Sweetie!

Once again, I checked the bag to confirm it had our passports, credit cards and cash. It was a small anti-theft nylon bag, no bigger than my hand, that barely managed to hold all these things entrusted to it. I then slipped its strap cross body over my bra and stuffed the pouch inside my trousers, before wearing my shirt on top. For my other belongings like the inhalers and hair brush etc, I wore an outer cross-body bag over my shirt. It was quite a chore, and it had to be repeated daily. 

Walking with the nylon bag tucked inside my trousers, which had a lot already tucked inside them, was uncomfortable, to say the least. 

And when I needed to buy something, it was another story. I certainly didn't look very dignified lifting my shirt, digging into my trousers and then struggling to pull out cash or a card from the depths. And then carrying out the process in reverse to put the money back! 

It was no wonder I used to fling the bag in the hotel room at the end of each day. It was such a relief to get it off me, that anti-theft Auntie. 

The reason for all this was simple. We were travelling in Europe. I had been robbed of all my cash and cards the last time I was here alone and did not want to go through that hell again. No way. And if that meant I had to wear a nylon anti-theft bag across my body and into my trousers in the heat of summer, so be it. 

The first phase of our month-long trip was over. Today, was a busy day. We were travelling from Malaga to Tirano to start the second phase- scenic train journeys across Switzerland. Malaga to Milan by air, and Milan to Tirano by an inter-city train. 

As much as I love train journeys, trains give me anxiety. I find platforms confusing. I find finding seats nerve wracking. I find luggage storage stressful. So, when a woman stopped by and offered to help me put our luggage in the storage above the seats in the train in Milan, I was relieved. She called out to a couple of other friends and they all lifted one bag and tried to put it in the storage compartment. But what a clumsy lot they were. The luggage kept slipping from their hands and I ended up holding it up most of the time. Wait, one of them was pregnant- heavily pregnant! Why was she helping me pick up a bag?

That's when I felt it- a hand tapping on my waist. The moment I realized what that hand was up to and uttered my discovery to Aloka, my luggage was magically back down on the floor and the helpful ladies nowhere to be found. All the zips of the outer bag were undone, obviously by the woman standing closest to me. She had made full use of my extended arms and distracted head to go through everything in the outer bag. Fortunately, there was nothing of value in it. Everything of value was safely tucked away inside the inner bag in the depths of my trousers.

When we finally reached our hotel in Tirano, I took off the anti-theft bag, folded its strap and placed it gently on my bed-side table. Good night sweetie, I whispered.

I am Free, I choose!

I loved a man once, but I broke up with him.

Brother was ashamed of his profession, mother was alarmed by his caste,

But breaking up was entirely my choice...

I chose. 

I then met this man they wanted me to marry

He is from our biradari, with a good paying job, but nothing like the one I once loved,

But saying yes to the proposition was entirely my choice...

I chose. 

I wanted to wait a year or two to know each other better

He didn't, and mother didn't either,

But saying yes to the wedding next month is entirely my choice...

I chose. 

He was in a fight recently and broke a leg while drunk

He works in a cruise, not in merchant navy as we were told earlier

But the decision to ignore these discoveries is entirely my choice... 

I chose.

I am proud of making my own money, I am good at my job

But then a girl's real job is keeping her husband's house, I am told.

Yes, leaving it all to move to his village far away is entirely my choice...

I chose.

"Don't worry about me didi" she said to me yesterday. 

You see, I am free, I choose. 

Soar on Aloki!

Seventeen years ago, I had a dream. A dream of a little girl in my home and in my heart. A happy little girl, who would fill my life with chatter and songs and laughter. I can’t explain why I had this particular dream, but it was almost like an obsession, a certain madness. And believe me, this dream wouldn’t have come true without this obsessions and my own mother's acceptance of it. (It took us two to tango!)

Many people questioned my madness. Some thought I was too old to be a mother to a young child, some other wondered why I would want to go through the stress of schooling another child, yet another family member worried about having to take care of the child if anything were to happen to me (my health had never been great).

I looked at these people and these objections incredulously. A child is a gift from the universe. Rearing a child is a privilege. How can anyone look at it as a burden or a duty? I knew fully well that joy comes hand in hand with sorrow, but that is no reason to not open the door to joy. Isn’t that why one is alive? For me, wanting to be a mother to another child was as urgent and necessary as wanting another breath.

And please, I had already done it once and loved every moment of it, so I wasn’t an ignorant fool. Err, maybe just a little bit!

Aloka came into our lives like magic. With my mother chasing my dream as hard I was, all the obstacles that seemed impossible to overcome at one time, vanished in a second. And just like that, a little baby girl in a silly bunny cap became my daughter in December 2007.

These last 17 years have been fuller of chatter and songs and dances and laughter than I could have ever imagined. I look at old pictures and videos and can’t help but notice how sassy she was (her own words) even as a little child. The way she posed for pictures, the way she acted in her tiktok videos, the way she danced to Korean songs, it was so different from anything I had ever seen. From a very young age, my little girl was her own person.

Now as a young woman, she is still doing things that surprise and delight this mother. I never tire of listening to the songs she sings in her honey-sweet voice. I look on incredulously as she picks up any new song effortlessly, making me understand what musical intelligence is. I relish the stylish food she cooks and the way she presents it. I love the way she demonstrates her love for her nani, whom she calls Corna, and for Mallika, whom she calls Minga Nani. I marvel at the way she sits quietly to listen to adults talking about serious issues. I am surprised at her deep understanding of people and her willingness to extend empathy even to people who hurt her. I enjoy seeing her dress up, always aware of the latest styles, yet careful about the appropriateness of what she wears to the occasion. And then, I smile at the way she still clutches Witchy Aunty in bed and gravitates towards candy shops just as she did as a young child.

Today, as I bid her goodbye at the examination centre where she is to take her exam, I felt my heart swelling with emotion. This dignified beautiful girl is almost ready to come out from under my wings and fly into her own world. 

Soar on Aloki! I am sure you will fly farther than I had and make this world a better place than I ever could.

The Failed Conspiracy

In December of 2011, my mother had a house full of visiting family. My elder sister, her daughter and my son Atreya were all there to spend a few sunny winter days with her. But it snowed instead. Heavily.

It snowed so heavily that everything came to a standstill. Power went off, water supply was disrupted, roads were snowed in, and the government departments dealing with these issues were at their wit's end. Even on good days, it is difficult to get them to react in a manner matching the urgency of the matter, but these were bad days. Phone calls were going unanswered and the local gossip suggested that no one knew how to fix snapped wires and frozen pipes because they had never encountered them before. 

Led by a feisty grandmother, the family tried to make the best of the situation. They made and remade a snowman in the front yard, threw snow balls at each other, read books and old reader's digests, made phone calls to friends and acquaintances, and kept warm by snuggling together in the master bedroom. But by day three, it was all getting too much. The roads to take them back were too slippery, so they were basically trapped in a small cold flat with no electricity, little water and no booze. 

My brother in Delhi knew of the crisis in his mother's house and would call them every now and them to cheer them up. He sensed their desperation on the third day and unable to help them in any way, thought that a prank was called for. He roped in his nephew, telling him it would break the monotony and give everyone something to talk and laugh about. Atreya agreed immediately and was excited to be part of the conspiracy.  Or so he thought! 

After that call, Atreya got busy with breakfast and card games with his cousin. Mom tried calling the electricity department as was her routine, and to her surprise, this time she finally got through. After letting the man on the line know that she was the retired principal of LHMC and Tanda medical College, who was instrumental in setting up Tanda hospital, she demanded quick action! Quick action or else- her voice reverberated through her tiny apartment! 

The phone rang within a few minutes of that conversation. It was a lineman from the electricity department, who wanted to speak to Doctor Sahib ji. The word spread quickly in the house and everyone surrounded mom expectantly as she spoke to the lineman assigned to fix her electricity problem. He told mom in a surly voice that he had to leave other work incomplete in Norbulingka because of pressure from top to fix her problem. This riled mom up and just as she began giving the man a piece of her mind, everyone gestured to her to calm down. No point making this very elusive lineman angry. 

Elusive, surly and a very demanding lineman indeed. He insisted that mom, as the owner of the house, has to meet him under the electricity pole number 52, where he was perched. When mom said she didn't know where that pole was and it would take her time to get dressed, he asked her to come to Amar's shop instead, where he was going to have chai and samosa in the meanwhile. She asked why he needed to meet her at all but the response was garbled. Not wanting to take a chance, everyone in the house agreed that she must go. Anything to have the electricity restored! 

Mom didn't want to go alone, so she took Atreya with her to help her navigate the snow covered street.  They trussed themselves up in jackets, mufflers, caps and gloves and trudged through the ankle-high snow to reach Amar's shop. 

Mom looked around and when she didn't find anyone having tea there, she asked Amar about the tea-drinking lineman's whereabouts. He looked blank. She then asked him about the location of electricity pole number 52, which is where the lineman must be waiting for her. This time Amar's eyes lit up. He said "Poles pe number nahi hotay ji. Mujhay lagta hai koi aapka ullu bana raha hai doctor sahib". There are no numbers on poles. I think someone is pranking you doctor sahib. 

That's when Atreya's hands went to his face, akin to Sushmita Sen when she won the Miss Universe crown, except he was more embarrassed than delighted. He dragged mom away from the shop while laughing and blushing and laughing some more. The prankster co-conspirator had just realised that he had got pranked himself! 

My brother, who never expected his prank to go that far, certainly not as far as Amar's shop, pledged that he would never include Atreya in any conspiracy again. 

PS: Electricity was restored the same day, with no special favors done for anyone by anyone. 

Survivor

When I die

Don't anyone say,

That she let her grief kill her.

That her heart was torn to shreds,

And the shreds could not beat.

That her mind was tortured by nightmares of memories,

Till it could not hold any other thoughts.

That she searched for herself in the broken mirror,

But she was nowhere to be found.

That her story was rewritten by others,

And she started believing in the abomination.

When I die

Instead, tell everyone,

That she put her grief in the backseat, most of the time.

That her broken heart could still beat weakly

To the drums of distant hope.

That the rubble of the nightmares shifted, 

And her mind could still find some light.

That she found her lost identity 

Reflected in the shards of the broken mirror. 

That her true story was written in indelible ink,

And she carried it in her heart, till the very end. 

The Lost Love

I heard a story the other day of a tribe that lived deep in the deserts of Western India. The chieftain of the tribe was a charismatic man, strong and proud. He had a son, who everyone loved. 

One day, the son, a young man, decided that he wanted to see the world, beyond the endless deserts of his home. The villagers were shocked, the father angry. He was after all the heir, the future! How could he leave? So, the wish was denied vehemently. 

But the son had wanderlust. He left one night in the dark, telling no one, taking nothing with him but the clothes on his back. The morning brought great sorrow to the entire tribe, especially to the father. He was broken, but maintained a stoic front. 

Days passed, then weeks, months and years. Everyday, someone or the other would come by and ask the chieftain if there was any news of his son. Each question brought fresh sorrow to the father. So one day, he announced that no one was allowed to talk about the son. His name was not to be mentioned. The tribe went quiet. Questions remained in everyone's mind but were unspoken, unasked. 

The chieftain had a young daughter. She was just five when her brother had left their home. Initially, she missed her brother, but as years passed, her memories of him began to fade. It didn't help that no one in the village spoke about him. 

One day, while she was out grazing her favorite sheep, she stroked its soft fur and remembered that her brother wore a coat made of sheep's fur. That started a flood of memories. She spoke to the sheep about him, tears streaming down her eyes. The more she talked, the more memories were stirred, the more tears she shed. 

Upon her return to the village, she began talking to everyone she met about her lost brother. The villagers responded to her innocent chatter and soon everyone was once again talking about the chieftain's son. 

The chieftain heard about it and was angry with the villagers and his daughter. Seeing the anger in her father's eyes, the little girl hugged him tightly and said "You knew my brother before I was even born. I want to know about the games he used to play with you, his favorite animals, his hobbies, what made him happy, and what made him sad. I want to know everything about him, father!" 

Faced with the innocent girl's questions,  the father's anger melted. His harsh eyes softened, his stoney face crumbled, and he began talking. He answered all her questions and some more. He spoke about his son till the one who was supposed to listen was fast asleep. 

The next day, a new rule was announced in the tribe - You cannot wipe out the memories that you cherish. You cannot deny the beauties of times that have passed. 

Just because things didn't go the way you wanted, you cannot lose the love that you have in your heart. 

I Accept

How arrogant was I to think that just because I had some serious struggles in life, everything will be okay from now on. Things go wrong in everyone's life. Why should mine be different? How arrogant of me! And how foolish!

How am I any different from the young woman who once told me that nothing bad can happen to her siblings because hadn't she lost her elder brother to illness? I had pitied her and thought to myself "How foolish of her to take that as a given. People don't just have a fixed set of sorrows. How foolish it is to assume this." Was I any less foolish?

So, my son has become a stranger to me, and I to him. So, he sees every action of mine with a twisted judgmental lens? So what? Is my suffering so bad? Is it more or less than a mother who has a terminally-ill child? Am I better off or worse than a woman with no escape from a repressive marriage? Do I suffer more or less than them?

Suffering is suffering, different in nature, yet all the same, part of everyone's life.

We humans invent a god (or gods) to whom we pray for protection against sorrow. And when things do go south, we believe we didn't pray enough, so we pray more. We invent the concept of karma to understand why we suffer. And when that doesn't work, we believe it's something we did in our past lives to deserve the pain. Guilt all-around.

When an ant is accidentally crushed under our feet, is it her karma? Is her god unhappy with her? Who feels guilty about her accident? Is it not something that just happened?

I accept this suffering as part of life. I accept this as my ant-like life having been crushed accidentally. It happened, that's all. I am done blaming myself, blaming him, defending myself, defending him, feeling guilty, feeling ashamed. I am done.

I guess this is what the fifth phase of grieving is all about. After denial, anger, negotiation and depression, comes acceptance. Not really in that order, and not once linearly (how I wish), not closing once the cycle was done, not even when you reach acceptance.

I accept. For now, for today, I accept.