to make my friend happy.

 On the day of the written exam I landed up at Sanskrit College, which I had confidently declared to be the centre, when asked by my father. On reaching the college on a Sunday morning I found the place to be almost closed devoid of any of the usual bustling signs of an exam centre. I checked my admit card and found it read Sanskrit Collegiate School. Was it not the same? Now where on earth was this place! I started asking a couple of people around and, as is usually the case in Calcutta, a whole lot of people came up with directions but not much of it registered in my nervous mind. One middle aged gentleman, wearing a lungi and shirt, carrying a small ‘thaili’ for his Sunday morning quota of fish and vegetables, asked me to follow him. In those days the newspapers and news channels did not bombard our minds till we are numbed with horrifying tales of 23 year olds getting molested and raped in broad daylight and so, without a second thought, I started to follow him. Those days were different… we trusted and helped strangers….there was reciprocity. I was running short of time but I followed this man through a maze of North Calcutta lanes and by-lanes till I reached the desired venue.

 May be today’s mothers will advise their daughters against talking to or  following a total stranger but those were far better times that we lived in. A complete stranger, who could have finished his morning ‘bajaar’ and gone home to enjoy his Sunday breakfast of ‘luchi and aloo chhenchki’  , took the trouble to help a young girl find her way to an exam centre to which she would never have made it on her own in time. That is the Calcutta we grew up and studied in.. Calcutta where students were loved, respected and cared for…schools and colleges where we enjoyed ourselves… streets where we could roam without a care!

New Delhi ,2001: Delhi, which has been designated as the rape capital of India in recent times, was my home for nine years. Even before stepping foot in the capital city, I was warned by my colleagues and friends in Calcutta of its taxi and auto drivers, its DTC buses and, in general, the low moral standards of the Dilliwallahs. A few months before I finally moved out of Delhi an incident occurred which has made me wonder whether one should make such sweeping generalizations about any city or its people.

It was a bitterly cold evening in December. On returning from office I found my mother-in-law looking pretty ill - her speech, her gait all looked abnormal and since she was a diabetic I thought of taking her for a check-up to her doctor. The cab I called for was not any fancy one you get to see these days but just an ordinary black and yellow Maruti van and the driver was an elderly Sikh with a long, flowing beard and white turban. He looked a lot like one of those Sikh Gurus whose photographs we are used to seeing. When I left house little did I know that this man would be my companion for the next eight or nine hours. The doctor advised immediate hospitalization .He spoke urgently on the phone and I did not know then that he was making arrangements to push out a recovering patient from the ICU of Batra Hospital to make place for my patient. I wanted to go home once and pick up a few stuff and make arrangements for my daughter who was alone but he was very clear that if I wanted to see my mother-in-law alive I should head for the hospital. And so the journey on an endless night began. The old Sardarji took us to the hospital, waited for me till I came out around 1.30 at night, drove me back to my house where I went to get some of the things I needed at the hospital and again drove me back to Tughlakabad from CR Park at 2.30 am  . No neighbour accompanied me though they had been kind enough to take care of my daughter the next two days till my husband, who was stationed in Mumbai, came to relieve me from the hospital. I paid the good man whatever I had left in my purse that night, which was not too much after all the hospital admission and medicines. He never charged me because, and even though I had not noticed earlier, he had turned off his meter long ago!

Mumbai, 2005: 26^th July 2005-this was the day Mumbai drowned. S.V.Road which connects the Western suburbs looked like one long, winding river. Santro and BMW cars were roof deep in water. The lamp posts had fallen, cars had hit against the dividers which were completely submerged. Huge stores belonging to big brands on Bandra’s Linking Road had their mannequins floating in waist deep water. The cloudburst which brought 1000 mm rainfall in a span of few hours spared none…. both the rich and poor suffered. That is probably the story of Mumbai…. a Divine hand acts as great leveller in this city-just as the slums co-exist beside the skyscrapers, the man travelling by train suffers as much as the man driving his Honda City.

The Harbour line train from CST had stopped even before reaching Bandra. People started jumping off the stationary trains. There was hope that a taxi or a bus might take us home. What we saw outside Bandra station was something we had not reckoned for. Everything was at a standstill. Nothing was moving. On the tracks were a long line of the Mumbai locals and on Linking Road was a long serpentine queue of BEST buses and cars. That’s when we began our walk. It was 5.30 in the evening. My companions were not people known to me, not friends or colleagues. They were not the usual “train friends” you shared seats with in the same compartment. They were just familiar faces who were among the millions who travelled daily in the same direction as me.

The rain was ceaseless…just kept on pouring… it had started around 12 noon and we had been let off from office at 3.30pm. As we walked on Linking Road, water was up to the waist. The divider in the middle of the road, separating the two way traffic, could not be seen. Umbrellas were of no use because by this time we were already soaked to the skin. We boarded a BEST bus with a hope that it might take us home…but the driver told us we could sit through the night for it would not move. My companions chose to stay. I had to go home… my daughter knew I was coming home. I had spoken to her last at 5.00 pm when I was in the train. The network was now jammed…there was no way I could connect. My husband was in London. My mother-in-law was sick and bed-ridden. The ayah who looked after her went home at seven every evening. Had she left for home? I got off the bus and started walking. By now it had become absolutely dark. Power had been turned off completely.

That is when I met this man. He was in his thirties. Hundreds of men and women were walking together, helping each other. Water level was rising. High-tide that evening was making things worse. Waves were hitting against our bodies while we pushed our way through. We all had to hold hands and form human chains to keep our balance and wade through water which had risen above the waist. This man offered his mobile saying there was network… but I could not connect. Landlines had all conked off. We changed our course from Linking Road to S.V.Road since near Juhu  the water level had risen up to the chest. This man remained by my side and with many others encouraged me to not give up and move on. We were all strangers but we had one goal and that was to reach home .He was carrying important papers from his office – maybe legal documents or cheques or cash. He held his folder with one hand above his head and the umbrella with the other. By the time we reached the S.V.Road and J.P.Road crossing at Andheri , it was past midnight. But here the Fire Brigade stopped us from going further… a little ahead four or five men had been swept away by the current in the water. Water on J.P.Road was almost neck high for me. This man, who like me, had to take this road to reach home offered to help me make my way despite the warnings but my courage failed me. I decided to wait with the Fire Brigade men who were arranging for shelter in a nearby school. He decided to move on with a few other men. He walked away holding the folder above his head. After waiting in the school building for a few hours, I moved out again around 4 a.m.with a few college girls and finally found my way home around five in the morning.

This was Mumbai known all over the world by various names…the “inhuman city”, “the maximum city”,  “the city that never sleeps”, “ the city where nobody has time”, “the city where if you fall people walk past you”. That night I saw the true spirit of Mumbai… that undying spirit …to not give up…to move on despite all obstacles….the compassion that it hides beneath its tough and “don’t care” exterior. People came out of their homes with water and food. Young boys from local slums came out and stood in the pouring rain near open manholes to warn people who were walking in the dark for miles. They tied ropes so that we could hold on to them and keep our balance in the surging waters. They stood with torches in their hands to light our paths. They were boys and men who had already lost all they had to the rains.

These are moments when your faith in man is restored. Goodness can stand up and say “I still rule the world.”

DS

ANARKALI DISCO CHALEE

It all began with a wedding invitation a year and a half ago, and like any other girl, the most important question for me was, ‘What do I wear?’ My mother was more concerned than me. While I was still considering wearing one of my ‘too dressy for college’ salwar kameez, my mother felt that none of them were fit for an occasion like a wedding. I could wear a sari for the main ceremony but I needed something for the mehendi and sangeet.

 Now, that was the time when the ‘Anarkalis’ were in trend. I had stayed away from it for a long time because I was pretty sure that I would be lost in the overflowing outfit making waves in the fashion and social circuit. For a person who has always had to stand in the first or maximum, the second row in the school assembly, it would be like wearing a tent. But when I went shopping with my mom, that was literally the only thing being shown in all the shops. And so I ended up buying this Anarkali!

After hunting at least ten to fifteen shops, trying out innumerable ones and rejecting as many for various reasons I finally settled on a pretty piece, midnight blue with golden work on it.

My father was surprised, to say the least, that I actually bought it. Knowing my style, he was pretty sure that I would find them all too shiny, embellished or gaudy. So when I finally wore it at home to show it to him, he was still finding it hard to believe his eyes. I think he still imagines me in ‘Shosh and t-shirt with two ponytails’!

So we packed it up and put it away to be brought out on the big day. To complete the outfit, I ordered a pair of earrings online. This was the beginning of a series of unfortunate events!!

The earrings turned out to be heavier than the Albatross around the Mariner’s neck. I could wear them only to sing ‘Hang down your head Tom Dooley’! So I returned them.

Then, sadly, the wedding never took place…and my Anarkali remained wrapped up in the cupboard!

I thought I would wear it to somebody else’s wedding. I started telling my friends or their siblings to tie the knot and let me wear my dress! It’s not that such occasions never came, but whenever they did, I could not attend. The explanation in one line- ‘I am studying to become a Doctor’! That sort of sums up your entire life- either you are studying for a university exam or you are studying for PG entrance exam or you are working as an apprentice to Count Dracula (read internship)!

Then I decided I would wear it on Durga Puja, that time of the year when Bongs dress up in ‘Notun Jaama’ and throng the Pandals with full bhakti in their hearts for ‘Pet Puja’! Durga Puja also came. The one day that I was going out I thought ‘Yeh iss occasion ke liye thoda zyada ho jayega’ and changed my mind about wearing the Anarkali. And so it lay, untouched, but not forgotten!

Today, with the Fawad Fever reaching critical levels, the Pakistani suits are in vogue. The fashion calendar has changed with the New Year. Anarkalis have become ‘such a thing of the past’!

So the question is what happens to it now? Does it find its haven, worn to celebrate the panache and royalty of Princesses and Queens? Or does it suffer the same fate as the star crossed lover, buried alive to be remembered only in tales? My dilemma is best summed up in famous lines by Emperor Akbar in the movie of the same name, “ Salim tujhe marne nahi dega…aur hum Anarkali tujhe jeene nahin denge…”

It finds its way in our household jokes once in a while. Like when my new bright blue sneakers with fluorescent pink swoosh came I almost sent my mother into a fit when I said I would wear them with my Anarkali!!

Ab to bas ek hi option reh gaya hai…the day I go to a disco (one fine day) I shall wear it and dance to ‘Anarkali Disco Chalee!!’    

MS

LICENSE TO LIVE

You’ve all heard of the illustrious Sens…from Sun Yat Sen to Mian Tansen, from Mrinal Sen to Amartya Sen. This is not about them at all. It’s about us three- Mama Sen, Papa Sen and Docky Sen. All of us write and have styles of our own. But since we do not write too often, just decided to club the writings. We will write about experiences of life, of people we know, we meet, of happiness and sadness, of fantasy and spirituality…almost everything.

LICENCE TO LIVE

Meet Mr. Mukherjee, a man in his mid-fifties, medium built and fair. He is said to have a business of his own of which I have never asked him any more. I meet Mr. Mukherjee on my infrequent visits to Prayas, an NGO that works for educating 300 odd slum children. The children go to municipal schools but Prayas gives them educational assistance which they do not find anyone to help them at home. There are no rooms where the children study but they sit under the open sky outside shops which have not yet opened, on mats….monsoon classes are left to your imagination and feeling how fortunate we were and our children are. This is truly a street school.

Mr. Mukherjee comes to Prayas every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday in an auto rickshaw. He carries with him 2 huge steel dabbas which are filled with khichdi he picks up from ISCON, Juhu. The children bring with them a tiffin box each and at the end of the class, stand in a queue where Mr. Mukherjee pours a handful of hot fresh khichdi. The children relish the good food and leave for home thanking the teachers. There is a little bit of khichdi left behind every day in the dabbas which goes to the woman who washes the utensils. She has three small kids and this is one good meal for the family as well.

Talking to Mr. Mukherjee today who is fondly called the Dabbawalla and has a constant smile on his face, I came to know of the concept of License to Live. He says every morning when he wakes up, the first thing he does is to take a handful of bajra and puts it in the small bowl kept of the window ledge. This bajra is for the birds who come during the day to eat. Our Dabbawalla said when he does this one act he feels he has earned his license to live for the day.

If life is a journey and driving on the road needs a valid driving license, Mr. Mukherjee believes he needs to renew his license to live everyday. Life is all about giving and sharing. We are fortunate to have a good life and each one of us can do a bit of good everyday. The Dabbawalla firmly believes that what he does for people beyond his own family brings him good fortune, fortune of a smile of a stranger somewhere which he feels keeps him going.

Have you renewed you Licence to Live today?

SS