OFF AND ON

This morning I was woken up to a call on my cell phone. A male voice was informing me that they were all going off to their native place for a couple of days as his brother’s wife was….. I could not catch the remaining words. I realized it was my maid’s husband calling to inform me about their sudden trip to their favourite place-‘gaon’. For the information of my readers any place outside Mumbai is ‘bahar gaon’ be it Kolkata, New Delhi, Pimpri or London. I knew that his brother was sick but could not understand what had happened to the brother’s wife. I repeated my query only to be stalled by the finality in the words ‘off ho gayi’.  No, no more questions. Only one mystery remains…it was the brother who was sick but his wife was the one to be ‘off’.  I was reminded of a poem we had read as kids ‘And they buried brother John…..’

By now I am quite accustomed to somebody or the other becoming ‘off’. This was not the case some thirteen years back when I landed in Bombay, sorry, Mumbai. Once, on entering my mother-in-law’s room, I heard the maid pointing to a photograph of my father-in-law and asking whether he was ‘off’. My horrified ma-in-law, having just moved in from Delhi after living there for half a century, was completely taken aback. For a moment, thinking that the maid was hinting probably at the poor man going off somewhere, she was about to begin expostulating with her when I thought it best to intervene. I explained to the maid that my father-in-law was no more and that he had passed away a couple of years back. This was my first encounter with the ‘off’ word and, as the maid continued about her own in-laws being ‘off’ too, I allowed the thought to gradually sink in.

Having moved to Mumbai from a city where it was necessary to add a ‘ji’ after every word or sentence-  ‘haan ji’, ‘namasteji’, ‘shukriya ji’ ‘Arora ji’ ‘mousa ji’ ‘uncle ji’ and even ‘sir ji’- it was a bit of a culture shock to hear twenty year olds in the Mumbai office calling out to men in their fifties as ‘Tare’  and ‘Gokhale’. I still stuck to my ‘ji’s’ just in case I again landed up in the Hindi belt due to the company’s Transfer and Mobility Policy. After all they say old habits die hard. I had dismissed the maid’s reference to ‘off’ as coming from someone who, having picked up a few English words, was trying to show off. Soon I realized that it was not so. In the office too colleagues spoke about Kulkarni’s uncle ‘off ho gaye hain’ or the Regional Manager’s mother being ‘off’ too. This was usually followed by the whole office trooping in to Kulkarni’s cubicle or the RM’s cabin with outpourings of condolences.

I take this as an example of cultural shock. Having moved to Delhi from Calcutta, where the dear old bongs had coined their own unique Hindi words….’ektho’, ‘shoobista’ and where the ‘ling’ was thrown out for a toss and the ka’s and ki’s went gallivanting as and how they wished…., and after having been re-educated on more or less shudh Hindi of the North for a while, I was in for more shock as I set foot in Mumbai. One young lady at a well known jewellery shop in Lokhandwala, Andheri  even asked me  whether I lived ‘pass by’- what a neat fusion of Hindi and English! Nobody here writes ‘& family’ on the envelopes of invitation cards, it is always ‘& fly’. So wherever the mister goes we accompany him as the flies! The first time when you see or hear it, it jars on your senses and sensibilities but as time passes you get used to the many idiosyncrasies of each city.

But the ‘off’ word still jars. Give me a couple of years more and I am sure it will become a part of my system too and maybe I won’t wince anymore. Coming to think of it, it conveys a sense of finality, a sense of everything being over, it tells you to accept and move on. It means the end. In this city, which they say never sleeps, everyone is always on the move, everything is always on, if one thing stops, the other starts moving, I guess only death can be the full stop. This realization hit me the hard way a few years back.

It was the 11^th of July 2006- serial blasts shook Mumbai’s lifeline, the Mumbai Locals. A series of blasts took place in different trains on the Western Line. Within a span of 11-12minutes hundreds died and many more were injured and maimed for life. They were ordinary people like you and me who had left home for work. The masterminds behind the blasts had chosen the perfect time- when men and women would be returning to their homes after a hard day. I had reached Churchgate Station just in time for my usual train to take me home. On the platform I met an old colleague from Delhi who asked me to join her in the next train, which was a ladies’ special, and was scheduled to leave a couple of minutes later so that we could catch up with all the news. I agreed. We had not even gone half way when our train stopped. For some time no one knew what had happened. Since her house was not too far from where the train had stopped she decided to get off and walk down. Soon she was back to the window asking me to join her saying her son, who was watching the news on television, had just called to say there had been some blast or explosion in some train near Matunga Road. We were just on the outskirts of the same station. I asked her to continue but she insisted on leaving her address and landline number with me. Soon others in the compartment started getting similar calls before the networks were jammed. Little did I know at that time that I would not be able to reach home that night, since the trains would never move and a few hours later I would arrive at the same colleague’s doorstep with another girl in tow. The first class compartment of the train I had not boarded that evening had been ripped off completely by a bomb left in a pressure cooker.

A couple of days later, the people of Mumbai gathered their wits and lives and once again moved to the same stations to board the same trains and move on with their lives. Two young men always boarded the general compartment, next to our ladies compartment, for all the years that I had been travelling from this station. They were always there together, and somehow were noticed because they were always the first to get a whiff of the approaching train. They were always brightly dressed and you could never miss them. They were the first to move and would be followed by others to take position to jump in just as the train slid into the platform. Somehow, they had made it a habit to be the first to step on to the 9.01 Goregaon Local. I really admired their timing and precision- never a miss, never to falter. But this morning only one of them was there. For a week or so we saw only one of them. Another week passed and there was still only one of them. Finally, one lady in our group went up to him and asked where his friend was. His reply was- “ Woh toh off ho gaya… blast ke din”. But life has to go on……………

Salaam Mumbai!!!

DS

Nadar ka Prayas

Hello Mr Nadar there?

Inglis Nahin…Hindi mein bolo, spoke a person with a South Indian accent.

Sir, hum aapke bachhon ke liye kuchh karna chahte hain (we want to do something for your children).

Tum aake pehley dekho, fir bolo kya karega (first come and see the children then decide what you wish to do).

I found this strange for two counts. Most people in the NGO space speak impeccable English and secondly would swoon at your offer of help. They would themselves come to meet you, show you a presentation worthy of showcasing at any Board Meeting. Plus their branded clothes often made you feel if you ought to be a recipient of their dole!

This man, Nadar made me think. I had recently taken charge of the CSR role when we were asked to engage employees to do volunteering activities. A friend had said he knew of Prayas, an NGO working in the field of education for street children. With no one to help, I wondered if I should go and check this NGO as invited or work with other easier options. Since the place was quite near my residence, I decided to accept the invitation.

As usual, I reached 30 minutes before scheduled time and saw about 70 children of different ages sitting on plastic mats with a couple of teenage girls teaching and engaging groups of kids. I observed from across the street and was taken aback…a school without a roof, a school without a room…out in the open under the blue sky…what will happen when the skies open up during monsoon? What irony…this street school was bang opposite another school where the affluent people sent their children…with swimming pool and air conditioned classes and children travelling mostly in luxury cars…the Prayas kids surely appeared children of a lesser God.

Dot at 10.30am, came a man on a motorcycle wearing a white bush shirt and a black trouser. Shook hands with me and then took me to the street school where the children greeted me by standing up and wishing, Good Morning Sir. Mr. Nadar then took me to another place around 750 metres away where nearly 125 children were studying in the open in a market place on Linking Road with all the noise, dust and people passing by. He finally walked me to a garden nearby where about 70 slightly older children were doing their classes. It had taken Nadar a lot of persuasion with the guard in the park to allow a school to operate there both in the mornings and afternoons. Over the time, the guard saw the good that was happening there and allowed them to use the store room in the park to keep the mats and mobile black boards. The street school on the Linking Road used a dilapidated closed auto rickshaw as their store room.

We took the 150 kids for a screening of Mary Kom to a nearby Multiplex and treated them to some snacks there as part of the volunteering activity. Gradually I started going to Prayas whenever I got some time on weekends, just to be with the kids and be of some help here and there.

Prayas is an NGO where kids of a slum in the vicinity, who go to Municipal Schools, are given tuitions to be able to progress. The parents of the children are into menial work and can do little to help the children with their education. More importantly the schools hardly teach the kids much. Even children in classes 5 and 6 are unable to write a line correctly yet get promoted to the next class. Prayas steps in to fill the gap with volunteers and part time enthusiastic teachers, many of them in hijaabs.

After nearly a year of being associated with Prayas, I was able to make Nadar share his story. Reluctantly he said that he came to Mumbai just to visit the city twenty years ago. He grew up in the outskirts of Chennai and does not remember much about him having done any formal education. He fortunately had a politically strong Uncle who controlled the liquor business in the city. Nadar was given charge of one such shop and was doing all right but had to help his Uncle in many of his activities including flexing muscles which he did not like.

Nadar never returned to Chennai. He stay put with his family in a chawl near Versova and did many small jobs. Today he runs the distribution of Britannia Breads in Andheri with his day typically starting at 3am when the deliveries would reach his store. From there the bread would be handed over to some cycle borne boys who would then go to deliver shop to shop. By 5am Nadar is free and he goes for his morning walk on the beach nearby along with Rasikbhai, the man who started Asha Kiran, a school for street children at Four Bunglows. By about 10am Nadar is at Prayas schools at Goregaon East and makes sure everything is available to the kids and teachers. He even goes to their homes when some kids do not come to the school, convincing the parents to make sure children are regular. Nadar has, along with him a few regular team members, who do teachings and arrange for morning meals. By midday he goes back to his shop accounting for the daily collections from bread distribution and at 3 pm sharp he is back at the garden school ensuring everything is working well.

Prayas does not go out to corporate or individuals for financial assistance. Anybody wanting to help must do it on their own seeing the work they are doing. And let me tell you, there are many good souls around and Prayas goes on. This monsoon Nadar arranged for a large water proofing in the garden to ensure the children of senior classes did not suffer during rains. Six of the brighter children have now been admitted to good schools paid for by individual donors. People come on almost all days, some give them note books, others toys and a majority give them food to eat. Nadar helps people organize such simple feasts and he knows what children like. He will ask you your budget and then arrange things quickly. Last time we went there he arranged for coconut water including the kernel plus a 5 Star bar for 150 kids….all came in lots to the vendor, had their coconut, none asked for an extra, put the litter in the proper place and went back to their classes saying thank you with a big, big smile.

Nadar is the soul behind Prayas. From arranging for books, permission for school, talking to parents, annual check-up for kids, arranging for Independence Day and other celebrations….with no formal education of his own, the man has made sure one of his son is now an engineer and the second one works with a large multinational consultancy firm as he pursues his CA program. From selling country liquor to now managing bread business and yet living a life of passion for educating children sitting at street corners, never to give long speeches, never to boast of his achievement, just doing what he does best…Mr Nadar, you are a True Hero.  He is now selling the best intoxicant in the world…dreams though learning.

Often makes me think what if some of us who are far more ‘so called’ educated and better placed in life were to be Nadars? What if each one of us were to educate 30 if not 300 kids? What if 10 of these 30 do stand up on their feet on life, we would have done our service to humanity and earned our license to live. Education is the key to all our problems and missions be it Swachh Bharat, Skill India, Tolerant India and India of My Dreams.  As Poet Harivansh Rai Bachhan wrote:

ज्ञान के मंच पर सब एक सामान हैं,

विधि का विधान पलट दे, तो ब्रह्मास्त- ्र ज्ञान है.

तो आज से ये ठान ले, ये बात गांठ बाँध ले,

की कर्म के कुरुक्षेत्- र में,

ना रूप काम आता है, ना झूठ काम आता है,

ना जाती काम आती है, ना बाप का नाम काम आता है,

सिर्फ ज्ञान ही आपको आपका हक़ दिलाता है.

All of us can do our bit for the country, our bit for the world. All we need to do is Prayas to become a Nadar in life.

Village School Master

“This is not a Government School but a Private School….it is my Private School. It is better than any private school in the district and I run it not like a government school, “ said Acharya Shanubhai Rathod, the Principal of a Primary Government School in Sindhot, Bharuch District of Gujarat, as I stepped out after a visit there recently.

This was not a boastful comment but I had to agree with the middle aged man.

When I walked into the school, I was struck by its cleanliness despite its old structure. Principal Rathod came out to greet us. Our first pit stop was Ram Haat. This was a wooden chest on which were kept simple toffees, imli ladoo and small things in jars. The principal explained that we do not want children to go out during lunch hour to buy these things they love to savour after their mid-day meal. I get all these things when I come from Bharuch City everyday. Almost all the things cost just Re 1! The store is manned by kids generally in class 2 or 3 who stand there and it is expected that the children who buy the stuff drop the coins into the plastic container kept there on their own, without anyone asking for it. If someone gets a note, it is put in a tin piggy bank. Honesty is still the best policy at least in some part of the world even today. Ram Rajya ka Ram Haat.

We were offered cold water in steel glasses. When I said I had just had water in the car, the Principal took offence and thought I doubted the quality of water being served. He explained that the school gets good sweet water from River Narmada flowing nearby and the same passes through a big filter and thence goes to a cooler donated by a corporate. The cooler is turned on just for an hour and it cools the water for the entire day. There is a water station outside from where children take water. Apologetically I gulped the entire glass of cold water in one go as we were taken around the water station which was manned by 3 kids who are part of the school water committee. No one else is allowed into the filter and cooler room.

My eyes went to the footwear of the children kept in one part of the school…they were so colourful but what struck me was the way these children had kept them…completely in order. Take a look and you will want to show it to your kids. This clearly showed how much the Principal ensured discipline and decorum in his Private School. It was over here a painter who was making the Hand Washing poster in the school, stopped me and said that he had worked in many schools before but had never seen a better school with better mannered children. This school was different. This definitely was not tutored as the man was there only for a day or two before moving on to another school. This was a wonderful live testimonial.

As we proceeded towards the refurbished toilets, there was a huge area which had plants and trees. The Principal explained that the water which seeps out of the water station or the hand washing area is brought to this place where he had created a kitchen garden with fresh okra, lemon, lauki and many other vegetables. These vegetables are used to make the mid day meals and when in excess is never sold but distributed among the children of the school. Everything grown there is organic and no fertilizer or pesticide is used. While walking he plucked a bhindi straight from the shrub and bit it….he said it can’t be cleaner and fresher than this as it had grown on ‘desh ki mitti’. He said the monkeys in the village were a menace and they often had to drive them away to protect the vegetables. But one child, who the Principal said was mentally challenged, remarked,” Sir they too must be hungry. Why are we driving them away?”

Coming to the toilets we are building and refurbishing in schools in the district. I was taken aback by a beautifully and exotically made toilet. I thought how come we were supposed to build frugal utilitarian ones and why did the NGO concerned spurge on such luxury. Fortunately, we were told that this had been built under Sarva Shiksha Abhiyaan and is for the physically disabled kids with a ramp to make the movement easier. Built at a cost of Rs 2 lacs, the toilet looked great but when asked if the school had any such student who needed the special toilet, the Principal said this is Government directive and maybe we will have some in future when it will be used…. Anyway we saw our simple toilets and hand wash station being built there through our company’s CSR efforts to make sure children clean their hands and avoid diseases.

Near the hand wash stand we put up a poster like this- The F Diagram. F stands for food, fingers, faecal, field, fly, fluid….all sources of diseases caused when cleanliness and hand washing is not done properly. We asked some students there to explain the diagram and the proper way to clean your hands. They perfectly demonstrated it and told us about the F Diagram. Any guess what if we were to ask our city bred children what F stands for it will be FCUK or an anagram of the same!

All credit to the Principal here, the attendance in the school is almost 100% and hardly children would stay away due to ailment!

Next stop was a quick peep into the class rooms where children of 2 classes were put in one class room and one teacher teaches children of both the classes- 1 & 2 together, 3 & 4 together…only class 7 had a separate teacher. It had nothing to do with the principal possibly but the teachers all were very engrossed and were teaching the kids with vigour. The school also has a Computer Room with 11 computers, LED TV and internet connection which works…saw one teacher actually working on the net! Digital India is happening in the backyard of the nation and not just at Bengaluru and Cyberabad.

The school has two unique things of which I must surely tell you. First is a box kept on one of the supporting pillars is a open box written ‘khoya-paya’ or ‘lost & found’. The kids if they find anything which does not belong to them, they put it in the box and the person who would have lost it picks it up from there. It is completely voluntary and under no supervision. I saw spoons, pencils, items of geometry box lying there.

The second is a part of village history- the gong. The Principal showed me the marking on the reverse…made 125 years ago. It is hung there but used only in the morning as the sound travels far and wide and children throughout the village know it is school time. Acharya Rathod is a proud student of the same school and he recollects how as a kid he would be in the fields helping his father at work when on hearing the gong he would rush home, change and reach the school well in time. For the normal things during the day within the school, they now have a electric bell….tringggg… tringggg…

All the primary schools in Gujarat have School Sabhas or democratically elected students and ministers and they manage many a thing like ensuring cleanliness, gardening, cultural functions, etc. What fascinated me was the way the election process is conducted with a proper file, each candidate is given symbols, nomination paper needs to be filled and they put a mark with a yellow highlighter in place of indelible ink to prevent double voting. This is democracy at its grassroots…much beyond Panchayati Raj.

As I finished the school tour, I asked Rathodji if I could buy the jelly sweets from Ram Haat and distribute it to all the 90 students of the school…he readily agreed…called a few children to take the container to all the classes to distribute. I put in my Rs 100 note in the tin bank. He wanted to return the balance Rs 10 to which I requested if we children too could also be given one jelly each…after all we students had learnt a lot about village schools which if taken care by good teachers and principals can be the nursery for India Tomorrow.

After this visit, we were taken to the banks of Narmada River for some rest. It was so serene and peaceful and across the river we could see a white temple. That was Kabir Vad. History says when Kabir along with his disciples once came to the banks of the river, he planted a stick in the soil which today remains as one of the largest banyan tree anywhere in the world. In a world full of hatred and intolerance, Sant Kabir said about true knowledge of life:

पोथी पढ़ि पढ़ि जग मुआ,  पंडित भया न कोय,

ढाई आखर प्रेम का, पढ़े सो पंडित होय।

SS

Smile Please Bapu

Dear Bapu,

Wishing you a belated Happy Birthday.

You must be wondering with all that is happening down below, how can anyone in his right senses wish you ‘Happy Birthday’. Surely the intolerance, the violence, the schism and the all-pervasive corruption have reduced ‘We, the People’ to the Three Monkeys made famous by you. Today we are blind to see the evil happening; we are deaf to the preaching of brotherhood and have turned mute to raise our voice against injustice. Yet I wish you Happy Birthday for I happened to visit Sabarmati Ashram a couple of days ago and let me tell you Bapu there are still many a good thing happening there for which you can smile even now.

Smile Please, Bapu

Normally every visitor goes to Hridayakunj where you lived and where all your things are preserved so well and to the museum with pictures, books and mementos to pick from. But this time I saw more. My first step was in the campus of Vinay Mandir, a residential school for girls from underprivileged sections of society. The school has about 300 girls from class 9^th to 12^th standard. As I entered, I saw a couple of peacocks roaming around. What a welcome, Bapu, even you would feel good. The school is kept so neat and clean and there was pin drop silence around. A visit to the residential section showed how well these girls are kept in spick and span rooms with bunk beds and reading tables for all. We met the matron who has been around for the last 35 odd years and another alumnus who passed out of the school in 1962. We are happy that we selected this school as part of our CSR program to build a computer lab for the children and it should be operational in the next few months. Plus there is also a Primary Teachers’ Centre here where I found these beautiful unifying lines which, if we all were to believe like you, then surely a lot many problems would be solved today. Education for girls and unity of people…..Are these not what you wanted? Then smile please, Bapu.

My next visit was to another school in the Ashram complex. Here about 150 children are taken care of with books and food while their parents work in the city doing menial jobs. What caught my attention was the cheerful way they would greet. They would raise their right hand up, shake their fingers in a trembling fashion and sing aloud…Namastey. The smile on their faces was enough for me to conclude that the children of the lesser gods are well taken care of. And Bapu you will be happy to know that they have even made a computer room here which they have named as ‘In- Tell- Actual- Class’!  When I saw this, I smiled and I know Bapu you too would seeing this classroom and the door outside from up there…then why don’t you smile please, Bapu?

Dear Bapu, you always told people about cleanliness. Still remember you scolding Ba ,when in South Africa ,asking her to clean the toilet…surely you too would have seen Attenborough’s biopic on you…we Indians failed to make a good movie on you. It needed a man from those you forced to leave India for our Independence to understand you, your philosophy and do justice to the name, Mahatma…everyone saw it. Bapu, my father who would never go to the theatres also went to see it and cried while you were fasting at Noakhali. At your Ashram now there is a small workshop on various types of toilets…. and they have even built a toilet café where any place you sit is actually a commode below. Even the tables have things which even you might find difficult to eat seeing those holes there….but the fact is they are teaching in your home the need to have clean toilets….plus of course Swachh Bharat is also happening around. That surely must make you smile, Bapu.

My last stop was a small old building where Manav Sadhana, an NGO which teaches children crafts and games during the afternoon. But what caught my attention were the two gentlemen in the picture below. The man to the right is Surendra Bhai who for the last 32 years has been managing the Vinay Mandir and the man with the flowing beard is Jagat Bhai. Jagat Bhai came to Sabarmati Ashram like a visitor 19 years ago and he was so moved that he stayed behind and now teaches craft to underprivileged kids during the day. He says that the children come from such difficult backgrounds that we cannot imagine but when they play and smile, they forget all miseries and he finds his solace. With such good men around, Bapu, you need to smile more often…incidentally it is here that I found your best picture, smiling with your grandson….see I told you that you would definitely smile today, Bapu.

Modernity has also touched your ashram Bapu. The whole place is Wi-Fi connected and the riverside of Sabarmati now looks very beautiful. Take a look Bapu and I am sure you too will be forced to smile.

Bapu, I am signing off and you will wonder how my letter will reach you…LOL Bapu…you were the original rock star and see how letters would reach you then…surely mine too shall reach you, Dear His Excellency Mahatma Gandhi.

Yours Respectfully,

SS

Same Old Tree

Do you remember, Amina

When the clouds would gather

How I would run and get the rope

And you would get the wooden board

I would quickly climb

This same old tree

And then we would swing

And when I would push you hard

You would start crying

No Raj, I never cried

I made shrieking cries

There were never any tears

But I liked it the best

When you would stand above and heave

The swing with your strong legs

How safe I felt sitting below

Together we would swing high

Together we would sing

From the same old tree.

Do you remember,  Amina

When you used to return from the madrasa

I would wait under this old tree

I would bunk school

Just to make sure I was here

Same time same place

Never wanted to miss a day

Never wanted to miss you

How much you would scold me

Then take out your books

To teach me

Sitting under this same old tree

Books never interested me

So just kept looking at you

Watching your lovely eyes blinking

Your tender moving lips

All of it and more

Sitting under the same old tree

Was this not the same old tree, Raj

From where you picked the flowers

So many of them

And then made a garland

It was so beautiful a garland

I thought you had made it for the temple

But then you gave it to me

I kept it hidden in my bag for many days

Till they started drying

Then just kept a flower in the Koran

And every time I bowed to pray

Felt a happiness beyond words

The flower still remains dried as ever there

But the fragrance of the flower

I can still feel even today

Happiness I can still feel today

Maybe the flowers are blooming, once more today

Up above on the branches

As we stand below, swinging

From the same old tree.

How many evenings

We sat below holding hands

Looking up at the dark sky

With twinkling stars

And the shining moon

Staring at us, smiling at us

As we dreamt

Dreamt of a beautiful life together

Dreamt of happiness in each other

All under the same old tree.

Why did they do this to us, Raj

Hang us from the same old tree

Raj, did you not say

Your God spoke of love, kindness, compassion

Taught love for all

So did my God

Love for all

Yet our love they said was against the Gods

How they forgot love and mercy

When they put the rope

That once hung the swing

On our slender necks

Pulled us up so hard

As we cried

And they laughed

For once, those who never agreed

Stood together as one

All religions surely must be the same

All Gods must also be the same

For look, how united they stood today

Those who were always at each others’ throats

Together they have pulped our throats

And left us swinging, hanging

From the same old tree.

Give me your hand Amina

Let me give you one last kiss

Ha Ha

Did we ever kiss earlier, Amina

No, not really

So many times I asked

But you would never agree

Raj, I too wanted you to hold me

Touch me gently

Kiss me…..

But remained a coward

Afraid of my people, your people

Till they caught us

Sitting under the same old tree

Here take my arm

Kiss me goodbye

Hold me tight, kiss me

One last time

As we, hang together

From the same old tree

One last time together

No fear of the swing today

Just the joy of the flowers above

And our loving togetherness below

And as we swing far away into the stars

It never will ever be

The same old tree.

WANNA BE A CALENDAR GIRL

One night, was sitting in the kitchen

With a heap of utensils to wash

Wondering if this life of work & drudgery

Ever would end.

And out of thin air, came a beautiful Fairy

Ask for a wish and thou shall get

Just one wish, Yes, just one wish and no more

I wondered as my thoughts wandered

No, not riches, not food, not glory, not kingdom I seek

I just wanna be a Model.

Whaaaaat??

Yes you heard me right, I wanna be a Model

For all my life, have got along well

With oldies and kids alike, not so with youngsters

I want them to look at me, admire me, adore me

No better way than being a Model

I just wanna be a Calendar Girl

The one who’s there on the walls

Pasted on minds, glued on hearts

All through the year!

Ok, so be it but I’ll need to change your….

That’s ok, if Bruce Jenner can, I too can

Give me a beautiful face like Katrina

With a pout like Priyanka’s, legs like Deepika

Complexion like Kareena’s

Simply make me Sunny!

Intelligence? You can give it a miss

Buss…that’s it, of course there is another thing

Tomorrow is the Big Night, when they will select

The Calendar Girls for next year

Oh, how lovely will it be to be up there on stage

Wear the crown of glory, get clicked get applauded

And get a million hearts beating.

Ok said the Fairy, so be it.

Here I change you from, Man to a Woman

A woman of your choice

With beauty beyond words

Truly you will be the Queen of Hearts

And much more tomorrow night.

And of course here’s some more

A beautiful evening gown to wear

Shoes that’ll fit, bag full of best cosmetics.

Remember all this will last for only a day

Then it’ll be life as usual.

As I transformed, the Fairly vanished

Got all I wanted plus a God Card

Fairy said this will pay for anything

This money is freely convertible,

With no downturns in value.

Everything seemed so perfect

Just two things were amiss…

My hairy arms and

Oops no swim suit in my duffel bag

Anyway both shouldn’t be much of a problem

And started solving the First

Wore a hijaab to hide my change

Went to the best parlour

One that my landlady said were the best

Walked in and said Shave…, Sorry clean me up

Came in a Tall, Dark and Handsome to do the job

His walk, talk & style left me to wonder

What's he doing in a ladies parlour?

Oooh..oooch..Hai Raam, bus bhi kar

As he pulled off  years of hardened mane

By the time he finished, felt like a new born baby

My arms felt so tender, My long Deepika legs so s…

I went to the counter, He said ten thousand please

I swiped my God Card and out came

A couple of VIP Tirupathi Devasthanam Passes

TDH was delighted.

One down, One more to go.

This one was far more difficult

Went to the sports shop, asked for swim wear

He showed me Speedo & Arena, offered fins and cap as well

But when I whispered into his ears

Modelling ke liye chahiye, Bhai

He burst out laughing, Not here Baby

Showed me to a fancy store nearby

Where I saw the skimpy stuff hanging

Uuff… I nearly fainted

Oh No!

Oh My!

How can I?

Went to the trial room, couldn’t believe

What transformation!

Looked great, felt good & smiled

No wonder when you wear these

People say,” gimme more, gimme more”

Ended up buying the finest two piece

Or should I say the slimmest

He said it was the best, both the suit & the price

50 grand, Please, and so I paid him

Again through my God Card

He swiped and out came VVIP Passes to Shirdi

He was overjoyed

Gods truly must be crazy

No matter what business you’re in

You’ll always find printed in bold

In God we trust, rest pay cash

Now I said to myself as Maria did

"So, let them bring on all their problems

I'll do better than my best

I have confidence they'll put me to test

but I'll make them see I have confidence in me."

It was the night of the event

Saw my name displayed in the hall

Shortlisted for the finals

The Fairy had done her part.

As I went into the changing room

In came a man with a white beard with hat on top

Hi Baby…you’re beautiful,

You can be a winner, I can make sure of that

Because it’s my calendar and I decide the calendar girls

Who’ll be in, who’ll be out

Wow..thanks Sir but I rather do it the fair way

The old man was funny or should I say strange

He wouldn’t leave the room for me to change

And started acting funny

Helpless I said

Mujhe Bhagwaan ke liye chhod do

He smiled and said

Arrey agar Bhagwaan ke pass hi jana tha

To Lakshmi aur Saraswati Press mein jana tha

They would have dressed you

Like Durga, Kali & Lakshmi..

Calendar Girl fir bhi ban jaati tu

Not here baby.. its my world

It’s my way or the highway

Main aisi waisi ladki nahin, I pleaded

As they would say in all old movies

Where chastity was the greatest value

Lifted my long skirt and started running 

I ran as fast as I could, He ran after me

I ran..he ran, we ran

One of my stilettos fell off, he picked it

But I kept running, running for life

Went into a sports bar

Where they were screening El Classico

It was Real Madrid vs Barcelona, 

It was Ronaldo vs Messi

Everyone there was drinking beer and cheering loud

No pinching of backs

No lewd comments here

No funny acting as well

When they saw my Beckham tattoo on my arm

They cheered and took me for one of them

And I said to myself, this is where I belong.

The green, green grass

The running, the tackles, the goals

Yes, this is my world

Let me go back to my daily chores

Let me be what I am.

Next day the old man came

The kingfisher in search of his worm

Knocked at my door, was disappointed to see

A spectacled middle aged balding man

Asked if there was anyone in the house

Whose feet would fit the stiletto he had

I put my foot for him to see

Offended & disappointed he left

Came to know that the Old Beardy

Spent all his fortune looking for the Cinderella

The Calendar came out that year

Beautiful Girls, Beautiful Swimsuits

But no Beautiful Me,

Up in smoke went my fairy-tale

Cinder-wala remains and that's Truly Me.

THE BIRTHDAY DRESS

My birthday is always followed by Durga Puja-sometimes a week, sometimes a fortnight and at times even a month later. I remember my father would wake me up on Mahalaya, at an unearthly hour every year, with the words, “See the other day you were born and now it is Devi Pakhsha”. Half asleep, half awake we would all listen to the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra reciting the Chandipath interspersed with the ethereal agamani songs like “Bajlo tomar alor benu….” with their all pervasive melody wafting softly through the entire house.

Pujo to me is that time of the year when the day begins with the fragrance of the shiuli flowers in the air, rows of the wispy white kaash phool in the distant fields, the whole para or neighbourhood resonating with the beats of the dhak, loudspeakers blaring the latest Hindi and Bengali songs. Pujo also means crisp, new clothes…and the number of new dresses you had meant a lot when we were kids. So every year I would wear my birthday dress for a little while and keep it away, neatly folded, to take it out again on Shasthi, the day of the Mother Goddess’s bodhan or welcome, marking the first day of Durga Puja.

My earliest memory goes back to my fifth or sixth birthday when I was given this lovely orange dress. That year my dress for Pujo was a bright red one. Both came from New Market. Both came wrapped in little card board boxes, brought by my father from Calcutta. Both were equally pretty. The orange one was an A-Line dress with some frills and fancy buttons and short butterfly sleeves. I remember coming home from school in the afternoon, quickly changing into this dress and sitting down for an elaborate meal. That day the food would be laid out on the floor, not the dining table. An embroidered ‘ashan’ or small rug would be placed (this one was special since it was hand embroidered in colourful geometric patterns with wool, like a little carpet, by my grandmother). I would be made to sit on it with all the food spread out in silverware and this was one day I would eat with a silver spoon. Among other special items there would always be payesh or the rice pudding, a must in every Bengali’s birthday celebration.

We never had parties due to some superstition of my grandmother, in whose family some tragedy had befallen one of the members after one such event. So birthdays remained a family affair and I regretted missing out on unwrapping presents like my other friends. It bothered me to no end that I had carried this gift and that gift for my friends but I missed out when my turn came since there were no parties in the evening. When we moved to Calcutta there were always family dinners at Peter Cat, Kwality or Mocambo in Park Street. The cake or sometimes a box of assorted pastries came from Flury’s , at that time one of the most well known confectioners in the city, which my father would pick up on his way back from office. I was made to feel like a princess that day.

We were allowed to carry toffees to school but the Convents I went to never allowed us coloured dresses. So I could never flaunt my birthday dress. I know this will not make much sense to today’s kids who attend International Schools where they follow the American concept and, even if they do have school uniforms, they very often take the form of smart casuals or bright T-shirts with track bottoms. We were never that lucky and had to be content with our knee length blue skirts (which started off as navy blue but with regular wash in surf water gradually acquired various other shades of blue) long white socks,  stiff white shirts, and funny looking ties which were pre-knotted and even had buckles. In our school days the PT dress was a little smarter, comparatively shorter, with a sash which flaunted the House colour. At the end of the day, the birthday dress, seen only by the family, would be packed away and taken out again for Pujo, a few days later, adding to that year’s Pujo collection. The birthday dresses bought by my mother would always mysteriously be a size or two bigger since she bought them, may be, on a five- year plan but this orange dress, fortunately bought by my father, was of a better and smarter fit.

Strangely, I still follow the practice of putting away my birthday sari and taking it out again during the Pujas. After completing fifty summers, twenty four in my parents’ house and twenty six in my marital home it is difficult to now say where I truly belong.  After my marriage, it was my mother-in-law who made the payesh on my birthdays. I still remember waking up earlier than usual on some working days to sounds emanating from the kitchen, wondering who was in there so early, only to discover my mother-in-law crushing the cardamoms and cashew nuts. After her the task of making the payesh for everyone’s birthday fell on me though my husband, nowadays, insists on making it for me.

I must stop digressing and get back to that cute little orange dress which I continued to wear for a couple of years till it acquired a micro-mini length for me, since I was growing tall, but I always managed to slide in. No stitch ever came off, no button went missing and the colour remained as vibrant as on the first day despite my having worn it so many times.

One winter morning, when I was in the seventh or eighth grade, while leaving for school, I saw my father sitting on a cane chair in the verandah having his tea, and a little girl, aged about five or six, all covered up in a coarse material, with only a tiny face visible. She had a nice chubby face with pinkish chapped lips and cheeks. She was also having tea in a steel glass with biscuits. Later, my mother explained that she was my Baba’s ‘little pet’ whom he had discovered sitting on the steps leading to the verandah, shivering in the cold. He had made her come and sit under the roof in the grilled verandah and had asked my mother to give her some tea and biscuits. This had been going on for the past few days. She would come in through the grille door, sit for a while, have tea with biscuits or ‘chapati’ and after some time she would leave. They could not make out much from what gibberish she said and neither could she make out much of what was said to her. May be her mother worked in some house close by, or she belonged to one of the labourers’ families living on the roads, or may be just a little beggar child, though she never asked for anything.

One day my father asked my mother to give her some of my old clothes and she gave her the little orange dress I had long outgrown and which now lay in one of the old metal trunks.  It had become a familiar sight every morning seeing her around the same time wearing that orange dress, which would show a little beneath the rough, thick shawl that covered her, sitting on the verandah with my father having her tea and biscuits. Her chubby face and curls reminded me of the cherubs. Then one day she stopped coming as suddenly and as mysteriously as she had appeared.

My father, a self- proclaimed atheist, who always admired the temples from outside, but never entered the sanctum sanctorum; my father, who let my mother touch his forehead with the puja flowers but never tasted the prasad; my father, who avoided going for pujas but never shied away from helping another human being, could not help saying that the girl was a little ‘angel’ who had chosen to visit us. We really do not know who this little visitor of ours was but I still feel I am connected to her in some way , as if our lives and fates are intertwined somewhere, by that orange birthday dress. Hope her life too has been as blessed as mine.

DS