Religion vs Religion

It was barely a week before extremism struck Benazir Bhutto, that i had a revelation- that all's not well in the world. And yet there would always be that ray of hope....or maybe that lightning, which seems to separate two clouds, but in another perception, could actually be the cementing force between two stray clouds.

It was my rare vacation, for many reasons. I was putting up at my best friend's house who happens to be a Muslim. In the normal course of discussion, I would have thought the mention of religion unnecessary, but because it has some significance in what I saw and felt, the mention is unavoidable.

A family of doctors with both children now settled abroad. Traumatized by the occurrences of 2002 Gujarat riots and its aftermaths on his family living in a so called civilised part of Delhi, my best friend now has no intentions of permanently returning to India. His parents however, continue to live here, but are happy that at least their children are out of the mess.

So my vacation was fine, with gosht (mutton) being served for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Again, there was no real need to mention the food, but it was just something so alien for my somewhat vegetarian Brahmin background. One of these days we also happened to go for another friend's wedding- Vikram Verma marrying Natasha (From California USA- that's what was printed on the wedding card!!) No points for guessing she was a firang and our dear friend did initially have a tough time convincing his Sikh parents for the match with a Christian gori! But the match was made and they were sweetly married....with Natasha now making paranthas for the entire family!

As soon as we entered, Vikram and Natasha were quick to touch my friend's parents feet for their blessings. The parents gladly obliged. Then there were drinks and food. And as the conversation veered from Childhood to Adulthood....from Narendra Modi to Sonia Gandhi....it was something that my best friend's dad said that has stayed with me throughout. He was watching Vikram follow the usual traditions and quipped,

“ There is this one custom that I miss in our own religion- of touching the elders' feet. It makes perfect sense.”

He talked with such admiration and longing for an alien custom that he so desired was a part of his own beliefs. Call me naïve, but it was the first time I had come across anyone who had actually had expressed his desire to involve a custom of another religion into his own. And its not just about a Muslim wanting it, but I have never even heard of a Hindu talking about such accommodation of religious convictions.

So there we were three Muslims and a Hindu, a Sikh marrying a Christian....a milieu of customs, traditions, beliefs....all tucked under one roof. Some memories of childhood, when we religious differences were a part of the emotional bonding or making conversation (This is what we do, what do you?) And now decades later, they were just differences- sans any innuendos.
But amidst this ...also those very differences that form a part of virtual admiration and trust in the other. Still a binding factor- like that same very lightning I mentioned. Matter of perception.

Romancing the rain

There was a nip in the air last night and i could feel a slight wetness in breeze. Couldn't help being reminded of this year's rains.....

She was upset that that the National Park was shut. This is supposed to be their rekindling-the-lost-passion-day. ‘Heavy Rains’ had been announced across television channels and the Park didn’t want to risk its unblemished record to the havocking monsoon by risking our entry. “This just had to happen to us,” she moaned. He didn’t care. He just wanted to greet the rains and it didn’t matter where. He decided to park the car below their concrete dwelling and signalled her to move out. But it was pouring outside and the thought of ‘welcoming’ the rains on the cemented express highway wasn’t just blasphemous to her but also as dissonant a thought as that of relishing melted ice cream.

But she complied with the request and they stepped on the concrete road, potholed already. The rain was particularly chilled, or was it the warmth of the previous night that was still playing up. She continued to march along with him. He seemed to like the drops rush on his face while she was busy sharing embarrassed glances with people around who were either under an umbrella or were trying to get some shelter. “We appear so foolish,” she thought aloud. The walk continued, her eyes were fixed on her feet on the road. He coaxed her to shed her inhibitions, but she felt it was foolish to have fun at a time when the people around were either stranded away from home or cursing the downpour.

The showers got stronger. She looked ahead to see a battery of people wading through knee deep water. She huffed at the city’s plight and then she looked up, as if to curse the rain god. The water droplets had meanwhile, begun slipping from her t-shirt on to her hitherto dry back. The tingling sensation of the cold droplets rubbing on her warm back were creating a symphony of expressions within her.

Soon her bare back was completed smothered with water balm from the rain gods. She glanced at him and he seemed to be enjoying his wet hair swinging with each step further. She looked around again. Now that she was drenched, everything around her blended into her own state of mind. What was she saw, was what she felt on her- the water. She let loose and let the weather take over her senses. The smell of wet earth and the near by vada pav stall serving garam garam bhajiyas, made the atmosphere so contrasting- so cold yet so warm.

She found her hand slipping into the crevice of his elbow. He smiled at her, dropped her hand so he could hold it by her fingers. They walked along the same potholed concrete road, smiling at stranded people, as if to comfort them in their moment of discomfort. She popped in a few bhajiyas, while he held on to the hot cutting chai. She was still looking at him, she loved the way he enjoyed his tea, so he doesn't compromise on its flavour. He returned her glances and they knew they were together.

It was a momentous day, they walked around one of the city's worst nightmares, with a passion that seemed to have evaporated a while ago. The rains brought it right back.

Moving on....

I’m moving on to take up new challenges, new environments, new people, new moments ---- a new job. I’m leaving behind bitchy scheming bosses, lovely colleagues, a comfort zone, a brand new computer and my writing pad.
I’m choosing the boom over the newsprint and the pace over the analysis. I’m taking up the uncertainty as I chuck behind my familiar territory. It’s a completely new world just as I watch it everyday on my television screen. I’m heading to be one of them-the sound byte soldiers. I’m giving away the words as I write them, to words as I shall now speak. All the best to me!

The Olfactory Reminders

Do smells bring back memories to you, like they do to me? Like the smell of petrol and the gas fumes at a fuel station remind me of our drive from Wellington (Tamil Nadu) to Suratgarh (Rajasthan). Our century old Fiat had broken down on the narrow highway somewhere between Jodhpur and Ganganagar and the only thing visible to the naked eye was the reddish blackish sand storm nearing us. It was the first sand storm that we were about the witness and we (mom, dad me and my sister) sat closely huddled inside the car inhaling the fumes and the whiff of petrol. We had shared the boredom and fear of being stuck on a godforsaken road with nothing to look forward to but some divine intervention. Entering a fuel station still means being time-machined back into that day and time, when the family stuck together and stayed together.

Then the mogra flowers pour in pictures of my then ageing but beautiful grandmother’s silvery scanty hair. She was completely blind by the time I grew up. My entire extended family would take her out one evening, each summer vacation that we spent with her. I would tie the mogra flower gajara to her hair trying to grab as much as I could with my two little hands. Her fair complexion and the blossomed white mogra on her hair looked pristine. She was the only angel I knew. Now that she is no more, it’s the smell of the mogra flower that binds me to her memories.

Then it’s that unsettling smell of the hospitals. I was six- years-old when a jumbo ambassador car ran over my left foot at the Hashimara Air Force Station (Assam). I had to visit the Station Sick Quarters (SSQ) each day of the two months that I was advised rest. The dressing over the wounds used to be incredibly painful for the supple skin of a six year old. To divert my attention, my father often pointed towards the urine vial, telling me that the doctor often used it in a hurry instead of going to the loo. It always threw me in splits and I would be laughing till the doctor, oblivious of the joke on him, finished my dressing. The two months of painful dressing translated into 15 minutes of the repetitive joke. I swear, it was so damn funny.

Then it’s the aroma of tandoori chicken wiped over denims. I was a 10-year-old brat in December of 1991. We looked forward to Fridays, because the Officer’s Institute at Sector 31 put up a huge white screen and played those entertaining 1980s Bollywood potboilers- Insaaf Ka Tarazu, Tezaab, Meri Jung so on and so forth. We kids were all dressed in woollens and denim jeans. The tandoor was kept open and we all used to grab the best pieces with along with a gold spot (the wonderful orange aerated drink of the 1980-90s). The kids occupied the front seats of the open air theatre and the elders sat at the back. We used to be so engrossed in our eating and the film that we wiped out tandoori flavoured hands on our denims. Who wanted to miss out on the film by going to get tissue paper? The mothers always had a tough time washing them away. All kids were given instructions not to spoil their jeans, but then when did kids ever listen!

Ganpati Bappa Morya!

My little ganpu!

Headline Hunters

Media killed Adnan Patrawala.

Project Hope

All eyes were on the four dirt clad urchins that entered my so called posh residential complex. Had I not accompanied them, they might have been turned away as beggars. Well, technically, it’s not incorrect to refer to them as beggars. But, the fact that they at least try and entertain you with their jarring yet foot tapping numbers in the local trains, makes you want to accord them with a better status. I had met them over the past few months, travelling in the trains and always thought their talent could be put to a better use. So here they were, with me, wanting to figure out their lives, and mine.

They were amused with my space ship like elevator. The little girl, Ratan was her name, kept playing with the fan switch. They were almost upset that they had to offload the elevator on the fifth floor. We all entered my house. Their shoes were removed outside and mine inside. A custom, which would otherwise seem natural (my maid removes her chappals outside the house), seemed unsettling that day. Until, I asked them to bring their chappals inside the house. Poor 5-year-old Ratan didn’t wear chappals as she couldn’t afford them. I promised her she would get her pair when she comes home next.

They sat down, we talked. They said they wouldn’t mind having tea. Just for the context, no matter how tired my mother is she doesn’t allow me to prepare tea for; that’s how (in) effective my tea making skills are. But this time, I made them the best possible tea that I could. I don’t know whether they liked it. I didn’t ask, they didn’t say.

Returning to the point of conversation. Between sips of chai and Marie biscuits, Ramesh (20) spoke his first sentence. He was over shadowed by his overpowering 30-yearold cousin (uninvited must I add), but he chose to speak up this time round. He loved playing the Sarangi. Owing to his Rajasthani roots, playing sarangi came naturally to him. Playing in the train and earning money was fun because he got to play as well as earn money. But he said he wasn’t too sure if this is what he wanted in his life.

“I want to do stage shows,” he quipped all of a sudden.

Within minutes everyone seemed to have found consensus in what Ramesh uttered and began nodding their heads vigorously. They all agreed on forming an orchestra. But four is no number to form an orchestra. It was decided to get more kids into the fray. We decided upon meeting up again. This time with more kids. Logistics would then be worked out based on everyone’s ideas. They decided to return with a bag full of ideas for a new venture.

After all the talks and chai sips, suddenly there was nothing left to talk. All I could think of saying is asking them to play a song. So Ramesh on his hand made Sarangi, Ratan with her stones and Prabhat with his Sarangi and vocals chords began the often heard (and irritating at times) number….Pardesi Pardesi Jaana Nahi…..

They were charming, all of them. Nevertheless, it would take a lot of effort and grooming. But I’m not called a cousin of hope for nothing, am I!!!

The Transition

I remember a few many years ago, I had to quietly snoop out with my boyfriend (now ex) to Shimla. I hadn’t got permission from my parents and those days I didn’t care whether I was doing the right thing by going anyway. Freedom at 18 was my fundamental right, I had thought. Memories of the two-day holiday in the Himalayan woods were fabulous, until the day my parents found out (through the protruding personal diary.) They felt cheated and I, repentant. I had then promised to abide by whatever they chalked out for me- whether it was going out with friends or going for an evening walk.

It’s been a few many years since then and now I live alone. My parents have chosen to reside in a far eastern country, where sign language is the only way of purchasing daily vegetables. In these four years, I can’t remember the number of times I have chosen to go out drinking or out of town with friends and boyfriend. And unlike those few many years ago, all I had to do was inform my parents that I would be out. I never asked for permission and they never protested.

The “ask” soon transitioned into a “tell” and I don’t remember the last time I sought permission for anything I did. My father’s cringing words stating “It’s your choice if you want to go. I’m not going to say anything more,” have progressed to “Go have a ball.” Was I 21 or 22 or 23 years of age when it all began to change? I was an adult at 18, but never quite one for my parents. But overnight, I turned into a mature grown-up for them, the day I began living alone in city they thought was too fast for their liking.

But I realise I haven’t grown-up all that big. I am still my parents’ little daughter and that it might be too unfair to rid them of the right of making my decisions. Especially, when they are far off and have for this long never allowed me to feel burdened by their decisions. It’s the burden of conscience that now makes me want to make those small efforts to de-alienate from the invisible umbilical chord that my parents never let go off.

I have a small surgery day after tomorrow and whether I like it or not I am going to do exactly what they have asked me to do. Take five days off from work, get two aunts to take care of me and call up my parents twice a day. Not too big a price for freedom, I say.