What’s in an Age?

Let us just cancel 2020 from our calendars…we will not add it to our age, one year that everything happened, and nothing did.

But age has always been more than just a number, hasn’t it? More of a milestone for some, a burden for others. I, for one, have never really given it much of a thought. I just look forward to birthdays and wish they would come more than once a year! But recently, my five grey strands are no longer shy and have been making more than special appearances. And that got me thinking, am I getting old?

“Baba, I cannot believe you went and played. After promising last year, you still went. You said you will only watch. No, but you played all the matches. You are not in school or college anymore. If you break a bone or pull a muscle, then what are we going to do? Do you know how long it’s going to take to heal? Anyway, nobody ever listens to me, but I am supposed to listen to you people. Doctor banaya hi kyun if you never plan to listen to me. I am not talking to you any more…”

Just a glimpse into the numerous “conversations” I have had with my dad when he would come back after playing a football match. While the sentences change their order, the gist remains the same. If, for a change, we do manage to force him not to play a company match or go run a marathon, using every possible scientific and emotional argument, that will be the day he will sulk. He will hardly talk, watch news, be as unanimated as a child who has been asked to finish his homework instead of going out to play. 

While he has been at home during this lockdown, he sent me a photograph one day that triggered an exponential reaction to this. Him doing a shirshasan!!! Within a matter of 15 seconds, I had sent possibly 30 messages. When I called in the evening, I told my mother, “Please don’t give the phone to him, I do not wish to speak to him. He doesn’t know where to stop or act his own age! I will not say anything else, let him do what he wants!” 

Of course, all these end before we go to bed with my father having pacified me with promises of him being careful and not doing it again.

And as I lie down on my bed, I think whether it is right on my part to stop him at all? Should I not be happy that he did this, that he won a match, that he managed to perform a headstand? What if he had done it at 35 instead of 53? Would I have reacted in the same way?

It was the summer of 2009. My mother and I got onto the lift, along with a kid from our building and his mother. He had circular glasses slipping down his nose. “It is my birthday tomorrow,” he announced to me. “Oh, how nice! A very happy birthday to you! How old will you be?” “Nine and a half,” he said, proudly! “What? I think you mean 9,” I laughed. “No, last year I was eight and a half, so this year, I am going to be nine and a half!”

Smart boy, I didn’t really have an answer to that and just nodded my head in agreement. Till today, my mother and I call him ‘Nine and a half’, we really don’t remember his name!

“Wait, I will take it out myself,” she said, as she expertly slipped out her prosthetic eye so that I could examine the socket. “Do you take it out and put it back yourself?” I asked as a cleaned her eye gently. “Yes, I do,” she said as I quickly glanced at the mother, sitting on the one side of the clinic room and she smiled and nodded in agreement. She was seven years old, had retinoblastoma in both eyes, the most common eye cancer in children, diagnosed as a baby, had received chemotherapy, laser treatment to the tumour, multiple sessions of examination under anaesthesia. One eye had to be enucleated or removed while for the other she had to come for regular check-up to make sure that it was completely regressed. She let me examine her retina, looking wherever I asked her to, without complaining about the bright light that I was flashing in her eye, scanning till the periphery for any sign of recurrence. “Do you wear your glasses at school?” I asked, as I was drawing the diagram of her retina. “Yes, and during my dance classes, and when I go to play, because it is important to protect my other eye,” she replied. When she left the room, having replaced her prosthetic eye herself, she just left me amazed. When 27, 47 and 67 year old patients leave you struggling and exhausted with their non-compliance to simple instructions and non-cooperation during examination, these kids not only brighten up your day with their understanding and maturity but also restore hope that all that you explain is not always lost!

12 years BC (read Before Corona)-

“Two tickets for ‘Life in a Metro’ please, the 12.45pm show.”

“Sure ma’am, can you please show me the age proof of your daughter?” said the lady behind the counter.

“Why?” my mother pretended to be surprised, while all along we had expected this question and had decided to just act nonchalant. I had even worn my high heels and carried a purse.

“This movie has an ‘A’ certificate, we have to check.”

“Oh, well, she is going to turn 18 in 6 months now,” as I stared incredulously at my mother! Really? That is your ‘We’ll go confidently and get the tickets, let me talk, you stand behind me mode'?

And that is the story of how we ended up watching ‘Mr Bean’s Holiday’…

8 years BC-

It was my first trip abroad! Having soaked in the beauty of Langkawi, my dad and I had reached Genting. We had done the rides during the day, clicked pictures at the models of Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty and the Canals of Venice and visited Ripley’s. 

“Let’s try, na,” said Dad. 

“You know they won’t let me go, you go inside, I will wait here,” I said.

“If they don’t let you in, then even I am not going, but let’s take a chance,” he urged.

“How old is she?” The security guy at the entrance of the casino asked the most obvious question.

“She is 17, her birthday is next month. She will not play, she just wants to see.”

“You know I cannot allow that,” he smiled as he looked at my passport.

“I assure you, she will not play. Let her just go in and take a look. I give you my word.”

“Well, you will be 18 in a few days…alright, as long as you keep that promise. Go on kid!” he grinned.

Being asked my age and which class I study in, have never been surprising questions for me. While initially it would irk me and I would reply sternly, I started enjoying later. The look of astonishment, jaw-drops and fumbled apologies became quite fun as I would tell them I have finished school and am doing MBBS, or I have become a qualified doctor. Even patients sometimes find it hard to trust junior doctors and I don’t blame them. Most of the times even we do not generate much confidence in them, but at times it’s quite amusing to see them being taken aback when you tell them your age and that you are also a doctor!

Movie halls, autos, patients and building aunties have become routines and I am quite used to it…or so I thought!

Corona Times, year 2020-

After a case presentation on zoom, our Sir had ordered some food for us. He had asked me to take it from the delivery guy outside. I could not find anybody at the hospital gate so I came back. “Hasn’t he delivered?”

“No, there was nobody,” I said.

“But he called me that he had reached…wait let me call him back,” he said.

“Alright, I will just go outside and check,” I said and went out.

The delivery boy was there this time and he was on the phone with my boss, I supposed. As he handed over the packet to me, I heard him say, “Yes Sir, ek bacchi aayi thi lene, maine de diya!”

I stopped dead on the track and spun around…the words still sinking in and before I could think of a rebuttal, he had left!

Whether you add 2020 to your age or not, smoothen out your wrinkles with multiple injections, wear your mother’s heels and lipstick, or dye those silver strands, your age comes out no matter what you do because none of these truly reflect how young or old you are. So, I shall flaunt my greys proudly, maybe they will make me look older…or I may go one day and get them dyed purple! 

MS

The Cup Runneth Over

Licence to Live

Meet Mr. Mukherjee, a man in his mid-fifties, of a medium build and a fair complexion. He was said to have a business of his own of which I never asked him. I met Mr. Mukherjee, over five years ago, 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 the educational assistance since 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 or in a local municipal park….monsoon classes are left to your imagination and a feeling how fortunate we were and our children are. This is truly a street school.

Mr. Mukherjee would come to Prayas every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday in an auto rickshaw. He carried with him two huge steel dabbas which were filled with khichdi which he would pick up from ISKCON, Juhu. The children would bring with them a tiffin box each and at the end of the class hours they would queue up while Mr. Mukherjee poured into each container a handful of hot fresh khichdi. The children relished the good food and then left for home thanking the teachers. There would be a little bit of khichdi left behind every day in the dabbas which went to the woman who washed the utensils. She has three small kids and this would be one good meal for her family as well.

Talking to Mr. Mukherjee, who was fondly called the Dabbawalla and had a permanent smile on his glowing face, I came to know of the concept of Licence to Live. He said that every morning when he woke up, the first thing he did was to take a handful of bajra and put it in the small bowl kept on the window ledge. This bajra was for the birds that come during the day in search of food. Our Dabbawalla said that by doing this every morning he felt he had earned his licence to live for the day.

If life is a journey and driving on the road needs a valid driving licence, Mr. Mukherjee believed, he needed to renew his licence to live each day. 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 every day. The Dabbawalla firmly believed that what he did for people beyond his own family brought him good fortune, the fortune of a smile from a stranger somewhere which he felt kept him going. Six months ago Mr. Mukherjee, went off on his eternal journey but his one thought left a huge impression on my mind and I often ask myself, “Have I renewed my licence to live today?

Proof of Life

Thimmakka was born in Tumkur District of Karnataka. She had received no formal education and worked as casual labourer in a quarry. She was married to Chikkaiah and the couple could not have children. She and her husband started grafting saplings from the banyan trees which were in the vicinity of their village. In the first year they planted ten saplings along a distance of five kilometers near the neighbouring village of Kudur. The next year fifteen saplings were planted and in the third year twenty. The couple would carry four pails of water over a distance of four kilometers to water the saplings and also protected them from the cattle by putting up fences of thorny shrubs.

Today, anyone driving from Kudur to Hallika, a distance of 3 kilometres, will find himself under a beautiful green canopy of tall trees. Thimmakka’s efforts not only earned her domestic and global recognition including Padma Shri in 2019 but having done something good not just for herself but for others and future generations gives the centenarian lady the greatest joy. She has been given the name of Saalumarada which means ‘rows of trees’.

“I planted 1,000 saplings then, and save a few, all of them have grown to be strong trees. They are like my own children,” says a smiling Thimmakka. “As we were unable to have our own children, we thought we should leave something behind as our memory. What better than plant trees that could give shelter to humans, birds and animals?”

Last line: In a time when life is endangered and most of us are hiding in the safety of our homes, we need to ask if we are doing anything for others to earn our license to live and leave behind the proof of life….and it does not take too much education or money to do it.

SS

Ode to a Donkey

We were in Class IX and the teacher gave us a project on ‘Excellence’. The best would be selected to be displayed in the school assembly hall. On the appointed date, the students of my section submitted their chart papers with their expressions on the subject painted in crayons and water colours. I had thought over the subject and had drawn a brave soldier in army fatigue with multiple medals on the lapel and put a heading, ‘Excellence in Gallantry’. Similarly, there were some others in the class who were good in painting, like Shakun and Indrajit, and seeing their charts made me feel slightly low. Surprisingly, the class teacher selected Harjiv’s drawing to represent the class,that got us all in a fit of laughter…he had painted a donkey and the subject read, ‘Excellence in Foolishness’. The teacher clarified that he had selected it, not for the quality of painting, which was pretty ordinary, but for the novelty and creativity. Since childhood, we have been ridiculed as being a gadha or donkey whenever we made mistakes or failed in some task. So, the word gadha is permanently fixed in our minds as a fool and Harjiv’s painting has left an indelible impression of excellence in foolishness.

How about Bravery and Foolishness coming together to create Excellence?

In the good old days in the army, mules provided the last mile logistics to the far flung units. But for them, the troops would have perished in the remote outposts, some of which were snow covered round the year. Pedongi was one such mule who joined the Indian Army in 1962 as part of the Animal Transport Unit under the Indian Army Service Corps. Pedongi was assigned work with troops to transport ammunition and stores to forward units and also carry the sick and injured soldiers to the military hospitals. Pedongi served in the army for twenty nine long years and in the armed forces, where names are a privilege reserved for horses, the mule earned a name for herself, based on a town called Pedong in north Sikkim. During this long tenure, Pedongi faced many an airstrike and bullets and became highly respected for being a brave and intelligent mule.

Pedongi’s greatest feat was achieved during the Indo-Pak War of 1971 when she was captured by the enemy forces. However, Pedongi escaped her captors a fortnight later and brought back to the Indian camp boxes of Pakistani ammunition. The commander of the Animal Transport Battalion reported the matter to the seniors and recommended Pedongi for a citation of bravery. In 1987, Pedongi was named the mascot of 53 AT Company and in 1989 her picture was put on the greeting cards of the unit. Finally in 1992, Pedongi was taken to Delhi to be presented with a bravery citation and a blue velvet ceremonial rug. It is said that an officers’ mess has also been named after the brave mule.

Whether Pedongi was brave or not or just did what she was asked to is immaterial. Now that her feat has been recognized by the army, I can now take the liberty to add a few medals to the painting of my friend Harjiv, who sadly is no more, and change the subject to just ‘Excellence’!

Every day, as I stand before the mirror, I ask myself a question,” Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most foolish of all?” The mirror cracked…possibly unable to tell me the truth. And so I did some introspection. If Harjiv’s painting was Excellent Donkey or eDonkey, the brave one was PeDongi and standing before me was the image of MeDonkey.

When the sun shines in the morning

And the night is on the run

I wake up with the birds chirping

And I am soon on the run

I run to get ready

I run to drive my car

I run to work

First to enter the altar

And almost last to leave

And in between

What does MeDonkey do?
Work work work work

Click click click the keyboard

Talk talk talk talk

Talkiti talk on the phone

Meet meet meetings

Meetings day and night

Meetings face to face

Meetings on the web

With all apps downloaded

Google Meet, WebEx, Zoom and more

MeDonkey is fully loaded

Ready to face anyone, anywhere

Ready to answer all questions

Ready to give reasons for failure

Ready to say sorry sorry sorry

Ready to say good good good

Show presentations

Show excel sheets and data galore

Never to stop

Never to halt

Some sips of water

Some morsels of food

Never to rest

Never to yawn

Never to remove the plastic smile.

MeDonkey is very useful

For he must carry to the world

He thinks he is important

And if he stops, the world will stop

Fool fool foolish

So typical of MeDonkey

So work work work

So click click click

So talk talk talk

Never to stop

Never to rest

MeDonkey is tired but never says so

Hits the bed and snores away

Ready to wake up before the sun shines

And run run run

Never to stop

Carrying the ammunition

For generals and brave soldiers to fire

To win the medals and glory.

But MeDonkey is happy

For Pappa n Mamma told me

Karm karo, phal ki aasha mat karo

So MeDonkey is happy

To work workwork

Never to stop

For I will someday somewhere

Get my citation or two

Don’t cry for me

For there are so many like me

Working tirelessly, carrying the load

My wife, his wife and the mothers at home

Who will not even get any medals

Never a citation to show

But they too will never stop

MeDonkey, TheyDonkey, UsDonkey

We carry the world

With Excellence, Bravery, Foolishness, untiringly.

SS

A Date with History

The Board examinations for Class XII have been scrapped this year due to the pandemic and then there was, sometime ago, the Chhichhore star who left a million fans saddened with his one fateful act. These two events of recent times brought back for me a tale from the past when all seemed lost and escaping appeared to be a better option than facing the world.

A boy in an all white school uniform with a green blazer was trying to sneak into the compound of All India Radio when he got spotted by a khakhi clad guard who shouted, “Kya chahiye, kya kaam hai?” “Uncle, what is the height of this tower?”Asked the boy. “Kyon, kya karega?  Koodega! You want to jump down from there? Get lost before I beat you with my danda.”

The boy walked away to the bus stop across the road, clambered on to a DTC bus and headed home. Sitting in the bus, his mind was racing from one thought to another, thinking like a cornered grandmaster in chess as he saw his king checkmated from all corners. How could he have made such an error? How will I face my father and my mother? Can there be anything worse than this? One question followed another, one fear greater than the earlier one crept in, one shame greater than the previous, gloriously walked through the shades of the mind of an eighteen year old boy.

Getting off the bus he went to a triangular park where he had played every game on land, looking out for people on balconies overlooking the field to applaud his skill with the football or dexterity with the cricket bat. But today was different. He did not want anyone to see him. He wanted to be alone by himself. Quietly, he gathered his thoughts and courage. But today was different. It was for him a choice of death today or living for another day. Cowardly, he chose the latter. He had always been good at lying and ten out of ten times his gullible parents would fall for his stories. Today was not so different as he concocted yet another story.

As he walked into the house, an expectant father asked him, “How was the exam today?” “The question paper was out of the syllabus. It was very bad. No one has done well.” “Don’t worry son, it happens. Keep your calm and do well in Paper 2 tomorrow after all History is your strong subject. I am sure you will get good marks overall in History.” The rest truly is history.

It was February of ’82 and time for Class XII Board examination, the mother of all exams for school kids as it decided their future subjects, college and often their own future. Those were good old days or should I say bad old days of Paper 1 and Paper 2 for each of the five subjects plus you had to mug up the class XI and XII together and no breaks in between exams. Pressure and load, especially for the weaklings like us, was bone crushing, to say the least. The Church and the Gurudwara outside the school offered little peace and comfort despite walking and kneeling inside almost daily. Dear God, save me this time, next time I will study hard was a prayer oft repeated as Our Father in Heaven...

First came the Hindi  Papers 1 and 2 , which somehow went off alright. This was followed by English 1 and 2 exams. Before the examination started for English 2, we were, like all other days, made to stand outside in an assembly as the cold Delhi winds lashed on our faces. Some of us got into chatting about the next exam, History. “Last year the Board did not give good marks in History,” said one, while the other remarked, “It is better to prepare for Political Science”. I, too, nodded in agreement. 

I went home that afternoon and opened up what many say is the biggest disease in History…VD…it is not what you think…it is a book by VD Mahajan which all would have read sometime or the other. History had been our man’s subject of strength right from times he could remember for in other subjects like Maths and Science he needed chits hidden all over or copying over the shoulders of the bright boys sitting around to pass and many a times even those did not prevent him from failing.  He was in a happy mood when he went to sleep and got up early. Father served him tea in bed while his mother made hot paranthas as he sat inside the quilt taking the last minute glance at the numerous lines he had highlighted in the book and notes while preparing for the Boards.

As the clock stuck 12 noon, he got out of the bed, wore his ‘lucky’ school uniform walked out with his bag hanging from his shoulders. Head held high, he caught a bus to Krishi Bhavan and went straight to 42 Rajendra Prasad Road to join his friend with whom he had been going to school for all previous examinations.  As he entered the bungalow, he saw his friend in  T-shirt and track bottom basking in the sun on a cane chair with a newspaper in his hand. What nonsense, he thought, there is no time left and here is the Lord of Kunchenjunga sitting as if he had all the time in the world.

“Jaldi kar or else we will be late for the exam,” he shouted and was stunned by his friend’s response…”Why didn’t you come for the exam in the morning? There is no exam now…it is all over!” “It can’t be, show me the calendar”. “See the Paper, man”, as he handed the exam question paper. On it was written, ISC History Paper I, Starting 9 am, 8^th February 1982. Indian History is replete with many mavericks and fools but none as big and foolish as our man today. History has seen many an empire crumble and many a king fall to his ignominy but none more than our man today….couldn’t even check the time-table of the most important exam of his life!

Crestfallen, he rushed to the school and went to the principal’s chamber and with tears pouring out explained what had happened. “Father, I mistook it for a 2 pm exam…please Sir do something…give me an hour to write at least…Father you can do it…please Father…,” he pleaded. “Son, seeing your empty desk we asked your friends for your telephone number to ring you up but they did not have it”, said the Principal in white robe. “We even wanted to send the school car to bring you but some of your friends said you wanted to skip this exam to prepare better for the next, so we didn’t and now we can’t do anything. It is completely out of our hands now.” 

And that's when the boy walked from the School Gate to AIR station at Parliament Street with just one thought in mind....only to be denied again entry to the Pearly Gates of Paradise...maybe to live again.

Next day, the boy came to give the History Paper 2, on the right date and time. It was World History and he rattled off one answer after another and was certain by the end of the day that Paper 2 would help him score over 80 percent and let him cross the Rubicon of overall 40 percent in the aggregate for each subject. He would realize his folly when the final results were declared after a month, History 2 was not marked for him….it appeared as ‘Nil’. Giving both papers was compulsory. When he saw the marks, as they hung outside the school gate, he calculated 67 percent in 4 subjects. He felt elated after a nerve-racking time in between exams and this day, so he rushed to tell his parents of the good news.

Sixty seven percent in Humanities, in those days, did please his parents. Seeing their happiness he felt bold enough to share what had happened that fateful day. Normally the mother would distribute sweets in the colony whenever the results of her daughter were declared but today she wept and said no more. No amount of consolation by the father worked and neither did the son’s holding her feet for hours.

History is truly a funny subject. With his mark sheet he couldn’t believe he had come into the cut off marks zone for admission and was standing in the queue for an interview of a good college trying to explain His-story to the History Head of the Department. “I can get you a letter from my class teacher in school, Ma’am, that I was good in History. Please do not reject my admission.” The teacher, possibly, saw the boy was, for once, speaking the truth and cleared him for admission.

It was the day that the mother herself went to the mithai shop and got laddoos packed for the colony and her office colleagues and felt happy as all said, “Badhai Ho! Beta ko Hindu College mein admission mila hai…sports quota mein nahin…merit pe? Wah Wah..Badhai Ho!!

Last Line: To all my friends, young and not so young, I wish to say that life is too precious to give away. It has its ups and downs, its joys and pains and we all must endure it. Remember, the sun will shine again tomorrow and give way to the moon at night…keep fighting, keep staying alive. A line I read that keeps me going is, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”

SS

TELL ME WHY

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

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

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

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

Band of Brothers with Brother D'Souza

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SS

The Language of Love

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

The Card

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

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

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

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

The Wail

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

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

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

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

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

The Matchmaker

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

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

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

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

SS

CHULBUL'S STORY

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

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

 

Juno

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

The day I hatched

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

I am four days old

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

Jeena's nest

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

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

A Week Old

My Friend Scooby

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

Mom and Me

What a Sight

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

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

Ciao!

DS