Saying goodbye

How do you say goodbye to someone who’s your whole world? How do you say goodbye to someone who has been one of the most important influences in your life, who has shaped you, moulded you and cared for you? How do you say goodbye to someone who is the only reason you walk this earth today? 

My mother has been on the ventilator for almost a week now. Some tough decisions will need to be made in the next couple of days. My siblings and I will have to be strong enough to make those decisions. To be able to let go. And while I know that is the kinder thing to do, my heart refuses to accept it. Selfishly I want to hang on to her. To keep her with me for as long as I can. Because as long as my mother is alive I can still be a child. I can rest my head on her lap when things seem too overwhelming. Its been a long time since I have done that. Rested my head on her lap and had her stroke my hair. But earlier, before she took very ill, every trip home would be incomplete without that, even if it were for just a few minutes. Today, when my daughter comes and rests her head in my lap when she has a migraine or is feeling unwell, I stroke her head the way my mother did mine and feel a quiet sense of comfort. 

When I look back at the tapestry of my life, I see that the richest patterns, the most beautiful colours and the most enduring threads are those of my mother. From her I received so many gifts. The gift of writing. The love for reading. Generosity of spirit. Compassion for those less-privileged. An appreciation for the more important things in life... My mother is the least materialistic person I have ever come across. She never craved for anything and did not even know the meaning of greed. Gifting her then was both difficult and easy. No sarees or jewellery for her. A book was enough to make her happy. I think she is the reason my siblings and I grew up with a healthy disregard for material wealth.  My sister recently remarked: “We are not street-smart”. Maybe that’s not a good thing in today’s world, but I would not have it any other way.   

They say only a mother can love you unconditionally. And I have seen that in action. When I was going through the toughest phase of my life, having chosen to marry the love of my life, I face vehement opposition from everybody. There was a lot of anger, hurt, a sense of betrayal on both sides. My mother must have been hurt too. Yet when I placed my head on her lap and cried my heart out, she gently stroked my hair and comforted me. Then my mild, timid mother did something so brave, that almost a quarter century later, it has the power to make me cry. She who had never opposed anybody, or fought for herself, found the courage to stand by me and quietly give me her blessings. I still marvel at the depth of her love that put my happiness before all else - even her faith. Its so clear in my mind’s eye: the day when she gave me my ‘trousseau’ - stuff she had collected for me over the years.  The tears in her eyes as she gave me a red saree with her blessings. What courage that must have required! To know that her gesture would have repercussions on her. That my father would not take kindly to her action. 

And when finally I walked out of my home to start my life afresh, it was only my mother who understood why I took the decision. I still have the letter she wrote to my best friend demonstrating again, her unconditional love and her in-depth understanding of my feelings. When I was pregnant and my best friend conveyed the news to her, she was anguished that she could not be there for me. “A girl needs her mother during this time” she said, ruing the fact that she couldn’t do what her heart yearned to do.

There are a hundred memories that come rushing, knocking incessantly at the door of my soul. Asking to be let in. I hold them back. Not now. Not all at once. It is too painful at this moment. Now, for the little time I have, I will believe that all’s well with the world, because my mother still inhabits this world. And just for a little while more, I can still be a child. 

Venting Out!

So, the fascists are asking for Amartya Sen to give back the Bharat Ratna because he does not want Narendra Modi to be PM.

When Narendra Modi equates the killing of thousands of Muslims in the Gujarat genocide to ‘puppies coming under the wheel of a car’ it’s freedom of speech and when Amartya Sen voices his opinion, it draws such flak?

When Muslims protest against Salman Rushdie and Taslima Nasreen, freedom of expression is touted and when M F Hussain paints goddesses in the nude he is exiled from the country?

When Narendra Modi talks  about his development model (which many have proved is mere propaganda), he is applauded. When the UPA Government wants to do anything for Muslims, it’s ‘minority appeasement’.

When people like Varun Gandhi and Narendra Modi spit out vitriolic against the minorities, they are proud nationalists. When intellectuals like Amartya Sen speak for the minorities, it is ‘pseudo secularism’.

All those so called urban liberals wanting Narendra Modi to be PM, please be prepared.

With BJP in power you can expect the voices of artists, thought leaders and intellectuals to be muzzled. Case in point: How Mallika Sarabhai and Verghese Kurien were treated for speaking out against the Gujarat genocide. The banning of Parzania in Gujarat. The blacklisting of Aamir Khan for supporting Medha Patkar in the Narmada Dam controversy.

With BJP in power, you can expect strident voices demanding Sanksrit/Hindi as the medium of instruction. Then what will happen to your English Movies, English Books and English Lifestyles? Are you prepared for that?

Moral policing is going to get more aggressive. We saw what happened in Karnataka when the BJP was in power. Girls in jeans being targeted. The Mangalore incident where a party was broken up because it was against their ‘sanskriti’. Vehment opposition to Valentine’s Day and New Year Eve celebrations….

And before you jump the gun and call me a Congress stooge (That’s what they are calling Amartya Sen too), I am equally disillusioned with the Congress/UPA. All I want is what you want too…and what is our constitutional right. The freedom of speech, the freedom to voice my opinion openly and fearlessly, the right to live where I want to, without being pushed into ghettos just because I belong to a certain community, the freedom to work and live with dignity and with non-discrimination. Is that too much to ask?

Looking Back…

It’s strange how some sight can trigger a memory. Today afternoon when I was returning from a client meeting in an auto, I saw a young boy riding pillion on a scooter tightly grasping a huge TV. That sight opened up a floodgate of memories. I remembered carrying a large framed painting as I rode pillion on Sunil’s trusted Bajaj Super. It was for the living room of the first home we owned: # 3, Little Heaven Apartments.

Now as we get ready to move to our third home, I look back with a sense of pride and quiet satisfaction on the road I have traversed. It was not always an easy path. There were obstacles and challenges. There were doubts and regrets. There were a dozen dilemmas and a hundred fears. But equally, there were so many joyous moments, so many dreams fulfilled, so many goals reached, so many achievements realized – big and small.

There have been amazing people I met during this journey. Some have stayed on to become my lifetime friends. Some have moved on. But every one of them taught me something.

There have been so many roles that I have played – and continue to play. But the most cherished role will always remain that of being a mother to my wonderful daughter Anu and best friend to my soul sister Ranjana.

There has been so much learning and discovery on this journey. The books I have read, the people I have met, the thought leaders that I have had the opportunity to listen to, the choices I have made, the decisions I have taken, the experiences I have had, the situations that I have faced…

They say “You can’t drive forward, looking in the rear view mirror”. True. But looking in the rear view mirror is sometimes essential. To get a perspective on the distance you have travelled, the milestones you have passed, the road you have left behind. When I look back I feel blessed. Truly blessed.

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…

When teachers become hate mongers and disseminators of poisonous thought…

Yesterday, my daughter was deeply disturbed when she returned from college. Her Journalism Teacher – with strong right-wing leanings - was at it again: minority bashing, rumour-mongering, malice proliferating… The lady in question is doing her doctoral thesis on two prime ministerial candidates – Rahul Gandhi and Narendra Modi. She spares no occasion to vilify the former and exalt the latter. Fine. Each one is entitled to their personal opinions and beliefs. But if you are going to be using your opinions to brainwash a group of gullible future citizens who sadly don’t seem to be able to think for themselves, I do think it is a matter of serious concern. Especially when all the so-called research that the lady relies on seems to be internet forwards that claim that Indira Gandhi’s husband was actually a Muslim, that Sonia Gandhi is actually a Russian spy, that Sanjay Gandhi stole cars in the US…. Right, so she does not like the Gandhis. But should you allow your opinion to cloud their thinking? Should you – by feeding stereotypes in class after class, fan the flames of hatred and create more divisions in an already fragmented society? Should you poison minds and churn out citizens who base their opinions on malicious lies and half-truths?

I tried my best to console my daughter – who bases her opinions on extensive independent research and refuses to accept what anybody says as the whole truth – but it was hard to find the right words. Even for a mother who is a wordsmith. “The worst part is that all of them in class actually believe her!” she lamented. “I feel so disillusioned. What’s going to happen to our country?”

I pointed out that there are many sane voices out there. Journalists, activists and right-thinking individuals who walk the less-trod path. Who seek out the truth and then share it with others. Who refuse to be brow-beaten. Arundhati Roy, Mallika Sarabhai, Javed Anand, Teesta Setvald, Yogi Sikand, Jyoti Punwani, Harsh Mander and publications like Tehelka and my personal favourite The Hindu. “But there are such few voices”, she protested.

“Yes, there are. But their conviction, their courage and their moral uprightness makes their voice louder and more impactful than a bullet from a gun in the hand of a coward”.

I do not know if this has alleviated her anger or reduced her disillusionment. As an aspiring journalist and a child born to a Muslim mother and a Hindu father, my daughter, I know, must be ready to face many challenges in the future. I pray that she has the strength to do so, without losing her equanimity, her strength of character and her conviction.

10 Things I love about Bangalore.

There are dozens and dozens of reasons why I love Bangalore – the city where I got my first job, first fell in love, where I first set up my own home, the place where my daughter was born, where I first became an entrepreneur…. but let me share my top ten here.

I was not born in Bangalore, but am a Bangalorean at heart. This city, along with Chennai were our regular holiday destinations. We always drove down the 300-odd kms from Bellary in whichever car Abba then owned. I always remember how I felt when we entered the city. It seemed so different from our sleepy town. The roads were broad and clean. The trees looked lovely. The people looked so… well, so ‘hep’, as we said in those days.

I came to Bangalore in 1986 to join a small outfit as a Trainee Copywriter. And gradually fell in love with the city. Here are some of the things that I most love about Bangalore. As I mentioned before, this is not an exhaustive list and is not in any particular order.

1. Vidhana Soudha
I remember when I was staying in the hostel in Sampangirama Nagar and my room-mate and colleague Kamala and I would take the bus to our office - MC&A on Millers Road. The bus would wind its way across Vidhana Soudha and the lovely buiding would just take my breath away! It looked so magnificent in the mornings and my heart would swell with pride. While the Vikasa Soudha has been designed just like the Vidhana Soudha, it is no patch on the original. It probably has to do with the way the stones have aged over the years… Vidhana Soudha really has so much character. I don’t know if I can say the same about the people, inhabiting it, though!

2. Cubbon Park
I think few places in India can boast of such an expansive lung space right in the heart of the city. Driving through Cubbon Park is sheer joy! The majestic Attara Kacheri (as the High Court building is known), the Central Library, the Jawahar Bal Bhavan with its toy train, the Rose Garden, the fountains, the statues, the bandstand and of course the dozens and dozens of trees that dot this over 300-acre garden, make this place truly unique. You can actually feel the difference in temperature when you enter Cubbon Park. It is a couple of degrees cooler and the gentle wind sings a sweet lullaby for many a tired and distraught soul who finds refuge on the Cubbon Park benches. Cubbon Park was our favourite location for photography when Anu was small. We have pictures of her hugging a bamboo, sitting on the steps of the band stand and perched on one of the large boulders there.

3. Jacarandas
While they are not really “native” to Bangalore (like the large population in this city), Jacarandas have become as much Bangalorean as you and me! Come spring and the jacaranda trees cast their magic spell. The yellow and purple flowers form a splendid canopy and a carpet that would give any Persian rug the run for its money. Driving down the Windsor Manor Bridge the Jacarandas near the Cauvery Theatre make me feel good to be alive. I feast my eyes on the delightful blossoms and am grateful to be living in this beautiful city.

4. Good Food
Bangaloreans love to eat. Not surprising for a town named after food (Bangalore, many believe, is the anglicized version of Benda Kaal Ooru – the Town of Boiled Beans). Bangalore is dotted with eateries, restaurants and cafes. There are the Darshinis – where there is literally ‘standing room’ only, the Udupi & Andhra Eateries, the Pizza Burger joints, the Dhabas and the Chinese, the Thai, the Italian, the Lebanese, the Mexican and the Fusion Food Restaurants… of course who can forget the street food? The Bhelpuri Stands, the Pani Puri Wallahs with their mobile store that they can put up anywhere and my favourite: the steaming corn on the cobs, sold on hand-carts!

The best part of the food scene in Bangalore is not just the availability of any kind of food but what I’d like to call the good “in-between” kind of places. Restaurants that are comfortably ensconced between the Darshinis and the Five Star Restaurants. Where good food and great ambience don’t necessarily burn a hole in your pocket.

5. Weather
Bangalore weather is famous – and rightly so. Though summers are getting warmer with the increase in population, traffic, concrete structures, the cutting down of trees, et al, the city still remains pleasant almost all through the year. I have always maintained that Bangalore weather spoils you for any other city… despite being born and brought up in Bellary where summers can be scorching and despite doing my graduation and post graduation in Chennai, where it is summer all through the year… I just cannot take the heat now. Holidays to Nagpur (another hot city) are planned during winters. I avoid Bellary in the summers. And after a hot and sweaty break in Mumbai last summer, I have come to the conclusion that the best place to send my summers are in Bangalore, until I can take off to Switzerland, that is 

6. Overall Cleanliness
I hadn’t really paid any attention to how clean most of Bangalore is until I noticed the dirt in a couple of other cities, Mumbai and Chennai for instance. Early in the mornings if you drive down the city, you will see the BBMP sweepers at work, sweeping, clearing the garbage and generally keeping the neighbourhood clean.

7. People.
Before I actually started living in Bangalore, I was told that the people of Bangalore were terribly materialistic and cunning. That they would steal the shirt off your back. But that’s such a myopic view. Like every place in the world, Bangalore has its share of crooks and cheats, but then you have the good Samaritans too. On the whole, I believe that Bangaloreans are a real helpful lot. Ask somebody for directions and chances are they’ll actually take you there! It has happened to me a couple of times. I have found ready hands when my bike broken down on the road or when my car got into a ditch that I did not see. Bangaloreans are largely peace-loving, the “swalpa adjust maadi” types. Sometimes this “adjusting” nature means that we put up with a lot of stuff that we should not, but I guess there are pros and cons to everything.

8. The Volvo Buses from BIAL
I have been seeing the bright red Volvo buses since the new International Airport started. Living en route the Airport, I would see the smart and shiny buses zipping on the roads. In the beginning they were almost empty. But now, most of them are full. I first tried out the BIAL shuttle last year when Anu and I flew down from Mumbai and I was real impressed. The conductors/drivers spoke courteously and helped us with the luggage. The commute was comfortable. The fares were reasonable. And I enjoyed the ride. I think BMTC is doing a great job with this top-notch shuttle service.

9. The Bangalore One Centres
A truly superb E-Governance initiative, Bangalore One demonstrates how technology can be used to make life simpler and easier for the common man. My first experience with Bangalore One is when I went to their Malleswaram Centre to pay my Electricity and Telephone Bills. I was asked to sit while my number was called. The centre was spacious and well-ventilated. The chairs were comfortable. The people were professional and knew what they were doing. Compare this with having to stand in long lines in the electricity and telephone offices and you’ll know what a distance we have travelled. Today, there’s a Bangalore Centre in almost every nook and corner of Bangalore. They are open all days of the week from 8 am to 8 pm. And they have added on to their services – besides paying your utility bills, you can get your bus pass, renew your license, pay your property tax and do so much more. So very convenient!

10. MGs, Commercials, Brigades
Forget the malls, its Commercial Street for me! I am not a big shopper, but Commercials (as the locals call their main shopping street) is where I like to go simply because you get just about everything here! Clothes, accessories, footwear, knick-knacks, stuff for your home, lingerie, stationery, jewellery, electronics, music…. Everything! The narrow streets that lead off from Commercials have their own charm with their tiny stores where smart-alecky salesmen and their ready repartees are sure to make you smile.

MG Road and Brigade Road is where we used to ‘hang out’ when we were in hostel. This is also where I take visitors to Bangalore for either shopping or just a quick drive through. I love the way Brigades looks during Christmas and New Year. But with the Metro work and the demise of its once famed boulevard, MG Road has lost a lot of its magic.

The only negative about these places is the parking.

The Eloor Lending Library

In a world, where things seem to change in the blink of an eye, it’s good to come across a place that has remained just the same… and I mean that in a nice, complimentary way! I went to the Eloor Lending Library yesterday, after almost five years…. And felt I had come home!!! The Library was just the way I remembered it. Even a couple of guys at the counter were still there, looking just the same! The books greeted me like long-lost friends and begged to be taken home. And how could I refuse them? There was Dean Koontz, who I was introduced to, right here in this Library. I remember picking up my first Koontz from here: “From the Corner of His Eye” and I was blown away. I became a HUGE Koontz fan since then… today, I have a small Koontz Collection in my home. The Orson’s Farm Comics used to delight both Anu and me when we used to come here almost every other Sunday, before we moved to Jakkur. Anu went through the entire collection of Nancy Drew, Goose Bumps, The Baby Sitter’s Club. Princess Diaries and the Fearless series at Eloor. “They have changed their entire Children’s Section”, she said, “Anyway, I do not qualify now”. The books she picked up this time were more grown-up, including Arundathi Roy’s “The Shape of the Beast”. She too recalled fondly how we would stock up on our books before her holidays. What pleasure these books have given us! They have travelled with us on holidays, making the long train rides to Nagpur shorter. They have also provided me excellent reference material for assignments I would be working on or for Anu’s school project. I have been educated, entertained and inspired by the collection at Eloor – easily one of the finest any Library can boast of.

I have discovered many new writers here. I would read some great review in the paper and ask for that book at my next visit and there it would be! Some best-sellers would always be “out” and I would finally reserve them. Sometimes, the amount I have spent on Late Fees (entirely my fault) could have bought me the book itself…. But who could give me access to so many titles? Who could connect me to so many writers and introduce me to so many genres under one roof?

As I walked up to the counter hugging the books I had picked up, I wondered if the Membership Number was right and if my Membership was still valid. It was and I happily watched the new addition of a bar code scanner that made the book entries so much simpler. Since this was an unplanned visit, we did not have a carry bag for the books we had just picked up. But no worries! Eloor even had a carry bag that they generously offered. Now, if I could only find a way to fit Eloor back into my regular routine….


Eloor Lending Library is located at Blue Cross Chambers, Infantry Road Cross, Bangalore – 560 001.

MOTHER’S LITTLE CONSCIENCE-KEEPER

On June 16, 1990 – to use a cliché – Anu was born and I was born too – as a mother.
It seems an under-statement to say that my life changed the day my little bundle of joy was placed in my waiting hands. I know trillions and trillions of parents would have gone through that life-changing moment, yet it is something truly personal and unique.

As I have said many times before, Anu hardly troubled me as a child. In fact, the landlord’s son would tell his mother, “You hardly know that there’s a baby in the house”. There are so many memories of Anu that I cherish. I’ll never forget how she had put a peanut up her nose and we had to rush her to the doctor to get it removed! Then there was the time that she had applied honey on her face because Cleopatra is supposed to have used it. When I returned from work, she told me “Cleopatra must have felt really sticky!” Of course her long, solitary walk from school to Nandidurg Road in first standard is something all our friends remember vividly!

Anu had this delightful habit of writing little notes when she wanted to tell me something – whether it was apologizing for not getting good marks in a test or to ask for some money every month “like a salary”. I have preserved those notes till today and while she finds them silly, I really love them!
Anu is extremely honest with a very strong sense of right and wrong. Over the years, she has become my moral barometer. Whenever I am in a moral dilemma I sound her off and can be sure that I will be given the ‘right’ advice. Sometimes, I wonder who the mother is and who the child! There are other times when I may not actually seek out her advice but mentally test myself – would Anu approve of what I am doing? What would she say if I told her about this?

And she always has a lot to say when she feels I am not doing the right thing. “You were rude. They are just doing their job” she says when I rave and rant at some hapless customer service guys. “Why do you yell so much?” she grumbles when I scold the maid. “That was mean of you”, she points out when I say or do something that she feels is not right. She was the reason I went and voted this time. “Don’t grumble about the system, when you are not even willing to make the effort to go and vote” she told me again and again. There are innumerable incidents where Anu has – intentionally or unintentionally - helped me do a reality check on life.

She has also helped me see the “greys” in what I previously thought were clear black and white situations. Her perspectives have made me rethink on many issues like homosexuality. Of course, she also has her own dilemma s and sometimes asks me for help. “Having a conscience sucks” she said once, when I told her to do what she believes is right.

For the most part, she is a very truthful person and has never ever cheated in her exams. I remember once when Anu was in school, her teacher erroneously given her extra marks for Kannada (or was it Hindi?) Anu faithfully pointed it out to the teacher. The teacher told her that she would correct it in the Report Card, but forgot to do so. So Anu again walked up to the teacher and told her that she had forgotten to correct the mistake. “The extra marks are for your honesty”, the teacher answered.

Of course, it has not been all rosy and hunky dory. Life never is. As Veronica, her school friend, used to say: “Life is like the left bum of a black man. It is neither fair nor right!” We have had our share of fights and misunderstandings, we have gone through our ups and downs, we have said some hurtful things to each other in fits of anger, which we never meant….. but that’s alright. At the end of it all, I know Anu loves and respects her parents and I hope she knows the feelings are reciprocated many times over.

I don’t know if I have been a good mother, but I am blessed to have such a wonderful daughter. I love her concern that I can see in so many little things she does for me, in the way she senses when I am upset or worried, or when she can make out from my voice if I am having a tough day. .. I can go on writing reams and reams about my favourite woman, and I know she will brush it aside with “You are saying that because you are my mom”, so here’s just wishing you Anu a truly wonderful birthday from me and papa. We love you loads!!!!

DREAMS DO HAVE A WONDERFUL WAY OF COMING TRUE….

Maybe not exactly the way you want it sometimes, maybe not right away. But they do come true, if you believe in your dreams and hang on to them. I recently read the “Last Lecture” by Randy Pausch. A Professor at the Carnegie Mellon University, Pausch was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Knowing full well he had just a few months to live, he stood before a 400 strong audience to deliver a last lecture called “Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams.” That got me thinking… and counting. Counting the many dreams that have come true for me. Let me share some of these here.

I dreamt of doing English Literature.
In the early 80s, living in the small town of Bellary that had one Women’s College which offered one ‘Arts’ combination (History, Economics, Logic & Political Science) the dream seemed almost unachievable. No girl had left home to study. We had a strict grandmother who did not think girls needed to be educated all that much. But fortunately we had fairly liberal parents and I had sisters who supported me. So off I went to Chennai (Madras in those days) to do BA English Literature in SIET Women’s College. I was probably one of the very, very few students there who was doing the course for the love of it. I thrived in the course, loved every subject and did every assignment with such passion that the teachers loved what I did.

I dreamt of doing Journalism.
I always wanted to write. Journalism was the next logical step. So I stepped into the soaring portals of the University of Madras to do my post graduation in Mass Communications & Journalism. Sari-clad (in those first few days when I thought all PG students must wear saris), a long braid, big glasses... I was quickly branded a “paavam”. Until of course my first assignment that I had to present in class. I had chosen the topic: “Magazines in USA”. Besides a detailed background, I had taken two magazines as case studies: Time & Reader’s Digest. We had to present our assignments in class, not just hand it over. I had gone to great trouble to research my subject. Of course it helped that I was really interested in the subject. That assignment presentation changed the way my classmates and my lecturers looked at me. Again, I was among the few who were doing this out of genuine interest.

I dreamt of being a ‘working woman’.
No girl from our family had ever worked before. So this dream seemed another crazy one. By then, my grandmother had passed on. I did this written test for PTI (The Press Trust of India) and was selected. I was expected to do a stint in Delhi. But Destiny had other plans for me. My cousin never gave me the letter I got from my PTI. I answered an ad for Trainee Copywriter in a small ad agency in Bangalore without knowing what I was getting into. I was selected and found my designation was a misnomer. I was a Trainee Copywriter and there was nobody to ‘train’ me. But that I found was the best way to learn. I took to advertising like the proverbial fish to water. And it has been a wonderful journey since then.


I dreamt of marrying Sunil – my first, and only love.
I met Sunil at my first job. We probably worked for just 6 months or so. But that was more than enough time for us to fall in love. Given our disparate religious, social, cultural and economic backgrounds, our love story seemed doomed from the start. It would never work out I thought. I kept breaking up with Sunil and going back to him again. Sunil never wavered – not for a moment. Through the most tumultuous and traumatic period in our relationship, I always kept telling myself “Someday. Somewhere. Somehow”. In fact I had these words neatly written and framed. The mantra worked. Despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles, we did triumph and got married in 1989.

I dreamt of having Anu.
I somehow always felt that I would never be able to love a son as much as I would love a daughter. I always wanted a daughter. In fact, during our courtship days, we had even decided on the name for our child of love: Anandita. A name I had come across somewhere and that I loved. When we met, Sunil and I would always talk about Anu. So when I was pregnant, I so, so wanted a girl. And Anu was born – the best gift that I could have ever got from a benevolent God and a kind Universe. I remember when Zarine came to visit me at the hospital, she said “So this dream of yours has come true too!” Anu is all that I wanted my daughter to be. And I am so very proud of her.

I dreamt of having my own agency.
This was probably Sunil’s dream first. He always wanted to have his own agency. Because of our complimentary skills, we were kind of preparing ourselves for Jumde Art Copy. There were many, many times when I was working in Adwit that we would have these meetings and training sessions and were asked to list out our goals. I would always say I aspired to have my own agency. Things fell in place and Sunil and I started Jumde Art Copy in 2000. I joined him full time two years later and by God’s grace there has been no looking back since.

I dreamt of owning a beautiful home.
Sunil and I started our married life in a tiny rented home with literally nothing. We did up our home slowly – bit by precious bit. When we bought our own 2 Bedroom Apartment in Sultanpalya, almost seven and a half years later, we were thrilled, but finances were tight, so we had to do up our place on a shoe-string budget. Major furnishing stuff was done one at a time. A wardrobe one year. The kitchen the next year. A book case a year later… And then another seven years later, we bought this lovely home in Sobha Zircon. It was all that I wanted my home to be. We were in a better position financially and decided not take any piece of furniture from the old home, except for the two chairs that we have had since the first year of our marriage. We did the entire home at one shot and we love the effect.

I dreamt of having my magazine.
When I was doing my journalism I always wanted to have my own magazine. I decided I would have a magazine for the youth. While I don’t actually “have” my magazine, my name appears in the masthead of ‘Rave’ as Creative Director. Jumde Art Copy has designed the entire magazine and the credit should go to the entire team, but it’s my name that’s on the masthead!

I dreamt of writing a book.
This dream is ‘work in progress’. For as long as I remember I wanted to be an “Author”. I remember writing that as my ambition is somebody’s autograph when I was in school. Maybe the third or fourth standard. I wrote a Mills & Boons type of novel to prove a point to my friend Nimmi when I was in the 11th or 12th. It was titled Sweet Sorrow and had a French setting. But that was an amateurish attempt. On and off, I have been writing poems and thinking of getting them published but wondering if they were good enough. All along, there was part of me that yearned to write a book. Goaded by friends and well wishers and my ever-supportive husband who believes that I am destined for great things, I have embarked on that adventure too. I started my book in December last year and have done 14 typed Pages in all… Anu tells me that at the speed I am going, I will finish the book by the time I am 90! But it’s shaping well. Anu was the first one with whom I shared it and her feedback? “I never knew you could write so well!” Encouraged by that I plough one. And when I shared it with my best friend Ranjana, she said “Wow! This is professional stuff”. So I am hoping I am on the right track.

There are many more dreams awaiting fulfillment. Like owning a Greek island! And with the way the property prices are going down, who knows that dream may be realized too!

Ranjana tells me all my dreams will come true, because I have a clean heart. I think it’s not just me. I think the dreams of most people come true, but they are so focused on worrying about the future or fretting about what they don’t have, that they miss seeing all that they have. One of the Internet forwards I received had these wise words that I tell myself every other day… I plan to frame them and put them near my desk.

“God answers all prayers in three ways.
1. Yes.
2. Not now
3. I have something better planned for you”.

I have always been amazed at how people give up on their dreams so quickly and so easily. If you really, really want something, hang on to it. There was this quote I had read when I was in school: “Hold fast to your dreams, for if dreams die, life is like a broken-winged bird that cannot fly”.

BANGALORE WEATHER

The last few days we have been having some lovely weather. The famed “Bangalore Weather”. Cloudy, pleasant and some nice showers. And imagine all this in March – which is supposed to be summer. Raises doubts about Global Warming, huh? Anyways, it happened so suddenly. In the middle of a warm day, the storm clouds gathered. That evening Sunil called me to show the lightning in the sky. This time God had decided to put up a silent show. There was no sound of thunder. Just strangely coordinated streaks of lighting from left to right and back again. That night it rained and it’s been pleasant ever since.

A little while ago, I was standing outside office and enjoying this lovely weather – just one of those things that I love about Bangalore. There are hundreds of other things that I love about this city. But I won’t get into it now. Will just stick to the April Showers in March for now…

It’s perfect weather for cuddling up in a blanket with a favourite book. Maybe some hot pakodas and masala chai. Or even better – corn-on-the-cob straight from the boiling vessel on a hand-pushed bandi, with a dash of lime and masala. Aaah!

I believe Bangalore’s lovely weather spoils you for any other city. Despite being born and growing up in a ‘hot’ city like Bellary (where temperatures can touch the high 40s in summer) and then spending 5 years in hotter Chennai, I now find it difficult to ‘take the heat’. Summers I find are best spent in Bangalore.

GOING HOME

Every trip back home is nostalgic…. A thousand memories come crowding back, popping out from a corner, peeping from behind a half-opened door, looking down from a framed black-and-white photograph… Mubarak Munzil – the rambling bungalow I grew up in – was home, a long time ago, to our seven-member family – my domineering grand-mother, my aloof and strict (as I perceived him then) father, my timid mother, my three siblings and I. There were, of course, a houseful of servants. A cook who called me “gori” and who we called “nani’. A man servant who literally grew up in this house, got married and had several children, who grew up with us. A series of drivers (one who for some strange reason put it into my head that I was an adopted child. Vulnerable and hypersensitive as I was, this thought gnawed at me and troubled me for years). And an assortment of animals: buffaloes, dogs, cats, hens…

There was, I believe, something magical about my home. It was noisy – happily so. There were always people walking in and out of the large rooms. The six-seater dining table was not enough for all of us, so my sister would sit on a baby high chair, years after we had all outgrown it. Summer holidays saw our cousins coming over, spelling more fun. Summers also meant sleeping on the terrace. And there was a whole ritual to it. We would lug up buckets of water to the terrace and splash it, to cool the terrace. Once it dried up, the beds were neatly rolled out. My dad who loved to read, and passed on his passion to all of us, had even set up a reading lamp, so we could cuddle up with our favourite books and read till sleep claimed us. Many were the nights we’d lie on our backs, gazing at the stars and counting the planes that flew across the night sky. Sometimes the sky would open up and big, fat drops of rain would drench us. We would quickly throw down the pillows and sheets into the courtyard and run giggling to complete our interrupted sleep indoors. I remember once when my little nephew was sleeping on the terrace with us. “What will happen if it rains?” he asked innocently. My sister, always ready for some mischief, said “You’ll shrink”. I can never forget the expression on his terror-stricken face!

There was no TV in Bellary when we were growing up, but we were never, ever bored. We spent hours playing hop scotch, seven stones, four houses, dark room and dozens of games we invented ourselves. Friends and their cousins were always in our home or we were in theirs. We laughed. We talked. We dreamed. We planned. We went on picnics. Had moonlight dinner parties on the terrace. Went around playing pranks and scaring neighbours. We climbed the gulmohur trees that grew close to the compound wall. Then, as we grew older, we sat with our cups of steaming coffee in the verandah and gazed at the purple hills in the horizon, through the leaves of the neem tree. Today, the gulmohur trees have been uprooted. The neem trees are still there but the purple hills are no longer visible. Hidden from view, first by the other houses, and now by a raised compound wall.

Today when I walk through the silent rooms of my home, memories are all I have. The girls married and moved away. My brother made his life thousands of miles away in the USA. And after my dad’s death in July 2006, my mother lives all alone in a house that was once filled with voices, music and laughter. Trips home these days are always disturbing. Cobwebbed corners, dusty shelves where once books nudged each other, empty spaces filled with an aching loneliness… my house seems sad. Almost like an old, past-her-prime diva who knows that her ‘golden period’ is gone forever.

Like me, my house seems to know that memories are all it has.

THEORIES THAT FASCINATE ME… 1

I am a great one for concepts, ideas and theories. They tickle my mind, stretch my imagination, get me excited… Most times they are theories I read about in some book. At other times I come across them when I am doing some research for a client on the ‘Net. Then of course, like-minded friends tell me about something wow and I google the subject to learn more.

There’s the ‘Parallel Lifetimes’ theory that I read in Dean Koontz’ “From the corner of my eye” – truly mind blowing stuff which got me to check out quantum physics. Then there’s the ‘Butterfly Effect’ that made me rush to the Video Library and pick up a movie of the same name. Richard Bach’s ‘One’ about how all of us are actually ‘one’ is fascinating too.

One of the earliest theories that caught my imagination was something I read in “The Magnificent Obsession”. This was before Satellite TV, before the Internet, before Google. Yes, we did live (and quite happily, I may add) in those ancient days! Well, the book in question was a prescribed text when I was doing my graduation in English Literature in Chennai. Written by Lloyd C Douglas and first published in 1929, the book was not available anywhere. Some of my more studious classmates and I searched high and low and finally found a small library that had just one copy. The Library was being run by a book-loving family in Besant Nagar and we borrowed the book to read it in turns. I have forgotten the storyline, the characters, the ending. But what I do remember is one thought “If you knock on the door long enough, it will open”. Simple but it got me thinking. It meant if you want something badly enough you are sure to get it. A related concept would be that if you want something badly enough, the whole universe conspires to give it to you. I have put this theory to the test many times and it has rarely failed me. My marriage to Sunil – against all odds – is probably a good example. There were times when Sunil and I being together seemed well nigh impossible. Yet I had these three words written and framed, a talisman I kept close at all times: “Someday. Somewhere. Somehow”.

I had almost forgotten my ‘Magnificent Obsession Theory’, when Ranjana recently mentioned it in a mail to Anu. Thinking about it I once again reminded of how we were blessed by so many things that we so badly wanted. This does not mean that God has no role in it. God does. He probably wants to know how badly you want something. And if you don’t get something, despite wanting it badly enough… maybe what you want is not really good for you. Think it over!