Petite!

One month into our Bangalore trip, things began to change. The toughest exams were done. We had settled well into the house, figured out ways to get to places safely in time, and worked out efficient ways to get groceries and other essentials needed to run the house. Aloka and I both found ourselves with time to finally breathe and relax. 

With a month yet to go before we returned, I started searching for sports clubs where we could spend an hour daily. It wasn't easy. I wanted to swim, but Aloka doesn't swim. She wanted to go to a gym, but I hate those machines. Finally, I found a sports club called WE fitness that had both a gym and a heated swimming pool. And it was just 3 Km from the house, which translates to 20 minutes in an auto. Wonderful! 

But there was another problem. I hadn't brought my swimsuit with me. The lady at the club suggested a shop where I could go to buy one, so off I went to Options in Jayanagar. Having gone swinsuit shopping in the past in Singapore and Europe, I was cautious and ready for disappointment. But Options was true to its name. I could not believe my eyes when I was shown a whole stack of swimsuits to choose from. Most had sleeves, and some had attached pants! And size was no issue. They had sizes from small to 5XL. 

There were no bikinis on display. What I was being shown were burkinis minus the head covering! For a minute I wondered who these were for? Who were these sensible women who wanted so much coverage? For the swimsuit market to become so inclusive, there had to be huge demand (pun unintended). 

But then my thoughts became more centered on myself. Where had I come? This was my idea of heaven! 

I bought a black polka-dotted half-sleeved swimsuit with attached knee-length pants after making sure that I could get into it. Get into it? I should be more worried about my lady bits staying in place once I was in water, it was that comfortable. 

In the changing room at the club, I adjusted the swinsuit and looked in the mirror. All the jiggly pieces were in place and well-hidden. Of course, there is nothing one can do about the overall mass. The fat that is moved from one place has to land somewhere. I accepted that graciously.

I walked tentatively to the pool and was relieved that there was no one there. Luckily, the time-slot we were given, 1 to 2 pm, was the least busiest of the day. After 10 minutes or so, some more people came in. Everyone was rather big.  Given my size, I don't use these words lightly (again pun unintended). Everyone was in one or the other version of semi-burkinis, even the men! I caught myself staring open-mouthed at the swimmers. I call them swimmers but no one was swimming! They were walking in the water or contorting their bodies holding all sorts of styrofoam gadgets. 

Then realization slowly dawned on me. These folks were not here to swim, but to exercise. I later found out that such exercises were suitable for the very large people whose joints can't handle a regular gym. I was the only serious swimmer in that small group. 

I did my thing for the next 45 minutes or so, showing off a bit and being childishly competitive if I found another person doing a lap. When it was time to leave, I got out of the pool and walked unhurriedly and confidently towards the changing area, not covering myself with a towel as is my habit. 

And why not! For the first time in my life, I was the most petite person in a room! 

Say What?

There is a drive to push Hindi usage in government offices. There is also a drive to go digital, but some drives, like cars, move faster than others. So, we still receive my father's pension-related information from Delhi via snail mail, not e-mail. But there is clear evidence of the other drive in full momentum. 

This is a letter we received recently. To clarify, the address my mother gave them was this:

Firmly Rooted Bungalow 

Village Sidhbari

PO Rakkar 

HP....

Here is what came as the address on the letter. 

The only field translated into Hindi was "Firmly Rooted". The words Village and PO were not 

So, mind you, you are right now in a Bungla called Majbooti se Jad Diya! 

Talking of translation, let me recount another episode from a couple of years ago. Actually, I was reminded of it because of the Vote Fraud issue currently in the news. A few years ago, I was trying to find the locations of our voting booth for the local elections. I was majorly impressed when I was told that the information was available online. Online! Wow! That's my world. I can navigate that! 

So, I went to the website. But everything is in Hindi. Shuddh Hindi. As is my habit, I look for a way to see the information in English. Lo and behold- there is a button that says English. I press it and the information is in English! Yay! 

But wait! What the hell is this? Who is Moon Bliss? And Love Creeper? And Diametre?

Any software person will tell you that when developing software apps, we mark certain fields as non-translating fields. Well, obviously, the persons making this website wasn't aware of it and so all the names had been translated into English. Absolutely wonderful! 

Rather than talk about it, let's do a short quiz. Guess what this name would be in Hindi?

Rich Goddess

Omen

Love Creeper?

Country Rule 

Dream

Peacock

Saffron

Smell

Pass through 

Like Ram

Critique 

Teenager

Drank (Father Peacock)

Light up

Good Luck

Sick

Original Secret

Omnipotent Goddess

Sapphire

Bum God

Love Creeper

Illuminating

Lamp

Like Ram

Handmaids Around Me!

Been watching The Handmaid's Tale slowly for the last 10 days. Savoring is a better word. Just finished the last episode of Season 3 yesterday. So sad to say goodbye to a friend, because that's what June Osborne has become to me.
For those of you who haven't seen it, it's about dystopia in a new ultra-religious country carved out of the US in the times of rising infertility and consequently, extremely low birthrates. Women in this world are relegated to being wives, maids or handmaids (whose sole purpose is to produce children for the husbands of the barren wives). None of the women are allowed to read or go out without chaperone or contribute to society in any way. They are left with no agency/influence of their own. The only women who seem to have any power are cruel bullish women, who train other women for their roles and punish them for any transgression.
Thinking about the suffocating stifling world of these fictional women, I just realized that this dystopia is not all that fictional. I personally know women here in my town, who were married off in their teens before they even finished schooling, have no financial freedom and so are at the mercy of men in their homes, are watched like hawks when they step out of the house, are expected to give birth to boys, and are nothing but glorified house maids (not even that because they are not paid for their daily toiling). To top it all, they are controlled by cruel bullish mother in laws! The same story with girls with college degrees. The only difference between their reality and the world where June is trapped is that they get to keep their babies.
Did Margaret Atwood visit our village before she wrote her novel?

The Spectacle in the Sky!

It was 10pm on Tuesday night. I was among a busload of tourists who had been driven some 30 minutes out of Reykjavic and were now standing out in the open, near the coast. I was there by myself, the kids having stayed back to rest because we had a flight to catch in 8 hours. But such common sense was not in my itinerary. It was the first clear night since we arrived and my last chance to see the northern lights!

Bitterly cold doesn't begin to describe how cold it was. I was dressed in "all" the woollens that I had carried in my bag, and still I was miserable.

The tour guide was pointing to the sky, showing us faint white light arcs right above us and some faint columns over the beach. People had their cameras out, but not me. It was too cold to remove the gloves to operate my camera, which anyway was not capturing anything.

The faint glow was nothing special. It could  easily pass off as a thin cloud cover.  Where were the glorious green lights one sees in pictures? The guide then mentioned that good cameras capture the green lights far better than human eyes. I peeped into a person's camera to see the pictures he had taken. It indeed showed green streaks. That really deflated me. Were we all simply fooled by digitally enhanced pictures?

After 30 minutes of more of the same, it was decided that the show was over. I climbed back into the bus, grateful for its warmth, greedily thinking about the 1 hour of sleep I will get before catching the bus to the airport.

Just then, the guide shouted that all of us needed to be out of the bus immediately. We tumbled out and that's when time as if stood still for me. Beautiful pale green lights danced gently in the sky and in my eyes! The sky right over the airport was a huge canvas on which these green glowing shifting shapes were painted. A cosmic laser show! My breath was knocked out from my chest. A woman next to me was screeching in delight and I realized that so was I. We were exceptions- everyone else was so civilized about it and busy with their cameras. Somehow, we managed to exchange information about each other- she was Mexican and travelling with her mother. A noisy group hug between the woman, her mother and me happened instinctively as another green arc opened up on the side. The shapes morphed and we were in rapture.

The spectacle in the sky lasted five minutes before fading out. We were still hugging each other when the mother began weeping, saying "thank you, thank you God for showing me this sight" in her language. I didn't thank any god, but my eyes were misty too!

(This is not an image from last night. I didn't bother taking any pictures. This is something I copied from the internet. What we saw was almost like this, but paler in color.)

The Grand Kainth Theft!

In and around our village, there are a number of wild pear trees. In local language, wild pear is called kainth. These trees turn the valley pink and white in spring, and are a delight to the eyes. We drive around the valley in March and April just to ooh and aah at their lovely blossoms. Their small round fruits ripen in early winter. I have sampled some in my jaunts to the nearby mountains and villages with Sonu. The ones that are fully ripe are sweet, though gritty. The ones that are not yet ripe are quite distasteful.  

It is not just us humans that prefer the ripe fruits. They are a favorite of birds of all kinds and much sought after. But there is one species of birds that is quite obsessed with kainth- the red-billed blue magpies, called lumb-puchhri or the long-tailed one in local language. These large long-tailed birds are somewhat pretty to look at, but as I learned over the years, are considered quite a nuisance by the farmers. They belong to the crow family, and much like crows, are surprisingly intelligent. 

Rather than compete with other birds for ripe kainth fruits, lumb-puchhris pick the fruits from the trees when they are still unripe and hide them in bushes or in mud in hidden corners, only to dig them out a few days later to enjoy their sweetness. Sometimes, they even hide the already ripened fruits so that they can relish them later. Delayed gratification! Dog in the manger? 

In November and December, you can see these birds flying with two or three fruits in their beaks, sometimes even entire branches, hiding them and then going back for some more.

Kainth Chors (pear thieves)- that's what I call them!

Over the years, I have seen this spectacle quite a few times from close quarters, while sipping tea at my friend's balcony. The wild pear tree in her front-yard is a popular target of  fruit theft by a pair of lumb-puchhris. Their hiding places for hiding/ripening these fruits is a large flower pot nearby, which is usually full of flowers. The birds expertly press some fruits into the soft mud in the pot and hide others inside the flowers and leaves. They then return a few days later and savour their goodies with much delight. 

But last November, there was much confusion and cacophony near their favorite hiding place. The birds were hopping around and screeching. They had dug up the flower pot and moved the bushes around several times, but there was no sign of their sweet treasure. The birds were hopping mad, literally and figuratively, and rightfully so! The thieves had been robbed of their loot!

The lady of the house, a quiet homebody, sat smugly on her balcony and watched the drama. There was a faint smile on her face, made sweeter by all the kainth fruits she had consumed over the last couple of days!

Note: All but the last picture are taken from the Internet. Copyright others'.The last picture is of Sonika's mother. Copyright and every other right- hers! 

A pair of Eyes, A Grateful Heart!

Today, as we drove back from Palampur, I did not stop the car even once to take pictures. The beauty passing by was so breathtaking that I was almost paralyzed.

The white wild-rose creepers were in full bloom all along the way- their flowers so ordinary individually, but so stunning as a group.

The large white and pink kachnar flowers would appear in clusters and overshadow everything else with their fullness. They reminded me that pink, my least favourite of colours, is indeed something divine when framed against the blue sky.

The bougainvillea flowers in red and magenta were as if pouring out from homes on to the road.

Bright red and orange roses were calling my attention here and there.

Pine trees had new cones, barely formed and still green, but standing upright.

Bottle brush trees were more red than green.

Some big tall trees had clusters of very fine, very delicate pink flowers.

The green, so much green, in so many shades.

And the butterflies, plain white and yellow butterflies, flying everywhere!

I don't think I uttered my famous "wow" even once. The "wow" had permeated inside me. I was mesmerized by what nature was displaying proudly. I quietly enjoyed the show put up especially for me.

What a beautiful world. All you need are a pair of eyes and a grateful heart!

Mesmerized!

Today, as we drove back from Palampur, I did not stop the car even once to take pictures. The beauty passing by was so breathtaking that I was almost paralyzed.

The white wild-rose creepers were in full bloom all along the way- their flowers so ordinary individually, but so stunning as a group. 

The large white and pink kachnar flowers would appear in clusters and overshadow everything else with their fullness. 

The bougainvillea flowers in red and magenta were as if pouring out from homes on to the road. 

Bright red and orange roses were calling my attention here and there. 

Pine trees had new cones, barely formed and still green, but standing upright. 

Bottle brush trees were more red than green. 

Some big tall trees had clusters of very fine, very delicate pink flowers. The green, so much green, in so many shades. 

And the butterflies, plain white and yellow butterflies, flying everywhere!

I don't think I uttered my famous "wow" even once. The "wow" had permeated inside me. I was mesmerized by what nature was displaying proudly. I quietly, and very gratefully, enjoyed the show put up especially for me.

Lost and Found!

Today while teaching Aloka, I read a story in her literature book called "Manu's scarf". It sounded very familiar.

Then I figured why. Many many years ago, in 1986 or so, my father in law, Sukumar Shankar, had written a short story called "The Ribbon". It had won an award by CBT and was subsequently published by them. This story in Aloka's book is a rehash of my acchan's short story, replacing the ribbon by a scarf and Mala by Manu!

Life has brought a much loved but forgotten story back to us. What a wonderful feeling to read the story to Aloka and tell her about her brother's multi-talented grandfather!

It also gave me a chance to talk about the ugliness and unfairness of plagiarism with her.

Like Termites on a Wooden Door

Sometimes, it occurs to me that all this political drama, all our social evils, this patriarchy, this meanness in people, this violence, this exploitation of the weak, these tactics of the power drunk folks - basically all the stuff that gets me worked up and my blood boiling - all this stuff is meaningless as compared to what we as humans are doing to this Earth. 

Really, all that we do to each other is nothing as compared to what we do our planet. Our very existence is the bane of this Earth. 

Nothing we do is of any use to this planet. Nothing. Everything we do destroys it in some way. Everything!

Not even our shit is of any use to this planet, because it is too much and full of poison that we have created and consumed. Hard to believe such a species can exist, which is at one fully exploitative and totally useless. And totally self-absorbed. 

Most evolved...did I hear someone say? Indeed! 

What kind of a species are we?

I see shows and read about bees and otters and marvel at their amazing social constructs. If someone were to study us, what would they make of us? That this species thrived by controlling and subjugating one half of its population, and where that didn't work, by objectifying them and making them believe they are good only to titillate the other half? Sick or what?

I am a human being. Before I am a woman, I am a human being. I have a wonderful brain and a wonderful heart. I can contribute to this world as much as any man I have known. When you partner with me in any enterprise, I bring in my best and offer perspectives no man can think of on his own, and my mind is open enough to learn from you too where needed. I am a body too, just like you are. No less, no more. 

I don't exist to please men. I exist because I am alive and am a human being. I am half of the human population for heaven's sake! Except of course where the ratio has been skewed by murder. We were meant to live together and exist together as partners in every way. By quashing my identity, you do yourself great harm and live a half life yourself. 

Yes, I am hard to please, in bed or out of it. I need a lot more than two minutes of a roll in the hay to be satisfied. I can sense goodness and evil before it becomes evident. Yes, that makes me a pain in the ass if all you want is your quickie or have lots of bad stuff to hide. Deal with it like a human being. Not like a brute. It will only make you a better person to do so. 

Don't be scared of me. Because that's what it all boils down to. 

Wisdom on the road!

I am fascinated by stickers and messages painted on cars and trucks in my little town. As soon as I spot one, I ask my driver Sanju to follow the vehicle and go slow enough for me to take a picture. Slowing down is against Sanju's grain, but he grits his teeth and does it.

Not successful in getting a clear shot each time, here is my collection of words of wisdom found on Himachal roads! Click each picture for a bigger view.

Spotted in Tapovan. This guy surely wasted time getting this painted!

Spotted in Spiti. From a heartbroken Romeo- No girl friend tension. Avoid girls.

Spotted in Dharamshala city. Envy in installments! 

Spotted in Fatehpur. At least 3 ways to read it- Ruck fules, fuck the darn rules, or fuck always rules!

Spotted in Dharamshala city. Poetry on the road- My truck is my bride! 

Spotted in Khanyara. Height of narcissism! Don't think I can fall in love with this one even if I see it a hundred times. Reminds me of a certain PM!

Spotted on the way to McLeodganj. Quite a wise man- knows that tension will last until his last breath! But wait, he also believes in love ( 143=I love you)!

I quite agree! Spotted in Mohli. 

Spotted on the way to Palampur. Clear instructions Terrible spellings! (No compromise, no report, decision on the spot)

Spotted in Spiti. This poor speller tough guy (Word's Toughest Trucker) just realized he is in love and is shit scared (Oh shit I am in love)! 

 Finally, to all of you on Facebook, the 11th commandment! Spotted in Rakkar. 

Figuring out the village!

Having lived in a village for over two years now and having made several good friends from around here, I am just beginning to understand what makes village folks different from city folks. But it was not until last week that I was able to put a finger on a major difference, and it all started with a visit to a newly married woman's house, whose wedding I couldn't attend due to ill health.

I went to visit Asha three days after her wedding. I also took along Shraddha, my son's school mate who is visiting from Singapore. Now Shraddha has no clue who Asha was, but she tagged along because we were to go buy some stuff for her kitchen once we were done socializing. At Asha's house, we were given tea and sweets and then Asha started showing us all her new clothes gifted by relatives. Finally, she pulled out her special wedding dress, a traditional gaddi attire that is like a loose skirted gown worn with a huge belt made of rope wrapped around the waist several times. It is a beautiful and expensive piece of clothing that gaddi brides wear on their weddings and on weddings of their close relatives. Asha first offered that I should try it because it looked loose enough for me to get into, but I couldn't get my shoulders in it, she offered it to Shraddha, a total stranger she had just met.

Shraddha wore the dress (minus the complicated belt) and another friend promptly put on lipstick and bindi on her. I took several pictures of her in the dress while she posed sometimes like a shy bride and sometimes like a wanton one. It must have been the highlight of Shraddha's stay in our village, wearing another woman's traditional wedding dress!

I thought about this generosity of Asha's on the way home, and then it struck me. Village folks are generous because they have very little self importance. They don't consider themselves as special or important. Imagine a city woman offering a total stranger her wedding dress. In the city, the wedding dress is a special dress of a special person. No sir, sharing it ain't gonna happen!

Village folks are also without walls that come from a sense of self importance. I have on so many occasions walked into the village homes of strangers on my walks and been offered the best treats they can put together from their meager resources- soft drinks, biscuits, and tea, and been told simple tales of their simple lives without hesitation. This won't happen in a city because we have too many walls around our homes, and around our hearts!

There is another effect of lack of walls- friendships flourish in no time. Among my closest friends today are village folks I met barely a year or so ago. Compare that to a few people I have known for decades, potential good friends because of so many common interests and attributes, who haven't yet felt safe enough with me to let go of the walls!

Transformations

My paternal grandfather, a matriculate, was a postmaster in Leh Ladakh area. A simple self-made man, he described himself in his job application as a very good "typewriter", something he joked about with us later in life. As a postmaster, he saved up all his Travel Allowance by going everywhere on foot instead of on horseback, just so his kids could be educated. Of his four children, two became doctors and one an officer in the Indian Army.

My maternal grandparents were school teachers in Delhi. Grandfather was an English teacher and Grandmother a maths teacher. They were jobless for long periods during the turmoil of partition and had to send their kids away to their grandfather because there wasn't enough money for all. Even when they both found jobs, they lived frugally because school teachers were paid very little. My mother and her younger sister went on to become doctors, famous in their chosen fields.

I wonder if our great fortune of being born in well-educated, reasonably well-off families deprives us of opportunities to experience such great transformations. But then, because our circumstances are way better than our parents', perhaps we have a bigger responsibility to transform ourselves into better human beings! 

I Love Living in this Village!

As I drive around this village, I see how harsh living conditions are. It is visible everywhere- in the fodder grass drying on the trees (I know how much hard work is involved in cutting the grass for cows and then drying it for the winters), in the fields that are worked upon all year round (back breaking work with little return), in the ragged school kids, in the condition of clothes drying on clothes lines, in the mud houses barely holding together, and in the roads that are never more than stones and mud. Life here is hard and harsh.

But as I drive around, I feel my heart uplifting. I love living in this village. 

I love the grass drying on the trees. It, to me, is a sign of family values, for no one person can collect so much grass all by herself. Families toil together for months to collect this much grass. It also is a sign of love and care for their precious cows, gentle creatures, who give back as much as they take in.

I love the fields that change color based on what is being sown or harvested. It, to me, is a sign of give and take from the Earth, something I was so far removed from for years. I envy those who touch the Earth so closely and are touched by it. How very blessed they are. And how disconnected are the likes of us!

I love the ragged children. They have none of the goodies that city kids have- no vitamins, no tabs, no TV, no books, no play grounds, no cloying parents to oversee them. Nothing. Yet they have such light in their eyes. And they make me feel so special just because I stop to talk to them or teach them occasionally in school. They make me believe I could make a difference in their lives, and how rare and beautiful is that!

I love the worn out clothes that people wear. On days when I am wrapped in layers to beat the cold, I see young kids and old folks walking around in threadbare sweaters and chappals on their feet. That, to me, is a sign of such wholesome health, because you can survive here in that attire only if you are active all day and hardy as a bull.

I love the mud houses with their rooms in a row, slate roofs and huge aangans. These are the only type of dwelling that merge seamlessly with the mountains and rivers and trees around us. I have always believed that everything nature makes is beautiful and everything man-made is ugly. But mud houses prove me wrong. 

I love the unmade broken roads. It is because of them that we slow down and I can look around at these pretty sights in my village. It is them that remind me that we are nothing. Our tar sprayers and road rollers can do whatever they want, but come monsoon, roads will be washed off. We are insignificant against the elements that rule our world here. 

That is why I love living here in this village. It makes me at once insignificant and impactful. It makes me feel connected to the source of life.  It makes me see as I have never seen before.

And I can't stop looking.  

Holes in the Soul

Love is like anger in many ways. It is self-righteous- it comes with a belief that "since I feel it, it must be right". Much like anger, it is self-fulfilling- every action, every emotion, just fuels it and proves it right. And much like anger, it hides other important facts- about yourself and about the other person.

But the power of relationships have little to do with "love" you feel for the other person, except at the very start. And when relationships sour, it is not because people change. It is, in fact, simply because people don't change.

The loving husband, who one day becomes abusive, is just being who he always was. The starry-eyed girlfriend, who now can't stop finding faults in the man she once adored, is just being who she always was. The once devoted lover, who now seems indifferent, is just the person she/he always was. The meanness, the lack of consideration, the indifference, the selfishness, the abuse- these don't spring up from nowhere. They were always there- in individuals who got together by falling in love.

The secret to a good relationship is within each of us. It is not a complex secret really, but a simple fact that you need two good people for a good relationship. Only two complete people can make a complete relationship. Empty people create empty relationships.

No lover can fill holes in the soul. 

The Tale of a Passport-Sized Photo

Today, I went to get my passport size photographs taken for opening a new bank account. To save time, I chose a shop right opposite the bank. It is important to say this because really, there was nothing at the outside of the shop to encourage a customer. It was a tiny hole in the wall place, with a dusty hand-written board that said PHOTOSTATE (yes, with an e). The only indication that it was also a photo-studio were a couple of framed pictures showing through the glass door.

I walked into the shop, no bigger than 6 feet by 8 feet. The man inside was busy stapling a bunch of sheets that he had obviously photostatted. After a brief nod to my request for photos, he ignored me totally. There was a bench with a very dirty velvet cover that I did not want to sit on, so I stood around, waiting for him to get done with stapling. It had to be a rushed job, because he was totally consumed with it and refused to multi-task to any extent. After sometime, he asked me to sit down on the bench, which I did with trepidation.

While waiting for him, I looked at various things inside the shop. The first thing that struck me were very bad pictures of people framed up. There was one of a stunned looking man, another slightly blurred one of a serious looking old woman, another over-exposed/faded one of a couple of kids, and one of a young man. That picture of the young man was the most amazing of all. It was totally blurred. I could make out the shape of the face and that the young man had a mustache, but the picture was majorly out of focus. An obvious mistake- even a child would tell you that- but lo and behold, it was framed in an ornate frame!

The second thing that struck me was a collection of really old looking cameras in a showcase. I mean each looked at least 10 years old and very dusty. Why would anyone display these cameras? I was reminded of Kanto, our gardener, who recently bought a second-hand canon camera and was so proud of it (until it broke down a month later). Maybe, this shop sells second-hand cameras, I thought to myself, but makes no bones about them being very second hand.

As I sat there admiring the pictures and cameras, and trying hard not to think of my clothes getting dirty on that bench, the stapling was done and the man took out his camera from its packaging. Quite an elaborate process that- first he took out a bulky black bag, then a cardboard box from inside it, then unwrapped some bubble wrap and finally took out a point-and-click camera. That's certainly a first-hand camera, I thought to myself. My photo was taken in a single shot and the man briefly smiled looking at the picture, implying the picture was good (or did it mean it was suitably blurred?).

By now, I was in a hurry to get done. At my age, I don't care to see how I look in passport pictures- as long as it looks like me and meets its bureaucratic requirements, I am OK. So I didn't even bother to check it before it was printed. After a few minutes on the computer, he finally printed the set of 8 pictures and patiently cut each picture with a pair of scissors.

This photo of the photo doesn't do justice,
but you get the drift.

When I finally took a look at my picture, I was taken aback. This was not me! This was someone 10 years younger with flawless skin and no wrinkles! And two shades fairer! I am telling you no foundation I had ever used (and I have tried many) has had that kind of effect on my heavily pigmented middle-aged skin.

When I looked up enquiringly at the man, he smiled broadly and said "Thoda photoshop kar diya hai"!

That's the pleasure of living in a small town. And that's exactly the pain.

P.S.: Well, dear Mr. photographer, when you were at it, couldn't you have made those eyebrows a tad darker too?

It's a Girl!

Yesterday, I was at once shocked and delighted to hear my driver say with a long sad face "uskay beta hua hai ji". (Alas, she has given birth to a son). 

Then I realized he was talking about their cow! At least in some species, daughters are awaited eagerly...

Love Zombies

Everyone wants to be loved in that primal unwavering unshakable adoring way, something we seem to know about deep inside. There is certain knowledge of it in everyone, a memory, even if there is no experience of it. 

We ourselves may never love anyone that way, because it requires evidence of greatness and nobility among other things, which are really hard to find. But we expect our greatness and nobility to be discovered and appreciated and adored.

No wonder everyone walks around half dead with exhaustion and despair in relationships.

Our Songs Must Change!

I didn't even know what the word feminism really meant until a few months ago. My association with Jagori gave me access to books and people who are experts in the subject, so I started thinking about the issues of patriarchy and feminism. Now, I constantly watch my own actions, and of others, to identify the underlying deep-rooted beliefs that contribute to this suppression of woman, which I am often not even aware of.

Today I went to a nearby Aanganwadi, a beautiful place nestled in the mountains with a river gurgling by, to spend time with the toddlers in its care. This was my third day being part of this initiative started by Nishtha, a local NGO. I plan to do this regularly, visiting six Aanganwadis every week, one each day. It works for me- I am good for kids and kids are good for me.

As a warm up, their teacher asked the kids to sing a song for their "new mam". And this is the song they sang for me...

Chakki rani, chakki rani
Aatay ko pissayengay
Rotiayan banayengay
Bhaiyya ko khilaangay
Bhaiya parhnay jayengay
Afsar bankar ayengay!

(Water mill, grind the wheat so that I can make rotis, so that my brother can eat them and study and become an officer!)

I can't describe what went through me when I heard the song. I saw these seven lovely little girls (and one boy) singing about how their brothers need to eat, study and become officers. Not themselves, not their sisters, but their brothers! Of course they are too young to understand the song right now, but songs like these show how twisted our culture is. That this song makes no bones about who is really important in a family shows how unquestioned this chain of thought is.

But if this is what we sing, then this is how we will live. I didn't wait and immediately changed the song to...

Chakki rani, chakki rani
Aatay ko pissayengay
Rotiayan banayengay
Behna ko khilaangay
Behna parhnay jayegee
Afsar bankar ayegee!

(Water mill, grind the wheat so that I can make rotis, so that my sister can eat them and study and become an officer!)

Our song echoed in the mountains. It was beautiful.  

The Tale of Dry Cleaned Jacket!

After almost a year of living here, I finally felt the need for a dry cleaner- my black wool coat was a mess. So, I asked a friend for a nearby dry cleaner. Her response was cryptic- she asked what I wanted cleaned. When I told her it was a coat, she said "Ok, for your coat you can go to the dry cleaner opposite Sacred Heart. Don't go to him for sarees." I had never heard of such super specialization in dry cleaning but I didn't probe. Maybe I should have.

So the next day, I went looking for the dry cleaner who was OK for coats. It was a small hole-in-the-wall shop right opposite the most famous school in our area. There, I was greeted by a middle-aged man who smiled and bowed as I approached. His smile stayed put as I showed him my coat and asked for it to be dry-cleaned. This is how the conversation went.

Me: When can I pick it up?
Man (smiling): When do you want it?
Me: When can you have it ready?
Man (smiling): Tomorrow
Me: Tomorrow morning?
Man (smiling): Tomorrow evening.
Both smiled at each other.
Me: Will you give me some receipt?
Man (smiling even more): Nahin ji, koi zaroorat nahin. (There's no need for that)
Me (feeling uncertain): How much will it cost me?
Man (smiling ear to ear): Koi na. Le lenge ji. (No problem. We'll take what's right.)
Me (totally flummoxed, but disarmed by all that smiling): Ok, thank you.

I went back for the coat two days later and found a little girl at the shop. When I asked her for her father, she asked me to take a seat on a bench and wait for 10 minutes while her father finished his breakfast. I had stuff to do, so I left. I returned the next day and the same man greeted me with an even bigger smile and a reproach that I was late- "Kab se tayyar hai ji, tussi aye nahin". He took out my coat from a cupboard and quickly wrapped it in newspaper (no plastic bags in HP) and handed to me. I made the payment and came back home.

A couple of days later, on a bitterly cold morning, I took out my coat from the newspaper wrapping with the intent of wearing it and was shocked to see that it was no coat but a kind of poncho. I had been given someone's else's clothing! I went down to mom's room to tell her but could not- I was laughing so hard. When I finally managed to tell her, she said that the same shop had mixed up her jacket too just last week, but she had noticed it right there and got her jacket back.

So, I went back to the shop. This time I found a tough-looking woman at the counter. When I told her what had happened, she said "Oh, this belongs to an Angrez (foreigner). She had come for this shawl yesterday and I searched and searched and finally told her we didn't have it. When she insisted that it was in my shop, I told her that was impossible but why not she checks thoroughly at home while I do the same in my shop"! Feeling total empathy for the Angrez, I asked what  her reaction to that proposed solution was. The lady said "O maan gayi ji"! (She agreed!)

Now, came operation Search-for-this-non-Angrez's-Coat. A lot of hangers were moved here and there, a lot of jackets were brought to me, and after a lot of "Is this your coat?" "Is that your coat?", she finally found my coat and gave it to me.

This time I checked and made sure it was indeed my coat before it was wrapped in a newspaper. As a parting advice, I told the lady to start tagging clothes and giving out receipts. To that she said "It is not needed. I never make a mistake. I was sick so my husband took over the shop for a few days. It's he who creates these problems. You see, he is not right in his head."!!!