Phir Chiddi Raat and some loose ends

It'll be 31 years this July 7th, since she last saw him, she remembers .

She remembers because they had shared the same birth date, merely six months apart. They had met in the first year of university on Rose Day, that quaint custom back then before Hallmark walked the halls and emptied wallets of teenagers in love. For a rupee perhaps or five, you could send a rose to someone you liked, kinda like a candygram.

She had heard she was getting one, but she was just too serious about studies or too skeptical about emotional displays for someone like her who was not used to standing around in hallways: one cannot do that when there is a homework to be done, and a home to return to where chores and siblings' responsibilities abound. Yet on Rose Day, there was a rose, just one and it was from a lanky young man with honey brown eyes - someone she hadn't even noticed yet.

So began a sweet relationship where he was attentive and she laughed as they shared a love for P.G Wodehouse. She would wait after practicals and they would walk together to her place, then he would walk back and take a train to his far away home. They talked, they talked. She remembers that.

He sang too. Beautifully. Mukesh songs: Mainey tere liye hi saath rang ke sapney chuney, Kishore Kumar: Tumse badhkar duniya mein, and Talat Aziz: Kaise sukoon paaon tujhey dekhney ke baad. Ab kya ghazal sunaaoon, tujhey dekhney ke baad? He carved beautiful pieces made from wood for her. Now she wonders thinking back, were there craft stores in their city then? Where did he get his supplies? How long did it take for him to make these beautiful pieces? He had given her an Asterix and Obelix carved and painstaking painted. A beautiful foot high Mickey Mouse with a viking costume, complete with horned helmet and the smallest two seater plane with a tiny propeller stuck in firmly with a tiny pin. She hadn't saved them.

She had fainted once donating blood at the college gym and he had taken her home. They were 18 and they were friends. And there was Annamalai - that sweet trip to the south from Coimbatore and Pollachi, sleeping on a cold stone bench with him sitting beside her to make sure that she was not cold, keeping calm. And him whistling to a bird, a bird that whistled back, a whistling school boy it was called, on a verdant hillside the same time period when Gandhi, the son, was voted in on the wave of his mother's wake. That was December 1984.

Then came the summer when he went away with his mother to Kasargod and wrote letters from his grandparents' village, inland letters printed with his neat hand. Another year went by with exams and then it was 1986. On Valentine's Day he disappeared without saying hello. That was unlike him but she had noticed that he was distant and they rarely spoke as he went off as soon as classes ended. He had gone to watch a movie with his entire class. The message was clear. Something had happened.

A "well meaning" classmate told her that it was her fault because she was topping her class and she must have made him feel bad that she was smart. "You are just too sure of yourself for any boy to like you, the self-proclaimed princess from Shivaji Park had sneered. Now she wonders how some women believed that they were unworthy of being loved unless they dumbed themselves down, even when they were 18. She did not dilute who she was. She knew even then, that if someone truly cared, nothing would have stood in the way.

She returned to college on that first day in June 1986 and did not see him anywhere, She asked his friends and heard that he had moved to another college close to  home. So she waited an appropriate time and on his birthday a month later, she visited with a gift, Thane, that distant suburb. He did not speak and after a lunch that was quite forced with not his mother nor his sister talking to her, a meal valiantly held together by his father, she left. She did not know what had gone wrong. She guessed though, that he had been told to pursue a path with less distractions as she was perhaps perceived as one. Today it didn't matter.

However one night in January, they spoke, He in Mumbai, and she here, in her adopted homeland.. Where are you? In Russia? he had asked. His dreams hadn't quite followed the path his mother and sister and he had wanted. His father died and all his applications to universities in the US were ashes.

He didn't sing anymore he said. I had learned those songs for us, for you, he said and that made her sad, because he was very talented. Do you carve wood? No, he didn't. Sad that. He didn't do the things he had done when they were together, She remembered he had given her the little plane under the awning of the Taj Mahal Hotel, too student-poor to go in for an overpriced pastry.

They had talked through the night, Ijaazat style. They had talked about their children: his and hers. They had discussed Gulzar, Aandhi, Bazar, Phir Chiddi Raat, Mani Ratnam and Paakhi Paaki Pardesi, which she was now.  He remembered things that even she did not, little details that she was amazed he did: He reminded her that when they had gone to Metro to watch Chota Chetan, her mother had asked them to take her siblings too and they had sat between them! She had laughed at that thought, though she didn't remember it until then. They had spoken through the night.

And they haven't spoken since.

She is thriving, in her own in her adopted home. She is a double parent, raising her children single handedly. He is living his life.

And thanks to that story and the way it turned maybe, she knows in her very cellular self that if her son ever loves anyone as much as this man had loved her, she will not stand in the way.

He son sings beautifully and plays many musical instruments. She would hate for him to stop singing the way this man did, when he lost her. She loves her son too much to ask for such a horrific sacrifice. She would never ask for her son's songs to be killed this way.

That was 31 years ago. Life goes on, Life is good. No regrets.

That D Word

That D word is mine to own
to examine
to toy with
to put away
in a bank locker
safe from prying eyes

That D word
makes people uncomfortable
as if it is contagious
or infectious
or just plain scary
something to which
they have to hold
a bunch of garlic

It makes people become
 oh-so-super-kind

it makes them not call
so they do not disturb me

it makes them forget
to invite me to their homes
lest I feel uncomfortable
around other human beings

it makes them predict,
over
and over
and over
how I will react in social situations

It makes them pretend
that they know me well

That D word
maybe does something more...

It makes people, examine
the cracks in themselves
and their own,
perhaps

and it makes them
very
afraid
of what they may see
if they look hard enough

so they go on pretending ...
that it is
me
that
they
protect

they look away, virtually, telephonically, and physically
as if  that D word
is my 6th thumb on my right hand

the dead leg
that I drag behind me

or the huge hole that I will fall into
dragging them with me

Now this D word
isn't that other D word, you see

That one, I realise,
people are OKAY with

as it means flames,
great salivating tongues of
roaring flames
that push you back

from the door of that furnace
into which you
just slid your loved one

That other D word
that resounds with the thunk
of freshly dug soil
on carefully chosen coffins


That other D word

is ashes
scattered in lakes
and rivers
with soft chants of
Om Shanti
And whispered tales
of eternal life

That other D word is final
therefore SAFE

And I walk forward
towards my new normal

With all these scared faces
turning into dots
in my rear view mirror

I roll back the roof
let the wind catch
my silver hair
and I laugh, unfettered...
at the sheer delight
of being me

Just
me

Precious
Special
Strong
Radiant
Kind
Mindful
Me

Looking ahead...

As I look back on the year that was, I can only give thanks. Just that.

Many new gifts came our way and the children and I are thankful for that. Many old paths fell away and that's okay.

I realised that there are different kinds of connections: ones that ask "what happened" out of a general curiosity, while there are others who ask "are you okay, how can I help, what do you need", few, therefore precious.

And wait, there is a third category who remind me that they are "luckier, happier, more fortunate" than me, as they are "loved, cared for, genuinely". I smile then as this ephemeral superiority is so fragile and insecure, where we think ourselves happier because others are perceived as unhappy.

It is very easy to get into a competitive happiness/wellness/fortunate-ness game. Walk kindly then, and gently.

It is what it is, for each and every one of us.

So, I can only give thanks, for all the love and laughter in my life. For all the wonderful friends and family, near and far who touch my life.

Living with gratitude and grace. Not a single bottle of wine was opened to achieve this peace, not one. Not sorry, LCBO.

It was a great 2014. I grew wings.

Little Bhaskar and his special raincoat

Here is a story I have wanted to share with you from long ago. So here goes. 

Your grandfather, BRK, was born on 15th May 1935. He was the only son of his parents. He grew up in Grant Road, a place in South Mumbai, which was also where I spent 2 years of her life. We called him Pappa.

His mother, Radha Heble-Karnad, was quite a story teller. As I was the only grandchild for a long time, until Shashank was born, Teeamma used to regale me with stories from days gone by. This is how I know many stories about Pappa's childhood. He used to always say, 'She is going to be the next generation story teller' as he reminded his mother to keep out the ' uh-oh' bits. But she persisted and told me all about everyone she could remember. What a wonderful legacy ! This is why, I feel like ' a keeper of memories'. 

Bhaskar went to Robert Money School in Grant Road. He loved to read and used to hide comic books inside his text books during class time! (1) He used to love helping his mother to cook, kinda like you do. He used to go down from his building to fetch vegetables from the vendors in the street, like Kaaveri does. Perhaps this early grooming led to his life-long habit of 'baajaar-haat' on Sundays and cooking 'tamata ma eendoo' for breakfast. We remember these memories with fondness to this day. This story from his childhood is my favourite especially because it has continued in a rich family tradition for us and now you. " Monsoon Moods" when we get wet in the rains every year!! 

One monsoon, in June, little Bhaskar started school (I have used his name just so you see your grandfather when he was a little boy. His Ayee (my Teeamma) had bought him a brand new raincoat (perhaps it was blue or olive green, just the right colour for a little boy) and gum boots (galoshes, if you will). He was very excited. He could not wait to wear the raincoat to school. He couldn't wait to splash in the puddles on his way home. Poor little Bhaskar, he waited and he waited and he waited. It did not rain at all, that day. Nor the next. Bhaskar was getting worried now. " Will it even rain this year" he wondered? " Will I ever get to splash in those puddles in my nice new boots". Dragging his disappointed feet, he slowly got ready for bed. He must have put away his boots at the door and folded his raincoat neatly in a bag to take with him the next day. Just then, he heard a loud clap of thunder. Crash, Boom, Shudder. Bhaskar was not one to be afraid of a little thunder. He had other things to do. 

When his Ayee looked around for him, little Bhaskar was nowhere to be seen!!! Then she heard an excited voice calling. She rushed to the verandah and looked down. There, in the now empty street, in the dark, dark night, was little Bhaskar, wearing his raincoat, splashing in those large puddles. Splash, splash, splash. He laughed and he called her. He danced around, all the while enjoying his new raincoat. 

He had got his rainy day after all, well night. He was overjoyed and could not stop smiling. After some time, when he had played to his heart's content, he came back home. With a HUGE smile on his now dry face, Bhaskar went to sleep dreaming of splashing even as the raindrops sang a soft, lullaby in his ear. 

That little boy grew up to be my father and do you know something? He always loved the rain. He used to take all 4 of us to the terrace or the compound , whichever house we ever lived in, to enjoy the rain. When Vikha and Kshitij were little, he used to carry them each on one arm. I used to hold Shashank's hand and away we would go. Amma would caution him to say " The kids will catch a cold" Did he listen? You bet he didn't. Dads are like that sometime. In giving us memories, they visit the little boys they once were. And this is why we love them so much.

So when you get wet in the rain, or watch me standing in the backyard blissfully drenched, think of this story. This is the RainDance Ajju left us. This is his wonderful gift!!

My Teeamma had told me this story when I was a little girl. I am writing to you the day before my 46th birthday. I think back to the stories I have heard from Elders and I look back at all the happy times I spent with them. Now as I stand at the frontline, I am the Elder. And I go back to my Teeamma's reminder that " the stories must be passed on, lest we lose them"

 January 6th, 2012

(1) 

The 'hiding comic books in text book' snippet was shared with us by Sunder maam (Hattangdi) when he and Lina Maushi (Balse) visited us in Markham. The kids were delighted at this information and so was I.

~Rashmee Karnad-Jani

On being served and watching that sunrise

She's amazed at how clear this Saturday is. She slept well, very well. Thank you very much. She's joyful and so are her friends and children. The leaves from the trees around the pergola have all fallen away, detritus now, waiting to go back into the Earth and nourish what is to come after - fresh life in Spring.

She looks back at the day that was and breathes deeply. She is okay. Who knew that this would be so? And she is okay, that is all that matters.

Two decades and then one more of tying up loose ends have been very fulfilling. She had had the precious gift of 12 years in an old country that is now her adopted home, that is now more of a safe space to her and the children than the place that is listed on her birth certificate and theirs. She lives in that birthplace, mostly in memories of a verandah and a home that was once filled with plants, and happy voices, each one tended to, lovingly.  She belongs in both places, she in fact belongs in many.

Yesterday, she recalls, she woke before her alarm and remembered that she was "being served" that morning. The man who wanted his freedom had picked an able ally to deliver the papers to her. "He will come to the house at 7 am or 7 pm" she was told in a series of terse text messages while she was still at work on a long day of parent teacher interviews that Thursday. She had ignored the messages until she had finished speaking with all the families who deserved 100% of her attention at that time,

Then she had stood firm: "I do not want him to come to my children's home. I do not want him to knock on my door, 7 am or 7 pm" she had said. " But "he has to go to work and that's the only time he has", he said, the man hereafter known as co-parent.  She smiled and breathed through the familiar element of control and insistence as if she was there to always fulfil his convenience and that of his sidekicks. "No", she replied, "He will not come to my home. He can 'serve me the papers' at my school tomorrow. I will be there at 7:30" 

Why the school?, you want to know. Won't there be people there? You'd think she'd want to keep this quiet, you are thinking. Oh, the shame of it !  But this is the blessing. That school is her 'dharma bhoomi' where she does her spiritual work. That is where she is touched by the kindness of many friends, wonderful families and students. That is where she does her heartwork that goes beyond a bi weekly pay check. That is where she draws strength from the sunrise in the forest where spirits dwell.

She did not want that man, that oh-so-trusted friend of the co-parent, the deliverer of sealed envelopes,  in her house now, or ever. Shh, ever is a final term, she thinks as she writes this. However, she remembered quite clearly, the World Cup cricket tournament in 2011 in spite of having a very sick child to attend to, she had organised a match day with a huge breakfast spread of strawberries and pancakes, eggs and toast, this and that. She remembers the conversations of teppal and ambshein-tikshein and cooking a special five course seafood spread for him, the sidekick, that had moved him to tears. She had been happy to do that at a time when the co-parent had sat sunk in his own despair and thoughts and she had seen the writing on the wall: that was going to be perhaps the last meal she had cooked for this man, who was then a family friend. She remembered a dosa party at their house, one maybe. And she also remembered doing what she did in the face of their bereavement. But then that was her way. She had noticed that things had changed, since he had picked a side and freely given his signature on every place that needed a witness. She had observed the forced smiles at a get-together. She had marvelled that he had hugged her children at the same evening, as if he was not complicit in the goings on that were tearing their family apart. She had graciously answered the few inane, vacuous questions his wife had asked at the evening, to fill a space. She remembered that this otherwise chatty woman had averted her gaze and trotted off to sit down at a prayer meeting recently.

She also remembered that her children referred to this man as uncle. She perhaps wanted to spare him the shame of having chosen a side. She also did not want him to come to her home to do the bidding that he had chosen to do. She did not want him to enter a space that was spiritually clean and filled with human values that had been instilled in her for years: loyalty and the ability of staying true to courageous conversations.

She noticed that sheepish grin and lowered head as soon as he emerged from his car and dragged his feet over to her in the still dark, school parking lot. He had not thought this through when he chose to be dragged into this matter, she thought seeing him. Usually even for references, people call the ones you place there and let them know that you are using their name. He had not had the courage to pick up that phone even once and inform her that he had forgotten the salt tasted in her home and that he was a witness and an ally. Of course she did not blame him for the leaving or the severance. It was the casualness of this whole alliance that fascinated her. Nothing surprised or shocked her anymore.

And now he was here: chosen again to be the bearer of the lawyer's package and sent off to 'serve the package' to her. He had been found out and he was face to face with her courage. "Hello" he said. She observed her compassionate response to this sorry sight of a man who had chosen a side and did not know how to deal with the accompanying baggage. She actually felt sorry for his confusion and his shame.


She also felt sorry that he could never speak of this shame to anyone, without implicating himself. He could only hide it behind the worry of being found out. Later that evening, when he had been tripped by a question of a casual rumour, perhaps, he lashed out at her peaceful Friday in outrage at someone else's gossip that implicated his part in the matter, she was calm:

      "People do gossip, you should know that.  You should have thought about your part in this matter before you picked a side. Now that you have, stay on that side" she told him. "Do not monitor my social media posts and police my writing, I have not hired you in the role of a big brother or a father". She remembered a saying from her mother tongue: Pattal guvantu phattar ghallyaari, angaari ussallta" So there you have it. It splashed onto you. For all those signatures on forms and witnessing the process and serving the papers, you don't seem to have thought this through. 

You picked a side, so you stay on that side. Actions have consequences. Everyone knows that. And you MUST read the fine print of the sidekick contract. Maybe now that many will know what a fine job you do at signing papers and serving lawyers' packages, there will be more knocking down your door for your loyal services. That should be fun...And do not text me in triplcate everytime someone asks you about your role as able sidekick. Be strong and no boo hoo please. 

She had said nothing earlier that morning, just stretched out her hand to collect the envelope with the lawyer's stamp on it and it was taped up, not sealed. Whatever. She put the envelope in her car and walked to the edge of the parking lot, through the school yard, past the cricket pitch, by the vegetable patch that students had planted. She looked at the flaming horizon and watched the sun's rays blaze a golden arc into the cold November sky. She pulled out her phone and photographed her favourite sunrise, her namesake rays as old as time in this ancient land.

One loose end at a time is being tied up and she smiles now as she counts her blessings. She knows that when people want to leave they do, and there is nothing you can do to stop them. She lives in the light of understanding and compassion, nurtured by mindfulness and metta.

She has a teaspoon of teppal in her fridge. Maybe she should throw that out now. It's stale. Like many other things that are better off thrown out. 

P.S: This writer observes the human condition and her place in it through a sociological lens. It's amazing how powerful the 'single mother, 'single woman' label is in the minds of many. Refer the work of Griffith, A.I and Smith, D for further academic learning.

My past tense life

My Past Tense Life

25 February 2011 at 09:43

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 " I love having a Mamma"
quips that quick-witted child
and I cannot see the road ahead anymore,
for the tears that come unbidden

I, bratty inside
stamp my foot, mentally though
I did too, until recently

to talk to, laugh with
to read between the lines of her stories
to guess what bothered her today
or who
or what she yearned for, just out of reach

that grief comes in trickles somedays
on others, as waves crashing through
for just a moment or two though,
rations of sadness
that's all I am allowed

as a mother myself, with jobs and roles
the mask musn't slip
"I live for thee", she'd quote often

today it is my mantra
cursed, as she was
to smile through my tears

25th February 2011

I like to write with brightly coloured pens

I like to write with

brightly coloured pens

on days like this

when the Universe

smiles in simple ways

when a curly-haired boy

plays the saxophone

and hums under his breath

driving me crazy

in an endearing way

or my honey-eyed daughter

rests on my shoulder

several heads shorter than hers

before running off to catch

one more diamond-bright dream

or a behind-the-scenes team

pulls together

to find answers to questions

and the hope of hugging my sister everyday

actually seems possible

when an almost-forgotten L@S grant

comes through, unexpected

making me whoop in delight

that my students will have what they need

although I have no Godfather anywhere

high above the clouds

the sun continues to shine

somewhere in the world, all day

I remember this universal truth

as I continue to write with

brightly coloured pens.

(c) 14th April 2011