Ammi

This is a sequel to the previous blog http://punctuationsandmore.blogspot.in/2015/07/mercy-at-crossroads.html

 Hello, I’m Mehrunisa

It’s been 24 years since

Another man in white clothes

Father Menezes  took me home

St. Catherine’s Home

From the roadside existence

To a shelter, school to read

Food to eat, a bed to sleep

Father lovingly called me La Nina

Literally ‘The Child’

Poetically ‘The Cool One’

As against the blistering hot El Nino

Father was truly a father to me

In a cloak of white, my saviour

Not all men in white are bad

Colour of clothes

Do not tell the complete story

It is what is inside

That truly matters.

Today I’ve grown

I’ve a job that pays

And a home to stay as well

So for me now only one thing matters

Bringing Ammi home

For 23 years she’s lived without me

She’s lived with bit of a morsel a day

Standing at crossroads

A bowl in hand

With no place to live

And no place to return at day end

For her, time stood still

The same crossing all these years

People there had grown

Kids who sat at back seats

Now have steering wheels in hand

Those with small cars

Have moved on to larger fanciful ones

They all have seen Ammi

Grow old and frail

Standing the same way

Just bent down a little now

Some saw her with generosity

Some with apathy and disdain

But today is the day

When I am bringing her home

Home to her daughter

She’s coming to Her Home today.

Ammi just won’t stop crying

She just can’t believe her fortune

Her little one’

Her Mehrunisa’s grown up now

Has a house with a name plate

Her dream had come true

That her little one will never stand

At crossroads, at mercy of others

She kissed the doorstep to my house

Jokingly even rang the bell

Laughed aloud

As she even knocked the door

And as she took her first step in

Stood still for long

Just the eyes roving

Admiring in awe

Allah Meherbaan

God is Merciful.

Ammi needed a bath

So I took her in myself

Scrubbed her feet

Over and over again

Years of dirt

Fool that I was trying

To wash them in one go

Held her arms

Palms that had gone so hard

Pressed them against my cheeks

Felt the warmth of a mother’s love

Come through her touch

Washed her hair

Over and over again

She laughed

Seeing the shower above

With water pouring in droplets

It reminded her of rains on the streets

When Lord God himself rained

Poured down on her uncovered body

Maybe I couldn’t see her tears

Getting washed away under the shower

Dried her with one towel, then another

Draped her in a new sari

Oh how beautiful she looked today

She was tall dark & beautiful

For years this beauty had been held back

World was oblivious

But today she is mine

Mine to see and care for

And tomorrow will be ours.

Ammi wouldn’t say it

But she was hungry

So I made some rice quickly

Put it on a plate

Added some gravy to it

She again started crying

Much more than mere sobs

She had never had such a meal before

A half eaten bread

A spoilt fruit

Some crumbs from trash

Is all she had had till then

With shaking fingers

She stretched her hands ahead

To hold the plate

I held it back

Then took the rice in my hand

Fed her myself

Ammi just gulped it down

With water after every take of food

Today she was my Baby

And me her Ammi.

My talkative Ammi

Went silent that day

Unable to speak or

Won’t speak at all

Tired she looked

So walked her to my bed

Made her sit

Asked her to lie down

She did, put her head down

The softness of the pillow hurt

She shook it off

After a while

She mimed with her hands

Expressed a wish

She wished to sleep on the floor

With the light on

Same way as she would

Under the street lights

All I could offer her

A clean spread below and no more

It made her happy

She needed me, I felt

She’ll come around soon

Adjust adapt to the new life

With her little one.

I couldn’t sleep that night

When the sunlight came through

Quickly got up

Made some nice tea

Took some Marie biscuits

It was time to wake her up

Ammi Utho

Ammi Utho

She wouldn’t move

How deeply in slumber she was

Years of solitude

Years of pain

One good night’s sleep

In a house of her own seemed endless

Ammi Utho

Ammi Utho

She just won’t wake up

Turned her

Touched her

Felt her pulse

Understood the greatest truth of life

Ammi will not wake up

Meri  Ammi no more.

Called for a hearse

A long black one

Put her on it

Sat with the driver

Took the car through

The same crossroad

Where Ammi stood for years

Suddenly felt the traffic stop

Stop for Ammi to pass by

Those who never stopped before

Stopped today

Ammi’s first ride

Ammi’s last ride

Ammi’s ride to Heavenly Gates

Her dream fulfilled

Of a ride in a big car

Then the traffic moved on

My life moved on

No stone for Ammi

At the crossroads

Why should it be anyway

Who was she?

Just my Ammi and no more

Now I always keep my car windows down

Showing

Little Mercy at Big Crossroads.

SS

Mercy at Crossroads

Standing at the crossroads

Not of life that’s a long straight road

But here I am at a traffic signal

Everyday from dawn to dusk and more

A bowl in hand

A baby wrapped around

Walking on foot so bare

Window to window

Knocking the panes

Hoping some kind soul will open

Open the window

Open his good soul

And drop a coin or two

God Bless.

When I see the young girls

Sitting on back seats

Beautifully dressed

Cream here, powder there

I too wish I could be like them

Even if it is for just a day

When I drop my rags

For a fine silken saree

A bindi on my forehead

Bedecked with jewels

From head to toe

Smiling and shining

I know my God

When he asks me for a wish

Some day, He will

And put me in a big car

Even if it were my last ride

To His Heavenly Home.

Funny isn’t it

When everyone on road

Wants to see the light Green

I long for Red

Longer the Red

Longer I get to try

Better the chance

For something to drop by

How much that drop means

Not to me but to another life

Hanging by a thin cloth

Hung around my  back

Sometimes clung to my breast

What is a drop for you

Is a drop of milk for her

What is some change for you

Is lifeline to her.

Does she deserve to live

I often ask

Why shouldn’t I end it all

For me and for her

A little pain

Even if it is big pain

It will only be

For just a while

Save us this misery

Of everyday

Standing in sunlight

No cap on head

No shades for eyes

Just you and me Darling

When you open your eyes

When you smile

Your twinkle and joy

Keeps me alive and going

Window to window

Day after day

I call her Mehrunisa

Or My Sun

My Sun that shines

Even when morning Sun sets

She wakes up at night

Gives me the light of life.

I saw him the other day

Mehrunisa’s father

Behind the wheel

Of his big white car

With his wife affront

Daughters at the back seat

How badly I was thrown out

Kicked and abused

On to the street I went

With no one to stand by me

With no one to trust me anymore

Here I am

In tattered clothes

And a bowl in hand

And there he is

In his spotless white clothes

Starched and ironed

The moment he saw me

Screeched stop for a moment

Then sped away

Even with the light in red

They say cowards run

They say Allah punishes the evil

They say evil never pays

Waiting for Heavenly justice

Waiting not for punishment of evil

But Him caring for us.

And surely you will not ask me

Why with moving hands and feet

I don’t work

Oh those men in whites…

No one loves a life like this

No one wants a life as this

Not for your children

We too have desires

We too have dreams

We too wish to change

We too wish to live

So next time you see me

Show a little mercy

Show a little care

I want to live

She wants to live…

No you will never see Mehrunisa there

For I will never let that day come

She will shine

Shine bright and loud as the Sun

She must go

To school, then to work

Then one day she’ll take me home

Her Home, Our Home

A little kindness please do show

At crossings, at red lights

Don’t look down on us

Don’t trample us down

Show a little mercy

Show a little care

We too want to live a life

Of a simple meal a day

Of some food, some clothing.

Allah is Kind

Stay Blessed

SS

BICYCLE THIEF

This is not about Vittori De Sica's1948 all time classic movie Bicycle Thieves. It’s a short story with the Queen’s immortal song in between episodes.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

The story started somewhere in mid sixties when a brat, a spoilt brat, had just started running around. As part of the family heirloom, he inherited a tricycle…rickety and rusty, one that had been passed on to him after his two elder sisters had outgrown the same. Fashion had by then changed ,even if slowly, for our brat had seen someone in the neighbourhood using a scooty where you put one foot on the slim base and with the other you push ahead with hands on a handle that was high and easy to hold. Tantrums were thrown for many a day to remove the back seat of the tricycle. The father bought peace in the house and took it to the cycle store nearby who removed the back seat after much struggle and breaking a saw blade.  The lad had just stolen his first bicycle victory.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

In no time with just 5 paise per 30 minutes of hire, the lad graduated to a bicycle without any supporting wheels at the sides. The expertise kept improving to the extent that slowly he started hiring bigger bicycles where his foot would never reach the ground. The latest fad was riding big bikes with crossed legs and half strokes of the pedal… scissor cut you may call it. Next the focus shifted to sitting on the back seat because sitting on the rod in front was baby like. This the parents would not agree to no matter how much he wailed. One day the opportunity came in the form of an army havaldar who worked in the Ministry of Defence with the lad’s mother and came to deliver something from the army canteen. The mother after much persuasion agreed for a short ride for him on the back seat. Wow…it felt so big sitting at the back waving to friends who were looking at him in awe. As luck would have it, good things in life don’t stay for long. As the ride was coming to a close, a scooter drove by with gusto and somehow the lad’s legs which were so far coiled below the driver’s seat opened and one of them went into the wheel….aaaahhaaa….this time the cries were for real. These cries were of intense pain as the leg got stuck in the rim and spokes of the big Hercules bicycle. Even to this day the scars of the injury remain near the right ankle. A painful victory for a stolen victorious ride.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle

No sooner had the lad got better than the next demand came but he was asked to stay away from riding for some time. This time the Battle of Cycle Rim began…having seen a number of his colony friends putting a stick to the centre and rolling the steel rim was a fascinating sight…how could he be away from life, he thought! The parents just put their foot down on this demand. “we’ve put you in the best missionary school in the city and you want to roll the rim on the streets? Na, Na! Ekdom na.” By now the boy knew how to make Na to Haan. Using sentimental stuff that always works with parents, trying to be a good boy doing his homework daily and helping mother with some errands like getting things from the nearby market…the father reluctantly bought him a rim….heavenly delightful! Wroooom…with bare feet and a simple wooden handle, the speed at which the rim would go was phenomenal as compared to the usual rubber wheel and the sound it made always made heads turn. Ta Ra Rim Pum Pum to another steal.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my bike

The longest battle in history was possibly the Hundred Years War between the English and the French but the Bicycle War at home that erupted soon after was no less. The demand was now for a proper colourful Hero Cycle…small, beautiful and stylish. Even though the mother was dilly dallying, the father on this one point was adamant. This time the otherwise pampering father just would not budge. Both the father and son had Saturdays off. With mother off to office and with no fear of physical battering, most Saturdays, if not all, turned into a battle ground between an aggressive son and a defensive father. Lying on the floor with hands and legs being thrown about were the starting points of agitation which later went at times into a sort of blackmailing event with the son threatening to commit suicide by jumping off the water tank situated nearby if his demand was not met. The suicidal streak possibly was not strong enough but on this point the father just wouldn’t give in. Later on, the lad heard from someone that the father, when he was young, had lost two of his cousins who were crushed by a truck while riding a bicycle. He would never sit on two wheelers even if someone offered him a lift. So what? “Everyone who had a cycle would not end up having accidents. Why should it happen to me?” he said as the tussle continued for days, months and years. Bicycle stalemate for once.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my bike

I want to ride my bicycle

Finally after many, many and many years when the boy turned 15, a blue coloured Hero bike was presented as a birthday present by the father with a caveat- do not venture to the main road, just ride it in the colony. The rule was followed for a few months and as the final exams got over, it was summer vacation and the season to breaking rules had come. In the peak summer of Delhi, rides began from RK Puram to Malviya Nagar and sometimes to Lajpat Nagar and back.  For those who are not familiar with Delhi’s topography, one such round would be 40 plus kilometers. A few coins in the pocket just to have water from the vendor who would push the plunger down and out came cold, icy water was all it needed for the long rides. Today when you see young kids in the colony looking like gladiators before going into the arena with smart colourful helmets, elbow and knee guards and beautiful bottles attached to their bikes, it seemed absolutely caveman existence in those days. Although it felt good initially having your own nice bike but since the gap between the want and the getting of the same was so long that the euphoria did not last long. Soon the bicycle lay on the 3^rd floor landing unattended for days and months with dust all over. In victory, in defeat my bicycle.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my bike

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride it where I like it

By now the lad was a young man preparing for the ISC Board exams when one of his close pals, Murali, one day asked for the bike to go for tuitions from Dr. Rajendra Prasad Road to Pusa Road every evening from one Mr. Kuriakose. Why not my friend? You’ve saved me the ignominy of seeing my prized possession lying unused and in a pitiable state and here you want to use it ,making the lad appear like the mythical giver, Karna. And so the bike went over for use to this friend who was spirited, daring and had an insatiable hunger for adventure. His first long distance travel on the bike was in 1986 post the Bhopal Gas Tragedy when a British activist David Bergman came to Delhi to lead a group of protestors on a bicycle rally to Bhopal. The next long drive was his travelling from Delhi to Bombay, yes it was still not Mumbai yet. He along with another friend would plan such trips and the most famous of all was a bicycle trip to Khardungla, the highest motor able road in the world….all this on a simple city Hero bike which by them was reasonably old. Citius Altius Fortius My Bicycle.

Bicycle races are coming your way

So forget all your duties Oh Yeah

On your marks get set  go

Bicycle races Bicycle race Bicycle race

…I want to ride my bicycle…

The bike travelled a lot but the master stayed back. When the time came to shift from the government quarters to their own house in another part of the town, the bike was sold by the owner for a pittance. Life came a full circle when our hero had a daughter and he bought her a Lady Bird cycle without any fear or hesitation, taught her to ride which she did with finesse and never went riding long distances, always kept the cycle neat and clean and when she outgrew and was shifting to another city, she was happy to give it to the little girl of the dhobi in the neighbourhood…no tantrums, no breaking rules, no selling…but boys will be boys, always. Somehow the beautiful machine called bicycle never stayed with him for long…a Mein Kampf at every stage followed by victory and then the wheel turning and him losing the bicycle. A full cycle of gaining and losing the two wheels just goes on and on.

Who’s been playing this hide & seek? Wonder who’s the biggest bicycle thief after all?

THEY DON’T MAKE THEM ANY MORE

He had a stocky build with thick, curly, black hair, sparkling white teeth, a broad smile and bow legs. He was our Man Friday, our Ramu Kaka, our Jeeves and our Uncle Tom all rolled into one. He was our Bhola.

When Bhola first set foot in our house he was just a fourteen year old boy. It was the year that I was born…when he first set eyes on me I was just a few days old and my elder brother was not yet seven. Bhola came from a village near Panskura in the Midnapore district of West Bengal. His elder brother had worked in our house for some time, but when my father found out that he had done quite a few years of schooling and had dropped out in order to earn, he helped him to get employment with the Indian Railways. My father did the same for Bhola as well as his younger brother. I do remember his brothers but somehow Bhola will always have a special place in our hearts. One reason being that his stint in our house was the longest (he was with us for almost 10-11years) but mainly because he stood out among the trio.

I never called him Bhola-dada a suffix we had been taught to use for anyone older and admonished on several occasions for not doing so. I did call his elder brother dada, who often came to visit us, but never him. Bhola was our friend, philosopher and guide. Bhola had the solution to all our childhood problems; he was our protector (mainly from my mother’s wrath), our companion and our partner in crime. Many a times he bore the brunt of my mother’s anger just to save us from some misdeed or the other. Once, as a toddler, I turned the garden hose pipe on myself on a hot summer afternoon and the poor fellow was sent home packing for failing to take care of me. My brother did try to reason with my mother that the entire fault was mine but to no avail. But fortunately for us, when my mother’s anger had subsided, his elder brother brought him back.

He had lost his mother when he was quite young and he called my mother ‘Ma’ and my Dad ‘Babu’. My brother still recalls how my mother once dragged him from under the bed to give him a sound thrashing and may be that would have been the end of my brother till my screams alerted Bhola who immediately came to the poor fellow’s rescue. Whenever my mother got angry with us, which incidentally was quite often in those days, she would leave the house in a great huff. Bhola would take care of us ,give us our food and later in the evening take us to Chakravarty Jethima’s or Ghosh Mashima’s house(in that tiny colony there were only a few houses she could possibly go to ) to bring her back. Bhola completed my brother’s cricket team, wrestled with him, partnered him in many a TT or badminton match, he taught me to ride a bike, to climb a tree, to go fishing. His transistor would always be on, even in the kitchen, and it was here that we were introduced to the immortal tunes of Binaca Geet Mala. He made us bonfires, lit all the crackers that frightened me and when my dad suddenly said no to water colours one particular Holi  he made sure that our pichkaris  were all ready before the ‘water brigade’ from the neighbourhood turned up. He taught me how to make a mud house and how to spin a top in the palm of one’s hand. He taught me to play marbles and even made a slingshot for me. Nobody could sharpen pencils the way he did and many years later I really missed him every time the lead kept breaking while sharpening my little girl’s colour pencils. He taught me how to polish shoes the way shoe shine boys actually did with the cloth and also how to roll out chapattis without them looking like the map of Sri Lanka. We knew he had a family of his own but somehow we could never imagine him to be not part of ours.

From Chittaranjan he went with us to Bombay (this was mid seventies)… that boy from Midnapore who still spoke in his dialect was completely at a loss in that big city unable to understand any language. But even though he had never been to school, he was so good with languages that by the time he had left Bombay he was fluent in Hindi and could manage a decent conversation in Marathi and Gujarati. Initially, he would get lost in that city every time he went out despite my dad telling him where exactly to alight. He would invariably get off at the wrong station unable to speak the language or read anything. I was then, I think, in the fourth or fifth standard and that is when I embarked on my first adult education programme. Bhola enrolled as my one and only student and since I chose English to be the medium of instruction, he was initiated directly to ABCD and 1234 without going through the Bengali or Hindi alphabet or numerals. At the end of a lot of screaming, hitting, scolding, Bhola could sign his name in English, manage his own bank account, and rattle of the grocery accounts to my mother in English—“palak two rupees fifty paise, alu three rupees seventy five paise.….total fifty eight rupees fifty paise” much to my mother’s annoyance. Bhola knew how to get his bank work done but unfortunately he still needed my mother to write his letters to his father for him in Bangla!

He was so intelligent that he could repair almost anything from an electric iron, toaster to a radio. He had learnt from no one but this uneducated man had a natural gift with gadgets. He would open up everything, with my mother yelling behind him to stop, and gradually reassemble everything to a perfect working condition. Probably he had a genius in him which went unnoticed and untapped in his struggle for survival against poverty and illiteracy.

There was, around this time, a pan India railway strike and we were stuck outside Bombay (it had not been rechristened as Mumbai). Relatives were expected from Paris and it fell on Bhola to receive them at the airport and look after them till my parents reached home. My uncle and aunt were so pleased with his hospitality that they decided to take Bhola with them to every place they visited in Bombay including a dinner at the Copper Chimney!

My father very often mentioned one guest from office and landed up with three for lunch, two of whom would turn out to be vegetarians! In Bengali homes fish is always ready but a variety of veggies unlikely. Sometimes he even ‘forgot’ to mention that there would be guests with him! Even though it was my mother who had taught Bhola to cook(she always mentioned that as a boy he was so enthusiastic to learn he would stand on a flat stool to reach up and look into the pan while cooking), later in such situations, she depended entirely on him. He had such a quick mind for ‘jugaad’ and such nimble fingers that by the time my Dad and his colleagues would sit down for lunch everything would be ready-from the dal-fry and bhindi sabzi to the mutton rogan josh. Even when my friends came for lunch, he was so partial to me that he would ensure, while serving, the largest prawns came on my plate! I once had jaundice as a kid and for quite a while had to survive on boiled khichdi and sweet lime juice. The moment the doctor said I was fine, Bhola got me a Kwality Chocobar, and believe it or not, he actually ran with it all the way home so it wouldn’t melt just because that was the first thing I wanted!

Bhola too loved my parents no matter how much my mother scolded him. One day she found him talking to my Dad on the internal railway phone. My mother was furious with him and reminded him that we were not allowed to call him up from home any time and disturb him…he could be in a meeting, she admonished. Bhola quietly told her that his Babu had specifically asked him to follow the cricket commentary and keep him updated from time to time!

In the 22 houses that we shifted to and from during the course of my father’s transfers none of my mother’s precious stuff would have lasted till the end if Bhola had not overseen the entire packing and transfers. When we moved back from Bombay to Kolkata, Bhola stayed on as his job with the railways was confirmed by then, but he was there with us every time we moved house, every time there was a wedding or celebration in the family. The relief that I saw on my mother’s and aunts’ faces every time he turned up at any family function was enough to explain everything. His loyalty to the family was so fierce that he could be trusted with everything… from kids to keys. The last wedding he attended was mine. The moment he landed with his brother everyone just slumped back in their chairs ready with their demands and Bhola was there to make everyone happy!

With time each one of us moved on. We had heard of Bhola’s marriage and about his wife and two daughters who lived in his native village. He commuted to his place of work from there. His brothers had also settled down and everyone became busy in their own little spheres. The last time we all met was at my wedding. When my father suddenly passed away, my mother wanted him to be with us. She tried to reach him but was unable to do so. There was no news for quite some time and my mother was a little sad that even on hearing about his ‘Babu’s’ demise Bhola did not come to see her. But how could he? We came to know later that the poor fellow himself was no more in this world!

DS