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).