Eid Mubarak!

Eids always make me nostalgic… I am transported back to Mubarak Munzil – the home that I grew up in and that I still love and the magical Eids we celebrated there.  

Bathed and dressed in our new clothes, with hennaed hands, we would crowd around the breakfast table. The menu was always the same. Piping hot kichdi, dalcha, papad-badi and two varieties of seviyan. The one made with sugar by my mother and the other made with jaggery – my grandmother’s specialty.

After breakfast, we went with Abba to the Eidgah. We were left in the car while Abba and my brother said their prayers. Sometimes, our neighbours would accompany us to the Eidgah. We would buy cheap, plastic toys with our Eidi. What treasures they seemed to our innocent eyes! The bright, multi-coloured toy tiffin carriers and a host of little things that gave us such joy. Eid prayers completed, we would trudge to the cemetery and pay our respects at the graves of our grandfather and other deceased relatives. From there, we invariably went to Abba’s aunt’s house. Hers was a large family – her daughter and four sons and their families all lived together in a sprawling house. We would first visit her and then each uncle in turn which meant a round of seviyan everywhere!

Lunch was the traditional biryani. There were always friends at the table. So we loitered around, eating, talking, laughing… Sated, we would continue our conversation in another room. Idle chatter, silly jokes, teasing each other... such wonderful times we had!

Evenings saw a continuous flow of relatives who came to greet my grandmother and take her blessings. Then there was dinner – where we sometimes had people coming over or we were invited to the houses of friends and family. Time seemed to move at a leisurely pace then. Nobody was in a rush and Eids were a joyous occasion of family and friends coming together, sharing food, conversation and laughter.

When we grew older and could not accompany Abba to the Eidgah, we followed our mother as she led the prayers at home. My sisters, the maids, the cook all standing in a line behind my mother. Her duas after the namaaz, were for the whole world. She asked for health for all the diseased and ill, for prosperity for the poor, happiness and peace of mind for those going through difficult times. She prayed for the Palestinians, the Bosnians and whoever at that moment in time was facing persecution. Her duas were so impassioned that they made us all cry. Trying to appear unaffected and ‘cool’ - in the words of today’s generation - my sister and I hid our tears behind a nonchalant smile as we embraced each other.  

Those Eids are a thing of the past. Abba, Dada and so many of our relatives who were such an integral part of every Eid are no more. Life is rushed and the business of living consumes our every waking moment. Few of us have time to apply mehendi or make elaborate preparations for Eid. The Eidi has increased but the joy it brings has decreased. Yes, Eids makes me nostalgic and my heart yearns for the Eids of the past. Those innocent, joyous Eids at Mubarak Munzil!

So, what makes you smile, chuckle, chortle, giggle?

They say that we reveal our character by the things we laugh at, by what we find funny. Our first instinct, when someone falls, is to laugh. So the person who falls not only has to worry about the scrapes and wounds, but also the ignominy and embarrassment of a crowd that finds his fall funny. 

When we were growing up ‘comedy’ for us meant Laurel & Hardy, Charlie Chaplin, Tom & Jerry. Today we are surrounded by comedy shows, sitcoms, rom-coms, stand-up comedians, funny movies.... and yet we have become increasingly intolerant and unable to take a joke. Indians have always been accused of having no sense of humour. I guess we are a serious lot, carrying as we do, a 5000 year civilization on our frail shoulders. But look at our history - our kings loved a good laugh. Court jesters were appointed to entertain the king. And the witticisms of Birbal and Tenaliraman are legendary.    

Here are the top five things that make me smile:

1. Peanuts Comics - Charlie Brown and his friends can always, always make me chuckle
2. Orson’s Farm Comics - An amazing bunch of characters beautifully delineated
3. America’s Funniest Videos and the candid camera type of shows
4. The humour in Kung Fu Panda, Ice Age and Madagascar. Silly movies like Welcome, especially some scenes that really set me off
5. Some TV shows like Yes Boss and Sarabhai Vs Sarabhai. I like the British brand of humour: loved Mind Your Language, Yes Prime Minister and Are You Being Served?

What I cannot stand is the comedy show where all the contestants believe that you cannot say something funny without it having a sexual innuendo. The canned laughter, Archana Puran Singh’s loud, forced laughter and the crass, over-the-top humour of the contestants puts me off - totally. I guess I am a prude that way.

Sometimes the silliest of things sets me off. I remember Anu and I were at a parlour once and there was this lady who had just finished a relaxing facial and dozed off. She kept snoring and every time she snored Anu and I would just double up. What was funny about that? Don’t ask me, it seemed real funny at that time :)    

So, what tickles your funny bone?

Thoughts on Parenting

It is, without doubt, the toughest, most important, most challenging, most rewarding and the most frustrating job in the world. And there is no course that prepares you for it. You are not trained for this job and while there may be many books out there on parenting, nothing - and nobody - can every prepare you for this onerous task. And while it is a universal experience, it is also a truly unique one. There are billions of parents out there in the world and billions of ways of parenting. How one parent brings up a child is vastly different from how another rears his brood. Social, cultural and religious mores all play their part. For instance how a child is brought up in India is way different from how a child is brought up in the US. 

For years, I was wracked with guilt because I thought I had ‘failed’ as a mother. Getting back to work when my daughter was just three months old, leaving her at the mercy of paid help, carting her around to my workplace and meetings, leaving her to fend for herself at a very young age, I felt I was a real bad mother. That I never gave her the childhood she deserved. It took me a long, long time to get over the guilt and realise that I had brought up a wonderful daughter: one with the right values, one who was honest, true to herself, compassionate, helpful and generally what we would describe as a “good” human being.  

A lot of my ‘Aha!’ moments or moments of self-realisation have come from my daughter’s epiphanies.   Some months ago, my daughter turned to me and said “I think your dad did a fabulous job of bringing you up”. My immediate instinct was to point out that it was my mom who brought us up really, not my dad. But I thought about it. It was true, my dad had played his role too. As had my grandmom. We (my siblings and I) are a sum total of this parenting by all of them. Yet they never told us “This is right - this is what you should do” or “You must not do this”. It was something we saw, we learnt, we imbibed. And that really is the best way. Because children don’t do what you ask them to do, they do what they see you do. Monkey see, monkey do, right? I really find it strange when parents tell their children the ill effects of smoking and drinking, but happily do both. Or are shocked when their kids use foul language, when they swear all the time. 

There really are no rules in parenting. No dos and don’ts. You simply have to go by instinct. I have seen parents who have been too strict with their kids and the children just went ahead and did things behind their back. I have seen parents give their children way too much freedom and that has back-fired too. I have seen parents who tried hard to be their child’s friend. But hey, your child already has plenty of friends, but he/she has only one set of parents. So be the parent. A friendly, responsive, supportive parent. But a parent nonetheless. Children need parents. They need to know that whatever life throws at them, they can count on the love of their parents (who else can love them unconditionally, besides their dog?). They need to know that their home is a safe harbour where they can return to, when the storms of life buffet them around. They need to know that however hard it gets out there, they can still manage because their parents are watching out for them and will continue to - till their last breath. 

Of all the roles I play in my life, the one that is closest to my heart, the one that I most cherish is my role of a mother. It fulfils me like nothing else does. My daughter’s cheerful “Ma!” is the sweetest sound in the world for me. When I look around and see several of my  friends battling it out with their kids, having hard-to-resolve issues with those whom they have given birth to and reared, or damaging them, intentionally or unintentionally, I feel grateful for doing some things right. 

Like loving my child and showing her that I love her in many, different ways. Making her feel special, indulging her, never ever laughing at her dreams, or her fears, her hurts, her insecurities. 

Like always being there for her - even if not physically. My daughter knows that I am always just a call away.

Like building a strong relationship with her. So many times we fail to really nurture relationships. We assume that once the relationship is established, we don’t need to work on it. Every relationship needs to be nurtured - continuously - like a garden. You can’t just water it once and expect it to bloom.   

Like keeping the lines of communication open always. My daughter and I established a routine of sorts. When she was smaller, I worked flexi-hours and would pick her up from school. She would excitedly share all that happened in school on the way back. Later during her college days, we would sit together after I returned from a long day at work and ask each other about our day. During her one year sabbatical post college, we would sit late into the night and watch her TV programmes together. Stuff that she wanted to watch. Some of it that I followed, some that I invariably dozed through. But always we had our ‘commercial break’ conversations. Ensuring that your child can talk to you about anything, is important. Silly conversations, serious discussions, crushes and infatuations, friends and their loves and lives, her likes and dislikes... Now that she is in hostel we have our calls late at night. I don’t have a very good phone personality, so our conversations are not as long as I’d like them to be, but we make up through long emails and short messages. 

Like being honest with her without overburdening her with our problems. It’s a fine line. I do think children need to know at least some of what’s happening in your life. However it’s also important for them to be told that this is a passing phase and that challenges are part of life and can be overcome and that Life is always beautiful, despite all the problems and difficulties. Share both the good and the bad, else they’ll think that life is only misery.

Like being stern with her at times. Children need to be disciplined, not in a harsh or violent way, but they need to be told when they are doing something wrong. By laughing it off or letting bad behaviour pass, you are actually condoning it and this could become an issue later on.  

Like letting her make her choices, take her decisions. I never ever forced her to do things she was not comfortable or happy with, whether it was the choice of a course or choice of college. I was real keen she joined Mount Carmels and she even got through the written and oral entrance exam, but she chose Jain College. And she thrived there. I cannot understand parents who push their kids into engineering or medicine simply because they believe these are better career choices. 

Like being the best that you can be. Ultimately, that’s what is most important. And I think the greatest compliment I have received in my life is one of the 50 reasons that my daughter mentioned for loving me: “Because watching the way you live your life, makes me better at living mine!”

I am therefore I write!

My writing is like me: simple, straightforward, sensible. No complex sentence structures, no nuances, no textures, no hidden meanings…. I write like I talk. In the days before email (Yes, those ancient days when, horror of horrors, there were no computers or emails!) I used to write long letters to my friends and family. A classmate who has preserved some of my letters to this day, recently told me: “Every time I read your letters, I felt you were right there in front of me, talking to me”.  I admire the way my friend Ranjana writes. And the way my daughter writes. But sadly I cannot write like them. My style is different.

I love writing. And writing is all that I wanted to do for as long as I can remember. I articulated this when I was in the sixth standard when I mentioned “Author” as my ambition in a classmate’s autograph. A word that is almost obsolete today and taken over by the more contemporary “Writer”.  I loved English classes, especially compositions - another obsolete word.  I enjoyed writing those compositions – My Best Friend, The Autobiography of a Rupee, My School… Sometimes, I would pen a poem as part of the composition. I would be called over by my teacher Miss Meera to read these compositions aloud. As I entered my tenth standard, I veered more towards poetry. I wrote poems for my siblings and cousins on their birthdays; I wrote a poem about my dad’s friend, which he proudly shared with all and sundry; I wrote poems on stuff that I saw, felt or even imagined. I was praised. My family thought I was really talented and I started believing them. So I wrote some more. And became more passionate about writing.

To write well, you must read. And I read a lot. I devoured books. It helped that I came from a family of readers and was surrounded by books and magazines. We were encouraged to read. I think there was not a single room in the house that did not have books. And that’s true of my home now too. And so I read and nursed my ambition. Literature is what I wanted to do. So off I went to Madras to do my graduation in English Literature and my post graduation in Journalism and Mass Communications  – the first girl in the family to step out of the hometown for further studies.

Destiny then brought me into advertising and I became a copywriter. I wrote for a living. I learnt to write with discipline. I learnt to write to sell. I learnt to write under pressure. I learnt to write with crazy deadlines.  My clients loved what I wrote. I remember three incidents in particular when my writing was especially noticed and appreciated, by two different Chief Ministers of Karnataka.

The first was a campaign we did focusing on communal harmony post the Babri Masjid demolition. The Government of Karnataka, through the Department of Information & Publicity wanted to do a multi-media campaign. We worked through the night and finally came out with a campaign that I am really proud of… Veerappa Moily was the Chief Minister of Karnataka then. The Client Servicing Executive and I went to his official residence on Kumara Krupa Road to present the campaign. He read through it and expressed his happiness with the work.

Years later, we did a brochure for KPCL for the inauguration of a Power Plant. The Chief Guest was the then Chief Minister of Karnataka S M Krishna. Just to make the brochure interesting, I wrote a poem on the Krishna River. The CM was so impressed with it, that he asked the MD of KPCL who had written the poem. I was given a letter of appreciation and a KPCL Bond!

A couple of years ago I did a brochure for free for a charitable organization that takes care of orphan girls and destitute women. The brochure was ‘launched’ at a function held in honour of the woman who started the Ashram. Another CM was the Chief Guest. He cursorily flipped through the brochure and then started reading it – seriously reading it, word for word. At the end of it he announced a sizeable amount to be disbursed to the Ashram. Did the money actually reach this place? That is another story.

I am a third generation writer. My maternal grandfather wrote. My mother wrote, though sadly she has not preserved any of her writings. Uncles, aunts, cousins… they all write and write well. Some of them are even published. I wrote my very first novel – more as a lark. A Mills & Boons kind of book, just to prove to a friend (who loved M&Bs) how silly these books were and how easy to write. My second novel took several years to write and is now waiting to see the light of day. There are more books waiting to be born, more stories waiting to be told. They come to me in the most unexpected moments. When I am driving. When I am day-dreaming. When I am lying on my bed and just thinking idly…

Writing is not always easy, especially for a perfectionist like me. I want every sentence to be crafted perfectly, every word to be chosen with care. Sometimes it happens naturally. That’s what I call ‘inspired’ writing. It seems to come from some divine source and I know that I cannot duplicate that again.  

Writing – like most other art forms – is a gift from God. It is not something you learn. It is inherent and then you polish it, you hone it, you make it as good as you can. I am truly grateful to Allah for giving me this gift. A gift that has defined me. A gift that has brought me such joy and satisfaction. A gift that has helped me make my passion into my livelihood. A gift that I have passed on to my daughter, a fourth generation writer. 

A Washing Machine For Souls

As I sat looking at the clothes tumbling around in my washing machine, I wondered how it would be, if there was a Washing Machine for Souls? One that would, with a turn of the knob and the press of a button, wash away the grime, the impurities and the stains that stick stubbornly to our souls. This unique Washing Machine would have different temperature settings too. A gentle handwash for the relatively clean souls. Delicate for those little baby souls that left for their heavenly abode before they could get polluted by the world. Hardened souls, encrusted and besmirched, would need higher temperature settings.

We would of course need to separate the souls, just like you do with your clothes. It wouldn’t do to mix the whites and coloureds. So those souls with just a few white lies, some petty jealousies, small white collar crimes must be washed separately from the dark coloured souls: those who have indulged in violent, blood-red atrocities; those who harbour black evil, sinister malice and hatred.

They would all go through the entire cycle. Pre-wash, wash, rinse and come out spotlessly clean. But then I wonder, would any Washing Machine be able to wash clean the souls of those who have – in the name of religion - killed humanity?

My Garden Of Eden

My husband loves gardening, loves to potter around in his tiny patch of green, humming, weeding, trimming, digging, watering…. Everybody who visits our home is amazed at how he has transformed our tiny garden into a tropical forest. Tiny birds with long tails, colourful butterflies, buzzing bees, croaking frogs and a big fat chameleon have made our garden their home. All of us love to watch the birds in our garden. They come in a group – three or four of them – especially after Sunil has watered the garden. They rest lightly on the creepers, seeming to do a fine balancing act on the green twine. They hop onto the balcony, feeding sometimes on the rice grains that Anu leaves out for them. They converse with each other in dulcet notes…. Anu told us about how one tiny bird trying to drink from the large cement pot filled with water in which lotus and water lilies floated, lost her balance and fell into the water. She came up quickly, shook off the water disdainfully and flew away.

Looking at Sunil’s love for gardening, I know he would have been delighted with the gardens around Mubarak Munzil, when we were growing up. There were three of them. A small one near my sister’s room housed a few mogra and rose plants. The fenced-in garden in front of the portico again had many flowering plants and shrubs. This was where we played many fun-filled games. The garden in the west - now that was something magical! Besides the mogras, the roses and the raat ki rani plants, there were so many fruit-bearing trees here! Pomegranate, guava, mango, two large chickoo trees with sprawling branches perfect to lounge in, fig trees, lemon trees and small patches which my grandmother had converted into miniature vineyards. There were some borrom trees that needed a long thorny trek to be reached. Close to the compound wall, these attracted many urchins who’d jump the wall to pick the borroms that generously carpeted the ground. The stone bench under the grape vines was privy to many an innocent conversation, It was here that we sat with friends and shared terribly important secrets. We played ‘house house’ in the gardens with our little toys. We sang and danced. We hid here when we were angry or sulking. Our garden was also the venue for a picnic once. One of our junior classes was unable to go to their planned venue for some reason. The Principal and teachers called up my parents and asked them if our garden could become their picnic spot. My parents agreed. So there I was perched on the ledge of the bedroom window watching a bunch of little kids tucking into their lunch boxes, playing passing the parcel and enjoying their picnic!

One year, my grandmother used the space behind our house to plant some maize. The crows swooped down. A scarecrow was placed in the middle of the crop but proved ineffective. A maid – tall and lanky – almost like a scarecrow herself was given the responsibility to shoo the birds away. So every now and then, she’d race up the stairs to the terrace with a rag in her hand. She’d stand on the terrace wall, waving the rag like a flag of truce. My second sister Nasira, who inherited my grandmother’s green thumb, looked after our gardens till she married and moved away to Dubai. Slowly, the gardens – left under the care of servants – became a neglected lot. Plants dried up. Weeds overran the place. Trees shriveled up and quietly died. But in my memory, the gardens of Mubarak Munzil are still rich and green, still buzzing with life and activity. Birds still sing here. Laughter still rings out. And little children with dreams in their eyes run about joyously.

The dreams I dream…

Dregs of half-forgotten memories. Fears surfacing from the subconscious mind – unfounded, unvoiced, unarticulated. Snatches of conversations. The faces of people I’ve loved and lost. The visages of those who live in my every waking thought. Ghosts of the past lurking in some corner of my busy mind. Events as fresh as the morning’s newspaper… These wake up when I go to sleep.

I dream so many dreams every night: vivid, multiple dreams with the power to cheer or chill. Vestiges of the dreams linger through the day, colouring my mod – sometimes a bright, sunny yellow, sometimes a bleak grey.

When I was studying in Chennai and later working in Bangalore, I’d have nightmares about losing my mother. I’d rush to the Telecom Office near my Hostel at a decent hour and call home. I could relax only after I heard my mother’s voice and assured myself that she was fine.

After a friend, Sujatha, once paid a surprise visit all the way from the US, I dreamt my best friend and soul sister Ranjana had surprised me too. I shared the dream with her in an email and she went to a great deal of trouble to make my dream come true!

Sometimes my dreams are a harbinger of things to come. I had dreamt of my nephew’s arrival before my sister announced her pregnancy. I dreamt of the unraveling of a family when only the adults knew what was happening. Returning to Bangalore after my father’s funeral, I dreamt that my second sister had a boil on her left shoulder that refused to heal. I called her up the next morning and told her to get herself checked for diabetes. A couple of months down the line, she did develop diabetes.

One night my daughter and I shared the same dream - of Bellary being bombed. It was as if we had both embarked on the same nocturnal journey and alighted at the same station.

My father appears in my dreams often. As do my uncle and aunt. My cousin Azra is another person who frequents my dreams regularly. As do my friends. In fact, when I was planning our School Reunion, I would dream of it almost every other day.

Work spills over my dreams too. I wake up in a panic after dreaming about errors that I overlooked in a brochure or annual report artwork. The next day I go back to check it once more and sure enough would spot a typo I had earlier missed.

When I was in Bellary last week, I had a terrible nightmare of my pet Tubby being mauled by a huge dog and lying unmoving. I kept calling out to her, crying and sobbing… And woke up in a sweat, my heart beating erratically.

My dreams are fresh in my mind when I wake up. Then they slowly fade into the crowd of activities that fill my day. Many a time, I’ve told myself I should keep a notebook and pen near my pillow and record my dreams as soon as I rise, Maybe I’ll see a pattern there? Maybe I’ll be able to interpret my dreams? Till such time though, I share them with my husband and daughter, whose dreams are as vivid as mine. For now, they are the keepers of my dreams.

CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE TEACHER

They finally gave me the old scooter. I have been asking for it for almost a year now. It was just lying there in the basement, collecting dust and cobwebs. Yet it took them 12 months to decide to part with it. I always tell my Begum that the ones who have the most are the ones who give the least. The poor - though they have so little - are always ready to share. Look at that cook who works in 675. The one who found me this job of teaching The Holy Qur'an to a bunch of westernized kids who would rather be watching TV or listening to their angrezi songs, or doing whatever they do on their computers. She, the cook I mean, is such a large-hearted woman. As if it were not enough looking after her wastrel son, her daughter-in-law and their four daughters, she has taken it upon herself to care for an old woman abandoned by her family. Looks after her really well too. "She is like my mother Hazrat", she said. She not only shelters her and feeds her, but also buys her new saris during Eid and other occasions. Who does that these days? One's own children have no time or concern for their parents. She was also the one who suggested I ask Sameer Saheb for the scooter. I thought for almost a month before I decided to ask him. You see, I hate asking anybody for any favours. But yes, the scooter would be a great help, especially now that my knees are giving me such trouble. So finally, putting my pride in my empty pocket, I asked Sameer Saheb. He looked a little surprised. "We'll see", he said curtly and that was the end of it.

Sameer Saheb works in some very big company. He travels to all parts of the world and comes backs laden with gifts for his kids. He is spoiling them - no doubt about that…. sometimes, I can hear Sameer Saheb's wife quarreling with her husband on this topic. "Don't give them such expensive gifts", she admonishes her husband. "They will never learn the value of money otherwise…" I tend to agree. Everything within limits, that has always been my policy. Not that I know too much about bringing up children. Begum and I were not blessed with children. My Begum, she loves children. She always wanted a house full of kids, she would laughingly say, in the first few years of our marriage, but after four miscarriages, she resigned herself to her fate. It is Allah's will, I tell her, who are we - mere mortals - to question His wisdom? She remains quiet but her eyes, they speak volumes. The pain and loneliness in her eyes shakes me to the very core of my being. At least I have my work - teaching Arabic in the local madrassa and The Holy Qur'an to children in their homes, but my Begum, she only has her household duties followed by long hours of solitude. I tell her to spend more time in prayers and in reading The Holy Qur'an. She nods her head but I fear, her faith is getting weaker, more tenuous. And that frightens me. That frightens me greatly. There should be no place for doubt in one's faith. "Your faith should be strong, stronger than the mountains…." That's what I tell my students in the madrassa. That's what I tell Sameer Saheb's children too, but I don't think they really care about anything I say. I know for a fact that they don't say their Namaaz, every day. They giggled when I asked them. As if it is some laughing matter. To be honest, I don't really like teaching them, but it is Allah's Word and it is my duty to make them understand it. The pay is good too. More than what I make in the madrassa. And with the way prices are these days, one has to look at ways and means of surviving. Though again, how much do we need? Just the two of us. Three meals a day. Some clothes to wear. The house rent. Some little treats when the heart yearns for them… Like the doll that Begum insisted on buying last month, when we had gone to buy our monthly provisions from Shivaji Nagar. I tried to dissuade her. Made silly jokes. Laughingly told her "This is not your age to play with dolls Begum". But I don't know what came over her. She refused to budge until I bought the doll. It began to get embarrassing. Everyone looking at us strangely. Some of the nudging each other and smiling slyly. Even the shopkeeper was getting impatient. So I paid for it and we came home.

Begum seemed at peace since we got the doll. I was beginning to think that two hundred rupees for peace of mind was a good bargain. But what I witnessed a few days later is making me lose my sleep. I came early from the madrassa one evening and what do I see? Begum bathing the doll and talking to it! I was horrified. I watched her quietly for a long time until I could not take it any more. I slipped out of the house and never mentioned the incident to her. Since then, I have watched her unobserved many times. I have seen her comb the doll's hair, change her clothes, even try to feed her. I have heard her talk to the doll too. Baby talk. Mostly when she thinks I am asleep or not around. I fear she is losing her mind. I should not have bought that doll. I really do not know what to do, where to go, who to speak to…. And as if my mind was not troubled enough, Sameer Saheb's children are troubling me so much! Especially that girl. Coming out in front of me wearing shorts - La haul wala quat! I cast my gaze down, as a good Muslim should. That's when Sameer Saheb's wife walked in. She understood immediately and dragged her daughter inside. There were raised voices then. I could hear snatches of the conversation. The girl refusing to study with me. The mother insisting she does. The boy supporting his sister. And Sameer Saheb trying to calm them all down. I don't know how long I'll have this job. Maybe I will have to give back the scooter too. Just as well. Can't afford the petrol anyway without this job. Begum will miss it though. She enjoyed going our on the scooter. And as if thinking of Begum had conjured her up here, my mobile began to ring. It was Begum sobbing desperately and begging me to come home.

"What's happened Begum?" I asked her, again and again. But got no answer. Only an anguished sobbing that frightened me so much that I did not even wait to tell Sameer Saheb or his wife. I rushed out of their house, and rode like a mad man to my humble abode. A small crowd had gathered in front of my home. Some of them I knew. Some I didn't. They were looking through our window. Peering through our door. Craning their necks to get a view of what was happening inside. I pushed myself through and entered the room. Begum was wailing inconsolably. When she saw me her wails grew louder. I looked around. Everything seemed in order. I looked at Begum more closely. She seemed unhurt too. Except for her distraught eyes, the surma running down her cheeks, her uncombed hair…

"What's happened Begum?" I repeated the question that I had asked her on the mobile.

"I killed her", she mumbled. My blood froze in my veins. What was she talking about? Who had she killed? "Our daughter. Our Munni. I killed her. My carelessness. I left her too close to the fire and I killed her. Oh Allah! What kind of mother am I!" She started wailing again. I looked towards the kitchen and saw the doll, its plastic face disfigured, part of its body charred, its once frilly frock now scorched.

I turned to look at the curious neighbours, all whispering amongst themselves. Suddenly a loud, familiar voice dispersed the crowd. It was the cook. The one who works in 675. She took control of the situation and sent all those people packing home. Then she tried to calm my wife. But to no avail. Finally, she took me aside and told me what I knew I had to do, as kindly as possible.

The van came the next day. And as the doors of the van clanged shut behind my Begum, I felt as if my world had come to an end. She may get better the doctors at the Mental Hospital assured me. But we can't make any promises, they added hurriedly. It is Allah's will, I think. Is my faith getting tenuous too? But if I lose my faith, what else will I have?

CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE CHOWKIDAR

You pass me by every day, unseeing, unknowing, uncaring. You don't look at my ingratiating smile. You don't see my smart salute. You don't hear the "Good Morning Sir!" that I call out cheerfully, the way we have been trained to. I wonder if you are even aware of my existence? Or if I am just another piece of furniture to you, like the broken plastic chair standing desolately near the gate.

I am educated too, you know. Of course, not as much as you, but I did attend two years of college. My poor parents thought I'd study well and do something with my life. Maybe they dreamt that I would be like you, zooming past in that big, fancy car of yours, talking on the mobile, always, always on the mobile. Well it was not to be, and here I am, miles from my home town, trying to survive. Its a hard life, but I have no complaints. Things are no better where I come from. At least here, I am my own man. Till they get me married of course. My mother tells me they are looking for girls for me in the surrounding villages.

Last night when I went home after my long shift, Raja and Munna - the two who share my room with me - were watching their favourite programme on our small, second-hand TV. True crime stories. I wonder why they find it so fascinating. Me? I like some song and dance. But chalo, I let them watch what they want. Yesterday's episode was gruesome though. A murder re-enacted. For a change, the police had solved it quickly. Don't get me wrong. I have great respect for the police. To be truthful I am a little scared of them too. They can just pick you up and lock you in and who's to know what can happen to you once you are there? Anyway, coming back to yesterday's programme…it was about a rich industrialist murdered in his own house. The Police solved the case in less than a month. It was the chowkidar.

It got me thinking, this programme on TV. I wonder how you would react if I held a knife to your throat?

I wonder if you will finally know my name? Its right there, you know, in block letters, on the name badge that we have to wear every day. But funny how nobody ever bothers to read it. It's always "Hey you, security!". "Oye, Chowkidar!". Or sometimes a plain "Bhaiyya". The last mostly from the ladies.

I wonder if you will notice the wart on my chin that I worry continuously when I am nervous? Just one of those habits we develop and which refuse to leave us for life.

I wonder if the cold feel of the knife on your throat will make you sweat. I think I would like to see that. The high-and-mighty in his air-conditioned car sweating like an ordinary man. I would like to smell the fear on you - must surely be different from those foreign perfumes that you use every day. But most of all, I would like to see the terror in your eyes - your unseeing eyes.

Will your eyes focus on me then? Will you finally look at me? See me? Recognize me? Register my presence? Acknowledge my existence?

Coming back to yesterday's programme on TV - the Police were confused about the motive for the murder. Nothing was stolen from the house. I wonder if all that the murderer wanted was some recognition? Maybe he was trying to regain the identity and the sense of self-worth that had been robbed from him? Maybe…just maybe…