Read with me -Book review 1

                                                  The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler

The Leary family steps into my room as I open the pages to catchup with the life of the author of the accidental tourist series - Macon Leary. Anne Tyler evokes sympathy and in the same breath teases her characters making you smile and sad at the same time. I don’t know why, but I was reminded often of the siblings in the Glass family created by J.D.Salinger when I read the conversations between Macon and his siblings.

I carry a book in my head all the time I am reading one so filled with the gentle and sensitive portrayal of everyday life. I envy authors who can let their stories strike a chord in people so far removed from the geographical spaces in the pages.

Losing a child to a meaningless death and having a wife who separates after long years of marriage, the story moves gently, chronicling the life of Macon as he tries to cope with life, his job as an author of a travel series, living with his siblings again in his childhood home with a dog and a cat. He is a good handyman and like my husband cannot let things remain broken and unrepaired. But watch him repair his life in his inimitable style doing things that might seem quite crazy to others.

Without throwing in spoilers for those who will read the book, I can assure you that while you smile at the words that fill the book, you are going to live with it for a very long time. A movie by the same name exists too but read the book first.

The recent Bengaluru book exhibition helped me add two more books by the same author into my book shelf. I picked them up from a stall selling used books. This book looked brand new and if read (?), without any damage to pages. In a neat hand on the very first page is a challenging remark in pencil –“Try this for a read!”

I did and I loved it!

Cold comforts.

                                                                

December is here and it is definitely winter. Even as the air is warmed by sunshine and exhaust fumes of vehicles, there is no mistaking the nip in the air. The quickly darkening evenings, winter wear, winter food…drive home the fact that the warmth lies everywhere except in the air.

In Kolar, as a child I wore the knitted sweaters my mother made for me: Green to match the school uniform, half sleeves for play time, and colorful full sleeve front open ones for other occasions. My mother procured the skeins of wool from Delhi, wound it around chairs and made soft round balls stored in plastic covers. I remember her Ks and Ps covering notebooks as she painstakingly followed patterns and fitted us with warm clothes every winter. As we outgrew sweaters, she unraveled them. Washed, dried and once again wound into balls they were transformed into new ones. Left over wool made lively colorful sweaters. Winters also bring memories of cough mixtures, handkerchiefs for runny noses and avarekalu making its sudden appearance in breakfast and lunch dishes.

Mysore winters made mockery of my woolens and as a college student I preferred the trendy ready-mades worn more for fashion than warmth. The ubiquitous avarekai and the Dasara exhibition with its white enormous papads remain strongly embedded in those memories.

Bangalore - definitely colder brings memories of a young mother packing her little girl in woolen caps, sweaters, mittens and stockings. Every tiny sneeze or cough was cause for worry as I tried to ward off every winter threat to the tiny bundle in my arms. Balloons and rattles from the kadalekai parishe drew happy cooing from the baby and warmed the young mother’s heart.

Stuttgart, Germany with its snow and slippery ice, Christmas decorations in shop windows, bare trees and layers of warm clothing also remind me of the gluhwein (mulled wine) and gebrannte mandeln (burnt sugar almonds) in the Christmas market at the city centre. People pink cheeked and red nosed bent against the freezing cold, talking –with words misting from the mouth. Holiday in Budapest with temperatures twenty below zero, snow billowing white and ghostly in the dark night, laughing with friends and family, with a little girl dressed up like an astronaut –no sly finger of winter could pierce the armor her mother fitted her in, striding the icy sidewalks with her gloved hands in the hands of each parent marveling a world so white and cold.

Jaipur, with its green parks, wide roads, folk music and dance made mockery of our visions of a dry desert landscape. Winter roughly began with the fireworks on the last day of Dasara, slaying a monstrous effigy of Ravana.Woolens and the wonderful birds that flew out of glossy bird books and descended on the trees confirmed the onset of winter. Hot milk bubbling outside sweet shops in large woks, with a layer of thick cream served in clay cups called kulhar with hot jalebis for dunking is a treat. The vegetable mandis  filled with vegetables and fruits –peas, carrots, beans, greens, beetroots….- one drooled over ,missing them in the harsh summer months.

Chennai, even with its rains and sea breeze kept our woolens packed in the attic. The lovely music season with strains of music from temples in the neighborhood, women in rich silks and jasmine in their hair rushing to auditoriums to lose themselves to the divine classical music on winter evenings showed us a city that had retained a strong traditional flavor despite the growing modernity. A tsunami that ravaged the lives of many people, the resilient people working out their lives again that fateful winter remains a lesson in courage for me.

The world surrenders to the seasons holding on to memories, as the cycle of life turns its relentless circle. I have left a little of myself in all the places I have lived and taken a little in return. My mind tends to sieve off the sad or uncomfortable memories that come in a package when I remember a place and I replay the warmth and happiness I derived from the many winters of my life. It is comforting to have happy memories to fall back on .The journey of life continues and soon the winter month for New Year resolutions will be here, bringing a new slate to write upon,forgetting the broken resolutions of the past year.

Relaxed parenting, happy childhood.

                                 

     

Is this the house? Even the garden looks so small. We lived here for eleven years and I have walked again through the rooms and garden many times in my dreams. I was a year old when we moved in here. Being so tiny myself, I viewed the world around me as enormous with the house spilling into the garden. My parents worked hard in the garden to loosen the rocks and coax the soil to relent and let the profusion of green thrive.

I don’t want to feel disappointed. The trees and flowering bushes have gone. The dry hard soil looks unyielding and dirty. It is my fault, returning after thirty three years, foolishly hoping my childhood home has remained unaltered. Maybe returning oftener would have gently altered my expectations and I would not have told my children repeatedly of the lovely garden and ‘spacious’ house.

It is still a tiny two bedroom house made of stone blocks with a symmetrical twin house attached on the kitchen side.One of the many in the officer’s colony. The small gate has remained and I open it to step back in time.

The strong guava tree on the right side of the gate was also where the rope swing was fixed. Thick rough hemp ropes were bandaged with strips of old bed sheets to make soft handles. More old bed sheets and a cushion for the seat. I read most of my story books perched up in the tree, hidden, biting into oval yellow green guavas with the pink flesh inside. My legs still climb the tree in my dreams and I am sure they retain the memory of the strong branches.

The pigeon pea plant outside the kitchen gave us generous supply of the fresh pods that were shelled to be added to upma or rasam. We children ate it off the plant like monkeys. The curry leaf tree stood tall and lush nurtured by the sour buttermilk we poured regularly.

Chrysanthemums, roses, jasmine, hibiscus, crossandra, leucas, marjoram, milkwood, garden balsam, butterfly pea, bougainvillea filled the garden with colour and fragrance.

Some plants my parents grew to educate my brother and me. We watched the growth of a pineapple from the discarded crown of a delicious one; sour grapes on a few vines; onions; beans; and groundnuts. Since we made the compost from kitchen waste we were often rewarded with a good crop of unexpected tomatoes or bitter gourd clinging to the fence. Banana plants, a small jackfruit and mango tree provided the shade when I sat on a mat in the garden. My grandmother loved to clean the cotton from our cotton tree readying a year’s supply of wicks for the lamps. The Henna bush prospered with every cut we made to share it with our neighbours. Monkeys,frogs, snakes, beetles, butterflies and centipedes passed through our garden peacefully and a tame brown fox accompanied our maid to work! She asked us permission to let her ‘dog’ sit in the garden while she worked. We learnt a whole lot about nature without books, charts or ‘educational CDs’.

My father taught my brother and me to spin tops, play marbles, fly kites and make our own catapults. He taught us gilli danda and football too. He managed all this with a six day working week. My mother drew concentric circles on the side wall and fashioned bows and arrows from broom sticks for her skinny archers to practice. She also made us our first paper windmills. She was a busy housewife who found time to cook, read and knit as well.

I hit old scooter tyres chasing them down the roads and often ended in a tangle of wheels and legs trying to cycle my brother’s cycle, crossbar.

Somewhere in those carefree childhood years we learned the important ability to entertain ourselves. Without the television, computer and other gadgets ‘teaching’ us, we filled our time with fun activities getting to know and love the outdoors.

I carried this learning and love for improvisation into my own parenting days.

When my children were younger, we converted wooden fruit crates filled with clean sand into sand pits in the balcony. Chapatti dough was given to restless kids to fashion watches or anything else while dinner was underway. Old saris were converted into tents and we drank real tea from the little tea set. My daughters regularly brought home interesting looking twigs and pebbles. The living room floor always had a project in progress. I never minded.

A mother of teenagers now, I see young mothers ferrying their children to various classes, organising activities and worrying over the progress their children are making. Childhood is not about shiny floors and tidy apartments; not about performance and organised activities; not about certificates and badges; definitely not a time for stressing a child. Believe me, it’s perfectly okay to have untidy (mind you, not unclean) homes when children are small.

Children will always bring indoors, a little of the outdoors and carry it with them for the rest of their lives.

Dearest Pathu.

I know only Ajja called you by this name omitting the 'dearest' of course.To me you were 'Hassan Ajji' or Ajji.Your children called you Akka as did some of your grandchildren.
But Pathu is a sweet name,maybe your parents too called you by that name.
You told me your father rode a white horse with a bag of gold coins tucked to his waist,when you lived near 'Kannambadi katte' or K.R.S as it is now known.That is also my image of my great grandfather.
We met twice a year,once when you and Ajja visited us -usually in summer and when we visited you.
I remember your friendly toothless smile and your strong gums.You loved the sour pomegranates and grated the flesh of guavas.I wrote sporadically in Kannada to you and English to Ajja. I wish I had written more often.
I forced you to tell me stories,being a fiend with an insatiable appetite for the same.I routinely pained any adult capable of telling me a story.You read to me from borrowed Prajavanis,but fell asleep midway when you spun your own tale.
Your remedy against dandruff I proudly used with my daughters.Cutting a large Citron Lime (herale kai),in half,adding a few teaspoons of coconut oil and cumin seeds,I set it directly on a low gas flame and watched the tangy fruit juice bubble.On cooling I rubbed into scalps,including my own,sure and safe in the rewards to follow.
Your advice to eat 'hongone soppu'( a food website calls this Sessile Joyweed) for good eyesight ,I couldn't follow;Germany and then Jaipur,so you can understand. You never owned a pair of spectacles or a walking stick till your nineties and those were your last years .You always washed your own clothes.Cooked your own meals and fed people too when you lived in that quaint cottage with Ajja in Hassan.
An early riser, I knew you rose at 4 a.m,heated water,and bustled around with numerous chores now made redundant by many modern appliances and maids.The tiled roof dripped in places in the heavy Malnad rains and I remember you calmly placing utensils to catch the water.I will have to dedicate a post to those rainy days in Hassan.Also to the finger-licking goodness of your huge slices of mango pickle.
I'm glad you read to me and told me stories then.I have grown into a greedier pig now when it comes to stories and hope to write some good ones myself.
I remembered you a lot on 27th which happened to be ten years after you left us .
Take care dear Parvathamma Ajji / dear Pathu.Please watch over me.

My bird sanctuary.

                                                      

Rufous treepie 

Grey Indian Hornbill

The Sunbird

For twelve years I lived with a bird sanctuary at my doorstep. Just stepping out to see my kids off to school would open my eyes and mind to the startling variety of avian visitors that I had believed existed only in glossy bird books or exclusive bird sanctuaries.

 Even as scratchy brooms and honking vehicles start to break the morning silence in Bangalore, I close my eyes and the gates of the sanctuary open:

Winters in Jaipur were especially welcome. Our breaths smoked up in the misty morning while hungry eyes scoured the neighbourhood trees. The reward was the sighting of a charmer up the Neem or Mango tree. Armed with a bird book and a pair of binoculars I taught myself the names and habits of these visitors.

Sparrows nested everywhere. Our AC outdoor unit was always tenanted by a sparrow family. A Ganesha idol above the main door was repeatedly surrounded by nesting material and we had to doggedly thwart the resolute Sparrow mother who believed it was the best place for a home.

The Sparrows mostly spent  busy days feeding the chicks or teaching them to fly, finding grass for the nests, or squatting comically on the sand and shuffling about to make small shallow craters. The Ashoka tree at the end of our road was a short green umbrella. Walking under the tree at sundown was a magical experience. A thousand tiny bells tinkled urgently - the tired chatty Sparrows were settling in for the night. (Sadly I have only seen a single Sparrow skittering across the shiny floors of the Bangalore airport. He could have a small family nesting somewhere nearby, but still looks as lonely and rare as a man on the Moon.)

Every winter they descended, shrieking and swooping like trapeze artistes, in an explosion of colour and energy. The Plum Headed Parakeets that came to feed on the grain scattered on compound walls left me breathless. They were the clowns –the males with their red faces and the females with blue grey faces .They would quickly vanish in a cacophony of squawks after their splendid performance. Their larger cousins, the Rose Ringed Parakeets spent a lot of their time noisily on the defunct mobile tower in front of our house. But when they flew into my garden, they ate the grain warily, always watchful with beady red eyes, cocking their heads thoughtfully to one side. A pandemonium of parrots once attacked a huge eagle on the tower - a green broom angrily sweeping the sky!

Summer or winter, the Laughing Doves and Rock Pigeons cooed soothingly. Their untidy nests made of twigs and pebbles belied their neat appearance. They calmly rebuilt another nest every time the sand storm brought it down – but in the same precarious way. They loved sitting on the stationary ceiling fans enjoying a slow merry-go-round their sudden perching brought about .We watched two Laughing Dove chicks grow up in a twiggy home. With the parents absent from the small nest the siblings tried to fly, sadly only one made it, the other falling to his death.

Another frequent visitor was the stylish Brahminy Starling. His black hair was straight and silky and sat like a small cap on his head. His yellow beak picked busily at insects on our lawn.  His cousins, the Mynas joined him in the never ending hunt for grubs.

The Purple Sunbirds with their wives loved to bathe on the plantain leaves. They flew around excitedly as water from the hose drummed the broad leaves. Sliding on the wet leaves fluttering their bright wet wings they bathed joyously. Hopping on flowers, lightly sucking nectar with their pointed beaks, their glossy wings caught the sun. Surprisingly the home they wove was an untidy nest hanging on the clothes line .Made of waste thread (having politely declined the use of coloured embroidery thread that I left around for them to beautify their home); it housed a few small eggs. Our very careless maid hung clothes on the line against my strict instructions and jostled the pretty eggs out. And my ardent hopes of photographing the sunbird family came smashing down too.

Joining us during our morning cuppa was the Tailor bird. He hopped weightlessly on the Tulsi plant proudly showing off his rust coloured crown. In the evenings I spied him with his wife, hidden among the Jasmine bushes as I watered the garden. The clever couple fashioned their home with leaves but kept it hidden from my sight.

The Red Vented Bulbuls and black Robins were always perched on the bushes and small trees around our garden. Being used to humans they often let me move closer  –but stayed out of reach. Confident and chirpy they filled the garden with their musical notes.

The Hoopoe paid a visit sometimes looking like a warlord with his fan shaped crest and black and white zebra like markings on the back pecking seriously the at lawn for some ill- fated insect.

Sometimes a flock of untidy Babblers would descend on the desert cooler. Restlessly hopping, fluttering in groups sometimes called the ‘seven sisters’, they would glower at us with unexplained anger and hurry away chuckling all the time. 

All through the summer and into the monsoon, the soulful cries of the Asian Koel couple would voice our longing for a respite from the summer heat. Perched on the high branches of the mango tree across the road, the spotted wife and her devoted resplendent black husband (both with very red eyes)kept up their joint appeal for the rain. Obviously too busy in this noble pursuit, they are said to high jack a crow’s nest to bring up their young ones.

 A cuckoo too, but who respectably built his own nest, the Greater Coucal was a very welcome friend. Very handsome in black and brown, he hopped around eating the grain left on the compound walls and flew away gracefully.

The Green Bee Eaters preferred the electric cables and would sit with a helpless wriggly worm in their beaks .Their prominent central tail feathers extended stiffly, bobbing now and then even as they daintily breakfasted in the warmth of the winter sun.

Somehow the Rufous Treepie preferred our neighbour’s pomegranate tree and grains. I watched enviously across the compound wall .He made a lovely picture with his sooty head and crow like beak, chestnut brown body with white patches and  a  long black tipped tail .Years later I saw a number of them in the Sariska National Park, swooping down to snatch nuts from the extended hands of the visitors.

Winters also welcomed the Coppersmith Barbets with such clownish faces as my binoculars revealed. Green bodied with crimson foreheads and breasts they looked like naughty children playing with mother’s make up kit.

Slowly my family was getting used to a crazy mother who kept rushing out suddenly in the mornings gaping unashamedly at the sight of a bird. Just setting out to work one winter morning my husband called me urgently to the gate, “Look, some fat parrots up there”.  I focused my binoculars to find instead ,plump green pigeons with yellow feet sitting contentedly on the mango tree. I never spotted them again though. Standing there in my nightdress looking up at the trees every morning I must have looked quite a sight. Sometimes people passing by would squint up at the trees and walk away wondering if I had nothing better to do every morning than fuss with birds.

There were other birds too that I spotted just once, making me eager for more sightings. A Golden Oriole with his black kohl lined eyes once sat on the Neem tree. His yellow handsome body relaxed, he stayed a long time basking in the morning sunshine.

Cleaning rice late one winter morning, I looked up into the bushy Amla tree outside. I smiled back at the studious face of a small Oriental White eye. He looked as if he was contemplating me with his white rimmed spectacles. He too fell into my list of one time sightings.

The Grey Indian Hornbill sat on the neem tree one fine winter morning. His large beak with the prominent casque set him apart from his feathered friends. My respect for this gentleman shot up when my bird book revealed how he cared for his wife. While she sits on her eggs waiting for them to hatch in a nesting hole, he cements the hole with mud. Then he diligently brings her fruit and small animals passing it to her through a small aperture in the mud wall.

The hawk-like Shikra was very unpopular. I guessed his presence when my garden would suddenly come alive with the incessant cries of Sparrows, Bulbuls, Mynas, Doves and Pigeons, all flying about angrily. He would sit silently and resolutely even with the raucous disapproval around him. With his small fierce looking beak and steady gaze he was looking for a kill. Most of the times he would just fly away defeated in the face of such vocal opposition.

The glossy black Drongo with his long forked tail sat on transmission lines during the summer months. His forked tail tip reminded me of the proud black moustaches many Rajasthani men wore.

A turquoise blue blur in the sky would change into a White-throated Kingfisher perched high on tree tops or again on transmission lines. He was smart with his white ‘shirt front’ and chocolate brown body. His beak looked too long and heavy for his small build.

The Red- Wattled Lapwing lived in the park with his family. But sometimes he flew up on the terrace taking us to task like a worried defence lawyer with his ‘did-he-do-it, did-he-do-it’ call.

One evening, a little Grey Francolin walked up from nowhere and began to pace up and down the lawn. He was quiet and seemed worried .He slipped out from under the gate suddenly, never to be seen again. We hoped the stray dog outside had not made a meal of him.

That’s the last memory I carried away with me. It was difficult bidding sad goodbyes to my feathered friends .Now I’m afraid my bird watching skills are getting rusty in Bangalore. But I’m lucky I have my personal bird sanctuary to escape into tucked away in my brain. You were my welcome guest today.

Ole and the goslings.

Looking out of the classroom window I spot the flock of white geese waddling on the grassy lawn of the campus. I noted happily that there were a number of goslings in the flock and mentally made a note to observe them closely later on. The college campus was not very large but beautifully landscaped with a sprinkler maintaining the grass a lustrous green.

The geese were a bold lot and managed to enjoy themselves on a campus they shared with boisterous students. They attacked cheeky boys and moved away suspiciously when a larger crowd approached them. I am a great admirer of all the feathered species. On reaching home that evening I described the goslings to my daughters who were four and seven at that time. They were thrilled when I offered to take them back to the college to feed the birds right away. So we set off on my scooter with a few loaves of bread. The campus wore a deserted look as we walked to the geese. The watchman helped us feed the birds, who eyed us warily even as they gobbled the pieces of bread. The children ran about happily trying to feed the goslings. But the elders in the flock ate most of the bread and the little ones just hopped around looking bewildered and frightened. For many days the first question I was asked on reaching home was, “Did you see the baby geese? Have they grown?”

April in Jaipur is a month that makes you forget you ever experienced the winter chill .It is blazing hot, and no amount of iced water and breeze from the desert cooler can ease the torpid summer heat. So I looked out at the cloudy sky with surprise and pleasant anticipation, having returned home early on a half day leave .The children loved the rain, and dancing in the rain is a pleasure you can indulge in here without the fear of colds and viruses. So we watched the afternoon grow dark and quiet and the claps of thunder signalled the start of a grand downpour. Standing in the balcony the kids screamed, “Mummy, look there is ice falling everywhere!” .Sure enough, the whole area glimmered with  hail stones and we found larger golf ball sized ones banging away on the roof .It was as if hundreds  of unruly urchins were pelting stones nonstop from above. ”Ole,Ole”, yelled the children racing after the magical hail stones. Many were slyly consumed while others were kept safely in the fridge to show their dad when he got home. Everyone relaxed as the temperatures and tempers cooled.

In college the next day I listened to stories of damaged vehicles and broken windshields. The morning newspapers had reported damage to crops. My heart was broken when the watchman told me ruefully that almost all the goslings were dead .The hail stones had come on too suddenly for him to chase them all into their shelter. But to my daughters I untruthfully kept up a story that the goslings were growing up fast and were big geese already; the other face of the cold hard Ole hidden temporarily from their innocent lives. 

Fine surprises!

                                                               

We are zipping on the highway talking and laughing, only moments before a khaki clad officer emerges from the thick foliage around the bend commanding us to stop. The radar speed control officer’s appearance, and the shock of almost knocking him down, renders us speechless .And while a challan is being made, scores of SUVs race past gleefully, trust me, much so faster , skimming the hot tar surface, getting away only because we hadn’t.

”75 kmph? That’s all? Look, the others are easily hitting 125 kmph”, we squeaked our incredulous protests into the calm face of the officer. Pocketing the fine and handing our receipt he disappeared into the thick vegetation, ready to spring more khaki surprises from its green depths.

This love for greenery and surprises is not restricted to the highways, believe me: I always wore a helmet to the college that was just a 15 min ride from home. On reaching home after work, I realized I had forgotten a bundle of answer books in my cupboard that needed to be checked that weekend. I raced back on my Scooty sans helmet and retrieved the bundle, narrowly escaping being locked in for the weekend by the diligent attendant who was locking up rooms. Much relieved and in all probability humming a song, I emerged out of the college gates dreaming of a hot cup of tea and the company of my little girls as I turned into the main road. A khaki clad apparition emerged from behind the lovely bougainvillea bushes and waved me to a halt.

I pulled out my purse hastily, not wanting any of my students to see their teacher breaking rules. I began by arguing feebly that I had been wearing a helmet  a little while ago, but  never got to the part of my forgotten answer books as he impatiently wrote out my fine.

”Look, Sir. Look behind my ear. Can you see the infection? The doctor has advised me not to wear a helmet”. Another young woman in a similar predicament was willing the eyes of the officer to her ears. I watched with amusement as the officer silenced her with, “Now, no stories please. You women break the rules and then your heads; let’s see what your doctor advises then. Pay up or surrender your license”. The young woman with the supposed ear infection seemed to have neither and began calling up someone over the phone in a shrill voice. I raced home with my eyes glued forward, away from the trees bordering the sidewalks.

The boy in the Xerox shop should be blamed. Two pages to be photocopied and I park my blue Scooty with the Rajasthan registration plates outside his shop. It is late morning with hardly any traffic on this lane. “No problem Ma’am. Don’t worry; see my bike is also parked outside”. Five minutes later I emerge outside to find that my scooter has disappeared into thin air. New to Bangalore, I gaze at a passing pick- up van carrying bikes. There is a blue Scooty just like mine and when the van passes by, I notice that it also has a Rajasthan registration, what a coincidence, I think.

”No wait, it is mine!” I yell suddenly and run behind the van. The boys standing behind on the pick -up van watch me running .Posing like some strange charioteers they stand beside the confiscated vehicles looking unconcerned; the rice merchant idling in his shop and his neighbors, the garage mechanics sit back to enjoy the fun. Free entertainment when business is lean is always welcome. Finally the van screeches to a halt.

Of course the ,‘ I- parked- there- for- hardly- 5 min ‘ ,excuse to the officer seated in the front seat falls on deaf ears. And when I was Rs. 300 poorer, the ‘charioteer’ boys spring magically into life and hoist my poor Scooty down. I throw dark looks at the Xerox shop owner and his bike still standing peacefully outside his shop.

After a hard day’s work and worrying about dinner in all probability, a friend’s friend was carrying radishes in her helmet slung over the handlebar. The officer at the signal was so surprised and amused that he let her off with a warning saying that she would make a pretty picture for the local newspaper. The red faced lady was a school teacher and dreaded the thought of the laughs her pupils and colleagues would have seeing her thus in the morning papers. She vowed to secure the helmet on her head in future. And the chuckling officer had his finest ‘fine less’ surprise of the day. 

Shadows and sunshine.

My father is at the gate looking worried. It is mid-morning and he should have been at work. My Second PUC results have been announced in the college premises.

His usual confident gait is slow and measured. We are waiting-mother and daughter united in the urgent need to know my fate. He comes inside and says,” I had sent a junior officer to check the results. He returned saying you have failed. I will go and see it for myself”. He drinks a glass of water and leaves. It is a journey of maybe 25 km from our house to the college( in the days before the results began arriving on your laptop). The worst nightmare of a student had come true for me and my world with all its dreams disintegrated with that announcement.

It was as if I had been thrown off a great height. I began to cry –shock and disbelief shaking words and sobs from my heart. Amma began crying too. My mind raced over various possibilities: Had I not written my roll number correctly? Had I failed in Hindi, a subject neglected in my pursuit of science and maths? That seemed like a plausible explanation. I was sure I had done well in all the other subjects. I began telling my mother that I had been a fool to neglect Hindi. Now what should I do? The shame and taunting I imagined a close community would throw at me when word got around that I had failed, threw me into further despair. I had lived all my 17 years here and we knew almost everybody.

A carpenter was at work in the garage hammering out huge crates from sheets of plywood. He stopped his work and looked at us questioningly but resumed his work when the two crying women went indoors to weep within the privacy of closed doors. We were moving to Mysore in the anticipation of my getting an engineering seat there. How futile and over confident it seemed now. Amma soon collected herself together and consoled me saying we should wait for my father. In the worst case, she said I would just have to write the Hindi paper again in the supplementary exams.

When I saw my father at the gate again he was still not smiling. He looked tired. As I ran down the path I saw a large bar of chocolate in his shirt pocket and turned to his beaming face. The irresponsible chap in his office had seen the results of a number above mine and had not thought it necessary double check.

What a great relief it was to eat chocolate and laugh once more! But I had come so close to despair and the world had seemed a closed dark space pressing on me from all around. If the nightmare had been real I would have just given the exam again and tried harder. My parents would still have been supportive. Of this I am hundred percent sure. I am 27 years further down the road from that day but no matter what life has thrown at me I have taken it. Maybe I stood with my head down, letting the tears flow unhindered, mourning the loss of a shattered dream; but I always pick up the pieces and start again. 

Woman in the mirror.

It was dark. The park was almost emptied of the regular walkers. A few women were leaving, talking loudly about the cooking they would have to do on reaching home. Another group of women rose reluctantly from their gossip -complaints about how the son was becoming putty in the hands of his wife. A lone man walked briskly up and down talking on his mobile worrying about the poor work culture his team was showing. Outside the park another group of women were discussing the topic of how their children managed the house in their absence; the consensus being that children ought to be often left to fend for themselves. This would stand them in good stead when they moved out to lead independent lives.

We walked together briskly and in silence watching our step in the fading light, catching snatches of conversation. Exchanging a few words we marched on till we saw a middle aged couple on a bench conversing. They looked at each other intently as they conversed, gesticulating continuously. Often they smiled and laughed. The two of us marched past them about ten times as we made our determined laps. The couple rose from the bench still smiling and gesticulating. We realized they were using sign language and maybe one or both of them was dumb.  I marveled at how wonderful it was to have a conversation looking at the person, watching the face and actions and actually paying attention. They could argue, complain or even fight this way I mused, but the world would be none the wiser. They were communicating silently and effectively.

When my daughters were younger they watched my face intently when I told them a story. They listened with involvement, their small faces mirroring the emotions my voice and face was conveying. And they would seat me before them as they narrated their day’s  experiences .I would have to look at them as they spoke, looking away or walking around as they spoke would be met with a cry, ”You are not listening to me Mummy!”.

We grownups have mastered the art of detachment in conversation. Everywhere people are talking- but into their mobiles with the hands free facility. I find it funny when I meet people talking to themselves in buses or on the roads looking ahead at some imaginary person. At home most people talk watching TV or hidden behind newspapers.

We seem to be looking away all the time –looking at something elusive in the far distance. The very old or ailing can sit face to face and have a ‘proper’ conversation but generally sit alone in the absence of like minded souls.

I am having a conversation now with another lady sitting before me; I watch her face, eyes and gestures intently. She shares all my thoughts agreeing amiably to all my ideas and opinions. It’s getting boring though, because ‘she’ is just ‘me’ in the mirror! 

Our personal pilgrimages.

She sat on the stone bench with her hands resting on her crutches. “Aunty, why aren't you visiting the Sai Baba Mandir today?” ,I asked looking at my watch which showed that it was only 7 a.m. I was rushing out with my umbrella to buy the newspaper and some milk. “It has been raining since early morning”, she replied. ”It takes me about an hour to reach there. Then I like to sit there and meditate. Sometimes a few friends come and we exchange pleasantries. Getting back takes me another hour. So there is no way I can be back on time for the bhajans at 8 a.m. Attendance is compulsory”, she added quietly.

The temple was just a ten minute walk across the road. But with her legs bent to a bow shape by two failed knee operations, she could only shuffle slowly with baby steps. With a waist band tied around her stocky middle for extra support and a cloth bag with prayer books hanging from her wrist she usually started her daily pilgrimage at 6 a.m. Rising at 4 a.m, taking a cold shower because the hot water didn't come on till 6.30 a.m., missing her morning cup of tea, she set off before the school hour traffic started, buoyed by the hope that her legs would grow stronger. Walking later in the day was impossible with the traffic she said. My walk to the store was probably four times longer and it was a chore; her walk was a pleasure she looked forward to.

I was renting a room for a few months above the old age home while my daughter gave her exams. I glimpsed the lives of about twenty five women who took refuge in this shelter run by a philanthropist, a very old lady. Early risers, always neatly attired, working in the kitchen or around the home, the inmates threaded their empty lives within a strict schedule. Generous gifts of vegetables, groceries and small celebrations kept their body and soul together. Their prayers filled the courtyard thrice a day; mealtimes and bedtimes were signaled by a bell. In the afternoons their board games with stones and shells created a soothing clatter on the chalked stone floors.  

With the drizzle beginning early in the morning, it rained every single day that June. Ready for her walk, she sat on the bench patiently every day. ”Hope it stops raining. You haven’t been able to visit the temple for so many days”, I sympathized when I met her again. Without a trace of bitterness came her reply,” Oh, It will stop in a while. We need rain for the crops too. Don’t we? Rainy season can’t last for ever. After that I can go every day to the temple”.

I read in the newspaper of the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra spanning twenty two days. How wonderful it would be to walk amid forests, mountains and rivers. Aren't all our pilgrimages finally just that- be it a visit to a local temple across the street for some, or an arduous journey through countries for others- A true test of faith and stamina?

What Beas-tly luck!

My heart goes out to the families whose loved ones -young boys and girls of an engineering college who were grabbed by fate into a watery grave.Very sad and unfortunate that the gates of the Larji dam upstream, opened to let the impatient waters at that very dark moment surge down sweeping away in one brutal wave young lives.Young lives with a world of life and promise ahead of them.

We were in Manali in the second week of April this year, and had fallen in love with the majestic trees,mountains and rivers of the Himalayas.We had enjoyed rafting down the river Beas.

The river always rushing and tumbling,a cold grey green shade ,tasted sweet and cold when its spray hit our faces.We had loved the river and had spent a happy evening sitting on boulders handling smooth rocks and pebbles that we fished from its shallow depths.We watched squealing tourists rappelling across its narrow girth.
Somehow the recent tragedy showed us again how powerful the forces of nature are,only this time a warning would have made the children step out of the way of a rushing river,and live to talk about its beauty.

Rising in the Rohtang Pass in Himachal Pradesh ,Beas hurries down the mountains joining the Sutlej in Punjab.Sutlej joins the Chenab in Pakistan to become the Panjnad and this joins up with the Indus.
Warm temperatures melt the glaciers and the rivers swell and surge with the forces that man made dams cannot contain.They need to flow.But what a callous mistake was made that fateful day.Hope such tragedies are averted in future.There is nothing like being too careful.
My travel log contains eulogies to the Beas.Today I read them again and there is a knot of fear in my heart, that  potential disaster was always hidden behind the sweet face of Vipasha, as Beas is also known in Manali.The timing was lucky for us.We reached home safely with wonderful pictures and unforgettable memories ,and terribly unlucky for these students who were near the river when the gates were opened.

Stop.Think before you shoot!

"Live the moment, sans photos" reads the heading of an article in today's newspaper.I was intrigued by the introduction which asked people to give up the obsession with the camera- recording and sharing every moment,as studies proved that it was harming memory.
Dr.Linda Henkel from Fairfield University has published a related article in Psychological Science regarding this.According to researchers, recording moments rather than experiencing them, saw people eventually less likely to recall them.
Today we rely heavily on the 'extended memory' of computers and the internet to hold our memories.People are always ready to grab their phones or cameras mindlessly,ending up with thousands of pictures that they share on their social network or shared spaces.When people rely on technology to 'remember' for them it has a negative impact on how well they actually remember them,the article went on to say.
I've felt this too often in weddings and on holidays.Rather than enjoy the festivities and atmosphere,people (mostly family members) behind cameras are clicking away trying to capture every moment in the quest of a great photo.They are actually helping out the other set of people who enjoy the festivities or holiday with their senses,capturing color,fragrance,light,conversation and a thousand little details unhindered by the devices.Looking at a picture for these people can bring back sweet memories.Whereas those wielding heavy cameras miss out on the nuances of the captured frame.
In family functions wouldn't it be better for a paid photographer to slog his way around ?His involvement and interest in the family is missing anyway and if he is a professional ,he would do a good job anyway.That would give the family the luxury of 'uploading' pictures they captured with their senses and retrieve them at will to relish the happy moments.Looking at photos will then strengthen those memories.Pictures obviously have true meaning when you have experienced those moments.For example :
If you sat beside a bubbling river for thirty minutes a single snapshot can help you capture the moment.For thirty minutes you have heard the music of the water on the rocks,been brushed by the cold spray,seen the dappled sunlight on the waters,felt the sun on your skin,seen floating clouds and flying birds,held smooth pebbles ....... Believe me even 300 pictures won't help you remember all this if you were clicking away like a maniac.
Having said that,I still remain grateful to all those marvelous cameramen whose pictures of wildlife,nature ,the world around and beyond us, let us for a moment to be transported to a place far away.We probably derive a fraction of what a person who was present there experienced,but still it is a gift.
My laptop's hard disk just crashed last week and thankfully a last minute backup salvaged pictures that were valuable.Not too many to hinder the joyful experience of those moments,those pictures can trigger the senses again.
So stop and think before you shoot.Remember some moments can be savored and stored for eternity without a device!It is not your job to chronicle every moment of your life through pictures-Just be present with your senses.(For the compulsive shooters -practice restraint).

Getting back on track after 11520 minutes!

It happens sometimes and quite often too, that our best laid plans get derailed.I threw myself into a lazy week,not writing, not wanting to write because of so many things that,(now look trivial) just shoved me off my writing schedule last weekend.
I wish I had got back earlier .Laziness I realize is no worse than a Himalayan avalanche;feeding on excuses,self pity,regret and total lack of motivation,a little ball of lazy snow just grew into a deadly avalanche over an entire week.
"Don't write.Take it easy.You are not getting anywhere with your writing anyway.A few articles and a story and you stake claim to being a writer?Just cook,clean,read novels and nap.The blog and all your writing can take a vacation."
The feeling grew stronger with the passing of each non-writing day.In a stupid way I felt relaxed; 'Great!no need to break my back typing nonsensical stuff and dreaming of my books filling the book shelves' .How easy it was to just slip and slide away.
Yet there is a resilient part of me that forced me to look up inspirational quotations and drag myself back to my writing desk.Now this part of me cannot give up and keeps saying in a small insistent voice,"Get back on track,at least try to write.It's no picnic;thousands of words,drafts and single mindedness have got established authors where they are today .When we see them breezily accept the awards and accolades none of the loneliness and struggle is visible.It's not just luck.Build your writing muscle.Six months into writing regularly have got you six articles published in a leading newspaper and a short story in a popular magazine.One step at a time and let's see where you go".
The shirker in me is a strong bully and generally lets me get off with lazing.But the persistent needling little voice breaks through the avalanche and I am pulled back into sunshine.
Yes,like the Buddha said ,"You yourself,as much as anybody in the entire universe,deserve your love and affection",I am listening to that small voice that pulled me out of a snow fall of 11520 minutes when I did not write.
I did not berate myself too much-just forgave myself .
Sheepishly I am back to being my motivated self and shamefully rue the irrevocable loss of a good eight days.I have resolved to stay on track,however wobbly the going gets,because I really want to get there with my writing.
No matter what lies ahead,at least I'll know I tried.

Memories of a place we called home.

When I see the family of construction workers living in makeshift dwellings on site, I wonder at the memories their children will carry of this early home.
We never forget our childhood :first playmates ,the games we played,the trees we climbed,the aroma of food and a million other details.
If you take me back to the home where I lived as a child,I can even show you where I ate watermelon and launched the seeds directly into the small pit -a  washing stone in the backyard.Or where I grazed my arm really badly,or the point I launched a used tire to set it rolling down the slope,or where in the gutter I crashed when I forgot how to turn on my cycle......
At least for me I remember vividly my childhood home and all my friends.There was a permanence to those memories that was a solid block in my recollections of  childhood.Happy childhood is a treasure that many of us take for granted.
The worker's children have fun playing with other children on the streets.Their  mother is cooking a meal outside on the ground.The children go to a government school nearby.They are clothed in clean hand- me- downs.They seem well fed and contented.Yet ,as the house their parents are building with their hands will soon be complete,they will pack their meager possessions and start life again at another construction site.Their friends from the wealthy homes will soon erase them from their minds.
Children babysit their younger siblings and some older ones help carry bricks and sieve the sand.Another earning member and the family breathes easy.Maybe they can now afford tidbits from the hotel,a new dress,a pair of slippers or a movie.
The parents continue in making the new place a home.If the father isn't drinking and beating the family in fits of sudden anger,they are able to provide a reasonably good home in every new home they help build.
I hope these children carry happy memories of the people who lived in the various streets and treated them kindly.They got to play owners of a dwelling they helped take shape by living, eating and sleeping for a year under its roof.Their tears and laughter are in the very bricks they carried with their small hands and the sand they frolicked on with the stray dogs.
The smell of hot food and voices of sleepy children drift through the streets and the poor playmates slumber for a time in a large house with a solid roof,electricity and water.I hope this life impels the young to work harder and desire to own a strong little home of their own.Their children will have their own neighbors as playmates and they don't have to live on borrowed joy for the most precious and innocent phase of their lives.Let them carry good memories of the place we call home.

Books by weight?

Any book fair advertised in the newspaper has me waiting with eager anticipation,this involving checking the paper regularly and hoping a last minute cancellation wouldn't rob me of the pleasure of exploring the fair.Last year it was cancelled because the organizers were being offered three days for the fair and they wanted an entire week.

Jaipur saw two big book fairs organised by two different newspapers separately every year.Once a roving newspaper cameraman caught us browsing books at a stall and the kids saw themselves in the newspaper the next day.The only headache being the loud music played on loudspeakers repeatedly (usually a song for little children).

Browsing through books is a wonderful process: Something about the cover catches your eye,you read the title and note the name of the author,despite the 'bestseller....' claim you read a little bit about the book on the back cover,flip through the pages carefully so that you don't read the ending and then buy it.It then becomes a member of your family and is 'my' book and 'our' book from the time you slip it into your bag.

The book fairs have numerous stalls: rare books,used books,college and school books all jostle side by side.
Buying books on a whim was unthinkable when I was young.The local library and a network of friends ensured we read all the books and that ,many ,many times over.If I want a book these days, I just browse my online library's web page and place an order.Books are delivered  home, tightly bound in cling film and the ones to be returned are picked up by the delivery man.So easy right?

Books not in the library are ordered by the numerous book stores and they arrive packed in good cardboard at our doorstep.These are fresh and smell nice.No one has claimed ownership before us and it moves with us around the rooms of our home finally peeking out of the book cupboard befriending other books ,some who have been with us for years.

The book stores are clean roomy spaces with gentle music playing in the back ground and neatly arranged according to genre.Small soft stools to sit on and browse through.

Today I visited a second hand bookstore that sells books by weight.Thousands and thousands of books, arranged in no particular order, filled the walls and lined the floor.It must have been an old house and all the rooms including a washbasin are filled with books.Thoughts race through my mind:
So many people can write.So many books that have no home in their owner's  cupboards.It is sad for an author to see his creation filling shelves and growing old alone in a place like this.

I found a copy of Roddy Doyle's ,Barrytown Triology (weighing 450 grams)and in it was a ticket ,maybe used as a book mark,of the British Rail dated December 8, 1993.For a book ,(I am assuming was purchased before the journey or at the station) ,more than twenty years old ,it is in good condition.After I read it, it will find a home in my book shelf.Though the boy who sold it to me announced cheerily that he would even buy it back  from me (by weight), if I ever wanted to sell it.

But we all agree that there are some wonderful books worth their weight in gold.May they reside in our bookshelves.

Happy Light Writes is born!

I'm here at last at Happy Light Writes.I couldn't have chosen a better day -Akshaya Tritiya. It is said that sage Ved Vyas and Lord Ganesha began writing the Mahabharata on this day!
I share the love of writing with such gigantic figures and pray that I am blessed to continue writing as long as I live. Akshaya means never diminishing in Sanskrit and that's how I want my writing output to be.

People rush out to by gold today ,and here I am mining my mind for something equally precious.Words ,and the written word at that mean so much to me. Its amazing how words,mere permutations and combinations of the basic 26 can bring forth  myriad emotions in the reader.We have all laughed ,cried and been moved by books. Isn't it heartening for us readers to be reassured that there are millions of books out there in the world waiting to be read and savored,even as we greedily devour books everyday?

I love birds and became an amateur bird watcher during the 12 years I lived in Jaipur.Every little feathered creature inspired in me a sense of wonder in its presence ,but when a pandemonium of plum headed parakeets swooped down the skies one cold winter morning,I was stunned into silence.Blue,red,green and grey colours splashed through the morning mist as they squawked and cavorted like crazy trapeze artists.
I now always associate them with happiness,a free wheeling freedom and energy.I feel I can move mountains after a vision so charged with beauty and joy like that.I have it stored inside my heart and on days when I need to pep myself up ,I just close my eyes and look up at their strong lean bodies ,coloured by a generous God and laugh at their antics.Memory is such a blessing to a writer.

Lights are the illumination to the world around and within us.The silent dawn uncovers a mountain peak covered with snow and a world rubbing  sleep from still unseeing eyes.From the light of the sun ,moon and stars ,through oil lamps,Edison's bulbs,fluorescent lights,LEDs and modern smart lights, is evident -the desire of humans to see better.
Wonderful words woven from the minds of a brilliant writer  can make us see the world better and see inside our own hearts and mind,as many familiar and unfamiliar feelings and thoughts echo within.

Just as light also shows up hidden  grime and destruction,words too uncover the not so cheery aspects of ourselves and the world around us.
Join me in Happy Light Writes ,as I discover the world around me through the joyful act of reading and writing.
Be seeing you soon.Have a great day.