The Little Buddha Series - 1

The Father wishes for a falling asteroid
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“Long long ago, the earth was a cloud of dust and gases”, the 7 year old exhibited his memory skills in front of the guests , isn’t it so, Acha* ? , he asked the father who nodded his head in approval. The guests were impressed evidently : “ wow , you know so much at a small age” - one of them asked ; with a  question to further test the child’s knowledge in Astrophysics – “tell me, what is gas?”. Well, the boy had only a vague idea of what gases mean , or if he had, he did not know how to express it , so he said , “Hm..hm.. gases is what come out when we fart, isn't it so, Acha ?” ,the boy asked innocently.
That was a Cut without a Retake. 

Social misfits
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During the train trip, the 3 year old got very comfortable with the twenty-something handsome man ( a gym goer apparently ) who was sharing the same coach with the Acha, the Amma and the boys.
“Don’t you think that you are boring the dude” , asked Amma hushing the boy– “no, I am not !, are you bored ?” , asked the boy to the dude. “Not at all!”, said the dude . In another few minutes , he got up to go elsewhere. “Amma, where is the guy?” , asked the boy who has just then bent down to pick up his toy car from under the train seat. “He is gone. Did I not warn you not to bore that guy?” , asked the complaining Amma.

Pause. Pause.

The guy re entered the coach in a few minutes. “Look Amma" , the boy said, "The guy is here. So he had only gone to do SuSu*”, the boy screamed jubilantly. Everyone stood transfixed while Amma pulled the blanket over the head, when the dude and his muscles shrivelled like a deflated balloon.

*SuSu: In India, this is a child's gibberish used for pee-ing :D
*Acha : A vernacular word for Father
*Amma: A vernacular word for Mother

The despicable beef eaters

So earlier this year, we were looking for a babysitter - an ex army man or a retired police constable who can take care of the 7 and 3 year old boys while also taking care of their own mental sanity. Honestly I did not mind employing a ring master who had the patience to keep them safe and engaged  by teaching them to jump through a hoop or do a headstand . Just somebody who can keep the children disciplined – that was the only requirement, at a point ! It was at that time that Tulsi introduced Durga-bhai to us. Durga-bhai! -  who looked like a Shimla apple. She hailed from Nepal , but lived in the city with her husband and had 3 children, the younger two were in their teens and the elder daughter is married off and had a daughter too – all of them were back in Nepal. She was in her early thirties and her daughter is in her twenty’s and neither of these women have attended schools , she said. The numbers did not tally, but that shouldn’t be my worry if it is not hers and thus I left it at that. That is all we knew about her. But the rest was shown in her work – the children wait for Durga-bhai to come to work everyday – that says it all. Durga-bhai was purely loyal and extremely committed - to the children and to us. Little did I know that the solution to my problems can be a four feet figure from across the Himalayas.

Durga-bhai was pleased with us too – for I tell our neighbours that she is our children’s nani* - I never corrected her by saying that I introduce her as nanny and not *nani . Ignorance is so blissful sometimes ; whoever experiencing that occasional state of bliss - by audaciously staying away from textbooks - earns it, and thus deserve it – I should not be snatching it from them by imparting that extra knowledge – nobody gains from it , neither I nor her . By staying that way, I was giving her work some extra dignity too.

Days thus passed and came winter – the most dreadful times - when the sun barely grins, floors are cold, water in pipes colder and  clothing are of multiple layers and the air always damp. The big brother and the little brother had started to take turns in falling sick so that no two was alright at the same time. Taking care of them while also doing office work from home is the most terrible chore for a working mother. I thus make only easily digestible (read as ‘bland’)  food for the boys. They are never anyway great fans of my culinary skills, but I make up for that by serving a good dose of hunger with every meal. Since the care-takers need extra care, on such days I have made arrangements to get my lunch delivered at home - one good lunch a day keeps the gloom away - doesn’t it ? Ok, on one such day, came 3 o’ clock and Durga-bhai entered with my lunch (she must have met the delivery man on the way)  . She came and checked on the boys, and finding them to be fixated on the television, headed to the kitchen to brew her full milk tea and started to speak nonchalantly – we never get to talk on days that I go to work. Durga-bhai was happy to work in my household, she confided and pressed on my food parcel. But she has to travel to Nepal after 3 months , taking a 2 month break from work, for that is when they do Puja for Devi, Devatha and Purvaj* . Her Purvaj* apparently appeared in her dreams regularly and put forth their needs in front of her. And during the Puja break, she enters into a trance – do all that is needed for the deities and ancestors and they do not supposedly trouble her for the rest of the year. That is her story! – to each their won. But she loved to work for us, she reiterated while continuing to tinker with my food, as her ancestors seem pleased too – no complaints from them so far - for we are Hindus and I have photos of Hindu deities adorning my walls which makes her feel secure for she is a Hindu too . She recalled what happened while working with a Muslim household soon after she came to the city. She thought it was alright to work with them, but the ancestors!, they were not happy and were complaining to her every other night. But she continued for some more time as nobody else was giving her work. And the vengeful ancestors, they entered her body as a chronic headache – all because Muslims eat the sacred cows, she spoke with the confidence of a 5-year-old. Cows are sacred indeed!, for the Hindu holy books consider them as sacred. And they providing milk for human consumption, is a bonus. The sacrifice of cows is holier considering that the milk is actually meant for it’s own calf but still the cows willingly provide it for human consumption (sic). While facts , logic and Hinduttva were all in disagreement – I decided to remain silent, both because I was extremely hungry and because the woman’s logic was favoring me . Finally when I grabbed the food package , I swiftly took it to the kitchen, not just because I was extremely hungry , but also because I was worried - what if the ancestors make my food come alive , for it would have then instantly cried Moo!

      Adding a picture of Durga-bhai and the boys for attention - bloggers these days find it hard to gain readership :)

nani*: father’s mother

Purvaj*: ancestors

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!