A letter to my husband

Dear Mr husband,

It has been 8 tumultuous years since we set off together and at this juncture , let me tell you what you are! - let the whole world see this and stare at you and, you be bashful, i don't care !

Alright! So, you are a -
                Yudhishtira* in justice and truthfulness,
                Bheemasena* in valor and gluttony,
                Arjuna* in skills and perseverance,
                Nakula* in handsomeness,
                Sahadeva* in patience and gentleness , and ,
                Karna* in generosity.

Thank you for this life that would have given Ms. Draupadi* a major insecurity complex - for I am not married to the Pandavas*, but to the Kauntheyas* <3

All that thus said , remember that you had assumed the form of the cunning Guru Drona* too - for you forbade my right hand from writing letters to men ever again, for my pursuit for the perfect man ended at you! , and understand that it is never easy to be a good man's wife ; neither  was it ever for Ms.Draupadi too!

Yours truly,
The ever grumpy wife :D

PS:
*Pandava : पाण्डो: पुत्र: - Son of Pandu*
*Kauntheya: कुन्तिया: पुत्र: - Son of Kunti*

Note: Nakula and Sahadeva - though born to Madri and Pandu would , in my opinion, qualify as Kauntheya , because Kunti was a dutiful mother to all of the Pandavas equally well, according to the Puranas. But, it was only during the epic Mahabharatha war , long after Pandu's death, that Karna was revealed and acknowledged as Kunti's son , and thus Karna did not qualify as a Pandava or else, Draupadi would have had a 6th husband too.

*All are characters of the beautiful Ancient Indian Epic - The Mahabharatha , the longest poem ever written in world literature. It is said about Mahabharatha that , “Whatever is here is found elsewhere. But whatever is not here is nowhere else.”

Bangalore Days : How Cynics Are Born

I always wanted to write about the lives of housemaids employed in the hostels in Bangalore. Mind you!, the exploitation that they go through is something that is never talked about, but it will melt the most callous of hearts – provided they themselves are not the takers of their cheap labour.

During my nascent days in Bangalore, I’d been living in one of the many hostels available in the city, which taxes us with one fourth of our salaries. And the maids employed in these dungeons are imports from the nearby districts of Tamil Nadu, which are quite remote that spending some from the public exchequer is not considered wise by governments. Many of them came, few persisted and still few continues. All of them have the same scenes way back home. Poor rains, zero agricultural outputs, ailing family members, lots of dependents, drunks as husbands, plenty of stomachs to provide for etc etc. And they come to the city to make some bucks and escape from their troubling present.

One among them was Shobha. She was markedly different because she was new to the city, her first assignment, and was hopeful that the sophisticated city would treat her better. That reflected in everything she did. She never questioned the requests made by girls. Each preferred a different dish for breakfast ; this arises when people from cultural diversities live together. These women, unlike the locals and regulars here, never knew their rights. Even when we return from work, she could still be seen cleaning bathrooms and wouldn’t have had the time to help herself with the lunch, may be all the while thinking that days would change. The unscrupulous landlords didn’t give her even a day off in a week. She was not paid even one half of what they receive from each of us. During the rare times of necessity, when she visited her faraway home, her return was greeted with salary cuts. And she was not allowed to step out even for her minimal needs.

I often feel that despite so many NGOs working with various disadvantaged groups and so many trade unions for all sorts of workers, the temporary domestic help are indeed shortchanged, as they are disorganized, their demands often suppressed due to their migrant status and lack of knowledge of their basic rights and their market value.

The day she saw my camera, Shobha asked if I could click a picture of hers. She smiled when I signaled. I showed her the imprint on the screen. She awed with wonder, digitial cameras were new to her. Though I worried that the tanned to brown , bony face that’s smiling back at her will be a dampener for her spirits, no, she giggled.

Later, the hostel was closed quoting profitability reasons and we parted ways. One day, when I was flipping through the photos, I saw the old naive smile once again. Whatever would have happened to her ?! It took me a while to trace her. And when I finally found her, she was perching on the floor near the gate of another dungeon, with a plate of dry idli. She had grown more haggardly and was visibly untidy which was quite unlike her. The eyes were puffy and red which was the only indication that the circuit did exist , for the red fluid to flow through. The suspicious look she gave me was a far cry from the once effervescent lady she was. Yet another soul was successfully defeated by the city

Remembering Mrs. Grey Hair

On a bright Sunday morning, my usually silent phone rang ; Is this Ms.So-and-So ? , a baritone asked .Yes, you got my name right, I said, "This is Monu Kumar", the voice again said, "Do you know the lady who was staying in Mr. Ronu Kumar’s apartment? " . "I do not know of any Ronu-Monu Kumars, you might have got the number wrong", I said << I told you, my phone is a dead-silent device otherwise >> "The lady who was living in apartment # X-XXX. You know her, don’t you ". Okay, the lady in apartment # X-XXX, that rang the bell, “yes , I do, I do”, I said , surprised, though she never looked to me like someone looked out for her . She was Lady Home-Alone for us.

I started noticing her a few months back , for she stands out of the crowd with her pale-white skin and even whiter close-cropped hair , and moves at an impossibly slow rate with the help of an elbow crutch. I was further startled to know that she was living all alone in the apartment with no live-in maid either. I see her seated at the concrete bench adjacent to the apartment block, while running to catch up with the maddening morning traffic. She recognises me, we smile, and I wave a hand. There ends the dialogue. I never asked her  name or ask about her family and did not particularly call her anything.

I had been to her apartmet a few times and when I did , I took Little Sid also along. And in one of these visits, I saw a photo leaned against the wall. A lady with long, plaited hair pillared on both side by two handsome looking men, resembling the hindi movie stars of the ‘70s. Their face had a radiance as if touched up on by rouge ; thickset hair was jet-black and they had both worn woolen mufflers around the neck, so primly tied as was their mother’s saree. Your sons ?! , I exclaimed in wonder, "Umm.. One is in Ka-ne-da aur woh dusara .. ", I was looking at the future lay in my hands, snugly wrapped in hand-knit woolen sweater. He looked away , as if he understood the predicament he is in. "He had come here on the other day" ,  the drawl continued. “When?!” , I was disappointed that I missed the visit. << It was not for an emotional melodrama or verbal admonition to tell them of the pain of pushing a life out of a mother’s vagina, but to tell them that their mother was proud , too proud to ask for anything >> “But he was barely here for a day”, she said with the signature stoicism.

Now Mr. Monu Kumar continues, "I am her son , she passed away last week, you might have known" . I was aghast that I did not know that a lifeless and frozen body of a helpless woman was being carried out just under my feet, while I was busy with the day ; "Yes, she died of a cardiac arrest and we are conducting a small ceremony to pay her tributes, it is tomorrow at 5, and we invite you for that ". "I am sorry to hear that, but I fear I will not be able to join at 5 ", I cut the call , happy that she died ,for, every day was an ordeal for her and she was too proud to ask for anything

As someone once said, I want no tombstone with my name inscribed, can you love me when I still live ? : I look at Little Sid;  he smiles and looks away

Letter to a mommy

Mommy, when you take me there

I am happy, I must say - 

the browny floor and the greeny carpet,

they do really make me gay.

But when I take my careful steps,

hold me not - 
am i moving , or, 

the ground under me ?

I can climb up that hill of a step to your lap,

Trifle me not, mommy, just -

give me time .

And what’s the milky smell, that I -

carry all around? ;

people pick me up, mommy, when –

I want to be on my own.

And, when I cry mommy, do not be torn ,just -
check if my shoes are rightly worn.

Prejudices

If you are a civilian’s child , you’ll certainly look at any defense personnel’s child with awe, because these guys are notably different in their demeanor. They are smart, quick-witted and disciplined, though they carry an air of superiority around them. The good parts were definitely the reason that Mr. U and I did not think twice of living in a defense colony post marriage.

Now to zoom out to the township of retired army officers, opulence is written all over them. As a tax-payer yourself, you’ll not feel any good, when they whizz past you splashing water after a previous day’s rain, in cars with raised windows when you are contemplating on the matter of increase in monthly budget, as the Govt. is cutting down on the subsidy on domestic LPG. And being a member of the middle class , you cannot take it very sportily when someone puts up a movie invite for the periodic cine play in the auditorium , with an added note that ‘Servants and Domestic help are not allowed in the premises’. Now , respected men, were you not the defendants and protectors of justice and humanity ?! With the same contempt tainting your minds, you will find the the board on the compound wall of Brig. Viswanathan Iyer an intended pun, which says “Don't mind the dog” , with his name plate on the other side ; Yeah, with all the common sense that is bestowed upon you, ain’t it supposed to mean that the dog is a still a calmer being, in comparision ? (Now , please don't point your fingers at me, don't you love the dogs that you carry around with those tight belts around their necks??, and whom you consider as belonging to the same class as yours?? , whereas one with the same anatomy and biology as yours falls in a class which you fail to acknowledge )

Our neighbours - Maj. Gen. Dr. H.H. Mukherji and his better-half , Swati Mukherji seemed no different from others for building non-penetrable walls around them by sitting locked up in their two bedroom apartment, apart from the occasional Hi’s and Hello’s that were exchanged.

I felt it necessary one day, to make our presence known. I decided to barge into the house. Now I think, many a soul who lived in my apartment earlier have tried for the same that they have hung a board , “No Visitors Allowed” , in front of the closed door. Now , that was downright rude! ; the retorting mind that I am, I felt it necessary to hang a ‘Welcome’ board on ours.

But, to be honest, Mrs. Swati Mukherji is a very graceful lady , not because she never forgets to wear her crimson lipstick and her dark sun glasses whenever she gets out of the house. Mr. Mukherji turned out to be a still better man , perfectly humble and gentlemanly in all his ways. He asked us not to address them as Sir and Madam, but as Uncle and Aunty, saying that he is no more in service. An ex-army man who is not accompanied by the ghosts of bygone days of power ?! , it was new to us.

I started liking the man.

Mr. Mukherji often reminded us that as neighbours we should be meeting more often. Now , that I knew was impossible with them hanging that welcome board of theirs, though I did not daresay it aloud.

There were days when there was no trace of Maj. Gen for days altogether. During one of those days, I asked Mrs. Swati Mukherji after him, and she stoically replied that he never gets out of the house when he is administered chemotherapy, for fear of infection. Now that struck me, as of the need for not allowing visitors .

Prejudices be damned!
Firing be ceased!
May be you don't see through them, for,
they are wearing crimson lipstick
and dark glasses!

Little mistakes

I was tidying my stuff on another Sunday when my eyes went searching for the third red blob on the bed. Now where is it? No, it’s not on the sidelines of the bed or underneath the cot. I checked them both. Believe them, they are a disciplined lot, their geometrically distorted spherical shape is not designed for rolling.

I had got the three of them when I went on my Saturday’s routine walk , this time to the vegetable market. These Saturday strolls are something I look forward to in the entire week. It is there that I spotted them , all decked up in a cane basket. I handpicked 5 of them and reluctantly gave back 2, when I heard the prevailing market rate. So my count can’t be incorrect. Now, I always have a fascination for these red balls: the pomegranates and not so much to them as to their mother : the tree that produces this wonderful fruit. If I was one from the flora family , I would have definitely married one from their breed. The lovely, slender leaves shine in the morning sun as if generously oiled. They look their sunday best on the day after a substantially heavy rain , the droplets clinging on to the plant as a lover reluctant to leave his sweetheart after a memorable night. Once upon a time, my only aim in life was to grow a pomegranate tree , see it growing from childhood to womanhood and then I want it to live forever: for all the coming generations to see right before their eyes, that there are other better living objects than humans < I still carry the dream. A word of caution for my employers here: Now, this's the lighter side of me, please don't be fooled by all this. I still want salary hikes and promotions >

Coming back to reality I am sure that someone has stooped low enough to steal it. Now this is not something that I can forgive, kidnapping a helpless ball of seeds. On the breakfast table, I brought the matter to Madhu , who is the housekeeper of this place < whereas Khadoos cooks >, that someone is cultivating this hobby of thieving. As is expected from her, she enquired about the matter and shamefully though , I said what I lost. I was honest when I said that I lost only one of them. She looked at me with surprise and an undecipherable mix of some other emotion, which I am yet to learn. She might not be having a record of a girl from a well-to-do family who keeps count of her fruits. As scoffed by Khadoos, I came back and checked my Poms for ‘sprouted legs’. No, they haven’t

A few minutes later, Madhu came hurriedly and kept the abducted fruit on the table. “ Did I not tell you that it might have rolled into the curtains that I have unbuttoned for cleaning..?” , came the gingerly explanation.

I would have loved the Poms more if they could indeed sprout legs to run away from my abundance to her paucity.

The Intercity Express : Never say never

The lady embarked on the quaint little town of Palakkad. She took a seat near the window, directly opposite to where he was sitting. He has just finished reading a copy of ‘India Today’ and was drinking in the environs. He , a handsome young man in his mid-twenties. And the lady is of some indeterminate age, but not less than a 45 . All your assumptions about age goes wrong with middle-class Indian housewives. Most of them look much older than their age. Can I take the mean of my intuition and the established reality and  peg it at 40? A pleasant faced lady , with their head clad with the end of her saree, which constantly falls off to reveal her hair, slick with oil. She sat there nursing her arthritic legs.


Now, another important thing with the middle class Indian is that they don't hesitate to strike up conversations with any stranger they meet on the road. They don't give a damn about how you look or speak; and there need not essentially be a subject to speak about, anything mundane can do.


“Going to Tirupur, that’s where we are put up”, she smiled.


He smiled ; He did not really mind her going anywhere; nor was he interested in her whereabouts


But she thought it necessary to explain her appearance in Palakkad , “we have one house here, it is let to a family. I come here every month to collect the house rent and this Intercity express takes me back home”.


He smiled again , he did not have a problem with that either.


“Those people are very good, our tenants” , she exclaimed to his monosyllabic reciprocations. “ Their parents are both long dead, and the family is now left with only their son and daughter”. “ And the girl is a darling, she is beautiful ”


“ Now my husband is a Patani, you know them, the ones speaking Hindi...?" He says that we will get her married once we find a good guy


Now another light nod of the head. Cant he speak, I thought. But what?


The woman continued, “ She’ll get a good husband, she is beautiful, those wide eyes…”


Now they are also Nairs, like you , son.


The train was decelerating, whistling loud and clear. And before she could say anything more, he readied himself and clutched the bag as the train was nearing Coimbatore,
And shortly with a “Namaskaram”  , he walked away


She looked at me sheepishly as if her daily bread was snatched by a cunning crow, in a swish, silently diving high from skies. I gave a reassuring nod < Better luck next time , lady>


Back to present, I remember my good friend Akash asking me, “ how is a village better than a city, Shree?” , Now this is my answer my friend. Along with the quietness of the  mornings and the cacophony of chirpy birds, its these people who relish their lives with a  feeling of contentment that they work to better the lives of their neighbours that I miss in the city.


Every city needs a few of them : people with nothing to preoccupy their minds, no surrounding bubbles and no fences separating the houses