THE GREATEST GIFT

(Note- Although this short story was written five years ago for a Tata Group magazine, it still remains one of my personal favourites.)

“How did you do in your final exams this year, young man?” I looked up at my father’s friend who, instead of worrying about the prices of Hilsa and Rohu in the fish market, seemed more concerned about my scores. With complete confidence, I replied, “62 percent, Uncle, fourth in class.” My father just kept quiet even though his 10 year old son had just propelled himself from the bottom of the class to fourth at the top.

My father had always been biased towards me. He put me in one of the best schools in Delhi but kept my sister in Kendriya Vidyalaya. He put his money on me even though my sister was a much brighter student. At eight years of age, I had been caught copying my dad’s signature by none other than my mother; I had often lied about stomach ache and headaches just to stay at home on days when I had not done my homework; I had stolen coins from his pockets ….none of this stopped my father from believing that his son had some bright spark and would turn around in life someday. Everyone, including my mother, had given up on me but my father would tell everyone, “One day my son will do well. You just wait and see.”

I managed to get History Honours in college and told my father that I would join the civil services. My father was pleased but I spent the next five years in college more on the football field than in classrooms prompting my friends to joke that I would walk into IFS- Indian Football Service. My father paid a king’s ransom for my admission to special classes but the best I could clear were the first two hurdles of written exams but missed clearing the interviews a couple of times.

My father passed away in the year 2000, still nursing the hope that his son would do well. He never said anything to me but I always felt that somewhere deep inside there was a tinge of sadness for the son who never shone.

Nearly 10 years had passed when my wife and I got an invitation to preside over the Annual Day Celebrations of my daughter’s school as she had topped the nation in the All India CBSE Examination in the science stream. The school used to invite the topper’s parents to address the audience consisting of students, teachers and parents as part of the celebrations. As I walked towards the podium, just could not help remembering my father as I spoke…

“Today as I stand here, I am reminded of my father, 35 years ago. My father would get a letter from the school almost every year just as we got one this year. Each year the letter would be signed by the principal of the school, as it is today. Every year he was asked to come to the school, as we have today. Every year my father would go to the school auditorium, as we have come here today. This is where the similarities end. In my dad’s letter would be written that his son had to get this much of additional marks in Hindi, Mathematics and Science in the final examination if he wished to get promoted to the next class. Not here today. My father would be a sad man on those days….not here today. I am however certain that wherever my dad is today, he will be looking down as a happy and proud man, as I am today. My daughter has given me the greatest gift in the world by repaying my debt to my Dad.”

SS

WINDOW(S) SHOPPING

I truly believe that love for shopping is an inherent feature of the XX chromosome. I do not know if some researchers have already drawn this inference and presented their papers in some illustrious American or Canadian University but it is a conclusion I have arrived at after completing nearly half a century on this planet.

My childhood was spent in a small railway colony called Chittaranjan where the only things that I remember seeing and buying were small aluminum boxes which we called “tin suitcases” in which all the kids in that colony carried their school books. After a couple of weeks in school these boxes acquired multiple dents from constant battering in our hands and we had to wait a year to be promoted to the next class when a new one would be purchased. Yes, there was also a Bata shop where you could get three types of school shoes – Naughty Boy shoes for boys, buckled shoes with little pinholes hear the toes for girls and, when you grew up a little, you graduated to the ‘ballerina’ shoes which were the ultimate in fashion. There was also the Durga Puja special shoes…brown strapped leather sandals for little boys and beige leather slippers for little girls which had three sad brown paisleys on each slipper with little raised rubber heels to give you the feel of  'high heeled’ shoes. I wonder who designed shoes for Bata in those days but it enjoyed complete monopoly despite being totally devoid of aesthetics. Our dresses and other accessories came from Calcutta during our biannual trips to the city. Baba’s tours to Calcutta or Delhi were our greatest attractions since they meant toys, dolls’ houses, tiny tea sets, miniature sofa sets for me while Dada got his cricket and football kits, TT and badminton racquets. The pretty jooties and silk kurtis with zari motifs came from Agra and Delhi along with my favourite  ‘pethas’ and ‘soan halwas’.

Next the scene shifted to another small industrial town called Durgapur – a little superior to Chittaranjan. Shopping meant going to Benachity Market which meant driving down in some uncle’s car. Those trips were associated with Cadbury  milk chocolates, coloured saunf which came out of a Joker’s mouth, jujubes which we called ‘sponge lozenges’, cigarette toffees which we ‘smoked’ with such poise, colourful plastic  water bottles , tiffin boxes and of course beautiful dolls. Once, in one of our Benachity sojourns, my dad bought me a pair of dolls- a boy and a girl. What beauties… the boy was a baldy with painted brown hair but the girl had such lovely golden hair which could be tied in plaits or pony-tails and the packet came with a feeding bottle for the boy doll and a hairbrush for the girl doll. But good things do not last forever…. that evening an old family friend visited us. They also had a daughter… I never liked her much...who, in all generosity, had got me a small mud jug which was painted black. I still have no clue to what purpose that tiny “surahi” would serve and why they had got it for me!  Anyway, my parents thought I should also give her  a return gift…. “Why don’t you give her one of your new dolls?” Yes, why not… are these guys morons? I got the boy doll minus the bottle. No, my father in all ‘fairness’ thought I was being selfish and so suggested that I should let her choose! And just what I had dreaded … I have still not been able to forgive my dad for this… this girl chose not only the girl doll but also the tiny green hairbrush!

My Baba’s next posting was Mumbai. Living in Cuffe Parade, my mom’s favourite haunt was Colaba Causeway and I, her ten year old accomplice. Very often, on my returning from school in the afternoon, the two of us would take the short cut via Badhwaar Park and Pasta Lane to Causeway. After our small town market places the Causeway was a dream come true, a gratification for all the senses. Never had I seen such “infinite variety”- such beautiful dresses, such a dazzling collection of sarees, lehengas, such colourful shoes, bags and other accessories, such a plethora of knick-knacks from costume jewellery to brass artefacts. Time would fly by just walking up and down the two sides of the road. We would be home before dad came back from office. Guests who came to Bombay would be happily accompanied by us to this magical place where not only were there offers of gastronomical treats like  Frankie, Chaat (in those days Kailash Parbat had not grown so big and neither had it spread its branches) kebabs, kulfis and faloodas but also Cambridge offered great casual shirts for Rs 100/- and Meena Bazaar  carried on a round-the-year sale of sarees  while Apsara could really transform you into one. Our guests went back happily loaded with Kolhapuri chappals, silver trinkets, Khatau voiles, Binny’s cotton and polyester sarees.

If Bombay had its Crawford Market, Calcutta could boast of its New Market. Our next port of call was Calcutta. I had already heard exotic tales of New Market, once upon a time called the Hogg Market, from my parents. New Market was another magic land where everything could be bought – from ‘bagher bachcha’ (tiger cubs) to porcelain dolls .Though by the time I saw New Market, the mythical tiger cubs or baby crocodiles had been banned, but it was definitely a place where you could find anything- from exotic pets, plants and petunias to the trendiest of clothes and accessories. One of my favourite haunts was a tiny bookshop, which I frequented with my friends, that had one of the most amazing collection of fiction. And of course there was Nahoum’s, one of the best and cheapest bakeries I have ever seen. The bespectacled grandfatherly uncles just sat there and talked among themselves. They never counted how many pastries you had eaten or even bothered if you paid or not. The day New Market was gutted I felt orphaned. I never could take to the ‘new’ New Market which rose from its ashes.

Then there was Gariahat and its neighbouring areas- Triangular Park, Hindustan Park, Dover Road. My dad once called it our ‘Tirth sthaan’. I still believe that it is the best place to buy sarees…. from Banarsis to Tangails, Dhakai jamdanis to Bomkais, from Dhanekhalis to Balucharis. And who can forget what the footpaths of Gariahat could offer – from terracotta murals to Shantiniketani bags, ‘big shopper bags’ to clothes clips, GKW safety pins to readymade blouses.

Shopping got even more elegant as the curtains were raised on the arcades of Connaught Place and the spotlight fell on Greenways, Kalpana, Snow White. India was rediscovered as we explored the emporiums of Baba Khadak Singh Marg.  We lost complete track of time and money as we gave ourselves up totally to the maze of Karol Bagh or wound our ways in the labyrinth of Lajpat Nagar. No city can beat Delhi as it unfolds its yards and yards of variety. Where else in this world is a Chandni Chowk whose every ‘gully’ is dedicated to a different item which could be anything from parathas to dupattas. Who can forget the annual pilgrimage to Mohini Knitwear sales and the mayhem at Pragati Maidan. Of course there was fun in the madness, there was life in the wilderness. Later, these gave way to more stylish and sedate settings of Dilli Haat with its mouthwatering momo.

Change they say is the only constant in life. Now we are living in the age of the ‘ multitudinous’ malls. A new mall crops up every other day. Monsoon Mania follows the Summer Sale, Diwali Bumper is followed by the Christmas Extravaganza. Life has become so much more convenient… no heat, no grime and no traffic to evade. You don’t have to look for a chai shop , your legs won’t ache from walking and no sweat will trickle down you back . But yes, you do miss the haggling and the hawkers’ cries, you do miss the triumph of turning back and buying your favourite kurta for the price you first quoted.

But soon the malls will take a backseat too. The amazing Amazon and the Flipkart’s carts have more fare to offer than all the Chandni Chowks and Shopper Stops put together. You just have to click on the mouse and your cart will be delivered to your house. You just have to sit back and enjoy as each window opens and shuts and opens again. The show just goes on.

But the fairer sex better beware- the XY chromosomes are fast catching up with us. With a click of the mouse these guys can do as much shopping and sometimes even seal better deals than us. So I say buck up!

DS

NATURE- SUBLIME AND FURIOUS

NEVERLAND

The treasures of the world are scattered far and wide

So much to see in a life so small,

Said she, Oh! I know a place

Where you can find them all.

It is invincible as the ocean

And as steady as the hilly contours,

It is as alive as the woods

And shrouded in mystery as the misty moors.

The warmth is felt as you enter its realm

The breeze there breathes peace and serenity,

The soft earth beneath lacks the colour green

Yet it is the potent symbol of fertility.

There lie two lakes, pure and deep

Blue, black and grey and shimmering green,

The clearest mirrors for all souls

Yet veiling their own with a magical sheen.

They brim with love and glow with faith

And gleam like jewels bright,

But at the hour of storm they kindle their flame

And glint like the armour of a knight.

There rises a hill above the planes

It speaks of will and might,

It kneels with an air of humility

Yet stands tall with revered pride.

At its foot a garden lies

With flowers pink and red,

No bird has sung a sweeter song

Than the birds of this rosy bed.

It must be Neverland, she said

For I have seen, no map showed me this place,

Why said I, haven’t you guessed

It is but a Mother’s Face.

VERSUS

As I got onto a three wheeled carriage

Just another July day

Nothing told me that I would be caught

In the midst of a battle on my way.

Rambling down the path in the concrete jungle

Lost among the honks and sigh

A cool gentle breeze came and shook me up

And made me look up to the sky.

They were gathering, mighty and fierce

The soldiers, clad in grey

The Sun, it crouched and finally stepped down

And the Earth lost its last ray.

The men, they ran from the growing shadow

While the bold ones stood their ground

And distraught at being reminded of heaven above

Others stole sly glances around.

Time stood still, the leaves rustled aloud

As the gale gushed ‘round in all its glory

The Earth waited with bated breath

For the Gods to unleash their fury.

Then the thunders rolled out the drums

The army charged, rumbling and roaring

With a flash of light, ripping the skies apart

The cavalry came down pouring.

And down below the men,

Held up their shields in vain

While every tree held up its arms

And gladly welcomed the rain.

For years the arrogant race has fought

Bloody battles to lay their claim

And here they stood, wet in shame

For it was Mother Nature’s turn to tame.

This war too ended

But without any wounded or dead

And as I reached my destination

I saw Earth come alive instead.

MS

Confessions of a Holi-gan

Today is Holi and looking back in time makes me happy and sad at the same time....in fact in many cases feel embarrassed. By the end of this small piece you will also feel 'Oh My God'.

Holi khela Kya? Khela aur Bahut khela. For sure.

Water balloons ....yes for sure. Would start filling the balloons very early in the morning and have a few buckets full before launching attack. My house was on a main road and at times threw the balloons at people on cycles and two wheelers...don’t recollect anything bad happening but still quite urchin like.

Pichkaari- some small ones, but every year would finally end up using the football pump. This was one thing my dad had to buy for me every year for our mutual love for the beautiful game of soccer. This pump was outstanding as the pressure would be great and in those days the steel body with a black wooden handle would be the most attractive piece of armament in the battlefield of Delhi. You would be quite feared with this AK47 in hand.

Colours and Paints- I was never a ‘gulaal’ person. Would buy the colours available asking the shopkeeper if these were really good and would stay for a long time....of course he would say yes. Gradually, graduated to the silver coloured paints which gave the other person the zombie look. Green and maroon shades were passé. Your ijjat or position in the comity of friends was judged by the quantum of paint that remained on your hands when you went to school the next day after scrubbing with everything from soap to lemon to vim…

Carbon- 15 days prior to this beautiful day we would pick up transistor batteries from road side. These had to be cut open with the precision of a surgeon and the carbon inside crushed to make powder. This was the cheapest but the darkest paint used by me. We would run after boys and girls and rub their cheeks hard making them look like creatures of the night.

Mud- When balloons, paints and water ran out, the war would shift to hand to hand combat with the stronger guys throwing the weaklings on the muddy ground. This would at times get ugly but who cared. I was pretty good at kushti or the Indian style free style wrestling plus always was blessed with friends who would team up and batter others.....show no mercy...no pain, no gain…

Girls- Yes, this was always the high point of Holi! We would go to places where girls would be playing and attack with balloons and paints. With our faces coloured dark and deep we appeared to be wearing the Balaclava mask you see kidnappers and terrorists wearing with just eyes popping out and surely impossible for people to identify the ‘badmaashs’ and ‘battameezs’. Successful ambushes and raids were things you remembered days after the festival had passed. 

Having possibly done everything bad this Despicable Me did not do a few sober things like drinking ‘bhaang’ just stopped at ‘thandai’. Hard liquor and grass were also things this Good Boy never touched even though all these were a shaking distance away with generous friends dying to bring you into the Big Boyz Club. I always admired people who would drive around in bikes and cars on this day going from one friend’s place to another....this remains a bucket list.

Now for a true short story.

I was in Class 4 then and we had shifted from Nanak Pura to RK Puram but still had all my best friends in my earlier colony. During my winter vacation, I went over to my best pals and brothers Uttam and Neelam, who suddenly brought out some paint from their house. Twang....sudden devilish idea struck us as we saw a small kid playing in the park outside in a puddle created by the leaking water hose. 

The Trio quickly went up close, wet their hands a little, rubbed the paint on their hands, caught the little boy and painted him black from head to toe. As luck would have it the kid made such a ruckus that his father quickly came out of the house and started chasing us in his striped pajamas and vest.....all of us were fleet footed and smartly started sprinting in three different directions.

I ran and ran and as I stopped to take some breath and looked back, I saw my pursuer a step behind me. He caught me by the neck...started abusing me in chaste Punjabi which reminded me of my family tree- mother, brother, sister, father..π..¥..≠..©..€..₽..₮..₭..₴..₺.. He did not spare names of animals ...then dragged me to my friend's place and shouted at their mother...”agar agli baar in kutton ke bachchon ne aisa kiya to main police mein report kar doonga”. Police, in those days, was the worst fear we had since the time we opened our eyes. 

For a long time I did not go to Nanak Pura and even later, generally, spared very young kids during the peak times of insurgency when no one else was spared.

Now I stand at the window of my 17 storey flat watching kids play, youngsters and oldies doing rain dance with the DJ belting out one hit raunchy number after another.

Rang Barse...Happy Holi!

WHAT'S IN A LETTER

The other day I went to watch Rael Padamsee’s presentation of the all time favourite “Sound of Music” at the NCPA. Great show at a great place.

But there is another story associated with this. During the interval my husband introduced us to an old acquaintance of his, rather an old client. Since we had heard interesting anecdotes about this gentleman, my daughter and I had no problem in placing him the moment we shook hands with him. He was an enormous seventy-five year old Parsi gentleman (could be more!), an Obstetrician and Gynaecologist by profession, coming from an old family of doctors. Among the stories heard about him were his sudden appearances at my husband’s office perched on a Harley Davidson motorbike. He owned cars with fabulous names which everyone can remember except me. Among them was an open top sports model of Merc! He came to see my husband for his various insurance needs and was extremely pleased with him for having helped him to get a printout of his medical registration number from the MCI site.He had misplaced his own papers and the ‘bungling fools’ in his alma mater Grant Medical College could not help him to locate the same. But thanks to the click of a button he had the important piece of paper in his hand!

After some exchange of preliminary small talk, my ears caught him saying something about having invested some two lakhs that evening in MAPRO. Oh, I thought… Maharashtra Agro Products! Anyway since the play was about to begin we went back to our seats. It was most enjoyable but I could not help thinking about MAPRO. Why would anyone want to buy two lakhs worth jams, jellies and juices! What on earth would he do with all that stuff ! From what I had gathered from my husband, I knew that he was fabulously rich and spent most of his time abroad. So for him two lakhs was nothing. Never mind … let that man do what he wanted with his money. Dalip Tahil was singing “Edelweiss”… I decided to give all idle thoughts a rest and enjoy the song!

On the way back I asked my husband why on earth would anyone want to spend two lakhs on that stuff and my husband was taken by surprise and he remarked “Why not?” I decided to give it a break. Cartons and cartons of jams, juices, fruit concentrates…may be he was a generous soul and would distribute among all his friends and neighbours.

Next morning, armed with an Economic Times, I felt more enlightened…may be he had invested in shares of MAPRO. I was extremely bad about financial matters but assumed that just as you can invest in shares of various companies you could also buy shares in MAPRO…. that seemed to be the most plausible explanation.

As I was serving breakfast to my husband and daughter I found them talking about the old doctor and my incredulity at his decision to become tech savvy. That is when it struck me like a bolt of lightning….Oh my god! All this time I was thinking about MAPRO when actually it was MacPro!

Forgive me O' Steve Jobs for I know not what I say!

DS