A SCOTCH FILLED GLASS.

The year end invariably drew a lot of friends and cousins at my house for a celebration bash like every year.My parents were gracious,accommodating hosts and they would enjoy the lovely fun filled night along with us from the sidelines.

Mansi would be seen hurrying around the market to take care of the snacks and dinner menu.Mom would cook the best chicken curry for everyone.Dad would take care of the spirits.He would comb the wine shop for the choicest liquor.

I trusted his judgment and experience for that. He was a seasoned host. I remember the parties held in our place when I was a kid, We used to be thanked profusely by the unwilling to depart guests.

As the guests swelled up, the corks would open and spirits would flow freely loosening the once stiff company. My young friends would instantly warm up to my parents and talk to them for hours together.Later they would lament about the absolute lack of communication with their own parents.My dad would come to know many secrets of my friends without my knowledge. He was an affectionate parent and moved on with the times.I considered him as a friend more than a father.

We would let dad have the first sip of scotch as a mark of respect and then after cheers, proceed to touch our glasses.He would ask us to go slow and easy.We would listen to his advice for a short time.As soon as he retired to his room,we would have a jingoistic blast.The dance and the laughter used to reverberate all around our hall.The music could be heard across the building street. My parents would hardly mind and sleep off peacefully oblivious to the cacophonic sound.

This year end though, I am in a sombre mood,I lost my dad a few months back.I have no plans of doing anything for the eve. My friends have tried to get me out of my depressive shell but I do not want anyone to come home.Me and my folks will have a quiet dinner at our dining table.

I will be keeping a scotch filled glass on the table for my dad.

My dad, Wherever you are, Cheers.

DHINKA CHIKA AND TEARS.

We all headed to the Shanmukhananda auditorium with eager anxious faces and palpable thrill of our beating hearts. Chaitra was slated to perform her dance today. It was a big day for her and the entire family. Prithvy was all smiles that day. Kids have a strange sense of intuition.He was pretty cool and confident of his elder sister's dancing skills.

The Winter Funk was a culmination of all the hard efforts taken by the kids for a month practising their steps and sequences. All the parents had arrived to cheer their kids. They were dazzling in their designer clothes, jewelry and perfumes. Some parents were belonging to the lower strata. Dance has no barriers.

All you need is two feet.At that moment, I thought so.

The show began with a spiritual song and soon disco beats reverberated all around the hall.'Dhinka Chika' saw Chaitra with her team dancing synchronously to win our hearts.We were seated on the front seat and Prithvy too danced in the aisles. We stood up and gave a standing ovation, clapping till our hands hurt.

She had no stage fright whatsoever,unafraid of performing before such a massive audience.

Later, the host invited all the parents to come on the stage to show their dancing skills.I took Prithvy on my shoulders and danced merrily.It was pure fun, so far.

After the interval, the curtains went up to present kids with special needs atop their wheel chairs.Some were on crutches and some on braces. The music began and they danced in their own styles, limited by their handicaps. I saw a phocomelic girl who had small arms like wings of a penguin.She was also dancing with gay abandon.The cheers were the loudest for them and everybody stood up,clapping to cheer them. The rhythm of their strong spirit easily overpowered their disabilities. Some were deaf too, but they could follow the steps. They swayed to the song.The dance organisation used to conduct workshops for kids with special needs and always would give them a platform to show their skills. It was a very humble and a pious thought for them.

Their parents could be made out easily by the tears in their eyes. They were the happiest and the proudest parents of all, Yet they cried. It was a poignant sight.A disabled kid brings an end to the ambitions of parents. Their whole life goes in care giving and rearing the child amidst social hurdles.Seeing them on a public platform warmed their sad hearts.

They could dance with their courage in their souls and strength of their spirit.


I silently saluted the special kids and their brave parents.

Meanwhile, Chaitra came from the backstage and hugged all of us.I hugged her with all my might, trying to hold back my tears.

HEADS HELD HIGH.

Last week, I got a call from my building friends to buy a cricket team for the tournament to be held in our complex. It was modelled like a premier league series. I readily agreed to buy a team as it would mean a lot to the enthusiastic kids. I always had sport genes in my blood. My team consisted mainly of small kids with a mean age of 18 years. I was the only odd 'man' in the team. We were in all 7 teams. I named my team as 'Vikings'. The banners and t shirts were designed for each of the teams. The DJ was called in with his big boom boxes. The neutral umpires and a commentator were arranged from outside. It was like a big festival. The kids were free for the week end and were running about in excitement. There were food stalls and gola counters too.

Our T shirt colour was red and our supporters swarmed the stands with a splash of red carrying placards of our team. Chaitra and her gang were the most vociferous supporters, They would also indulge in sledging the opposite team members! But everything was in good spirits and fun. I had no great hopes about my team but the kids gelled as a unit under my able guidance and won 5 out of 6 league matches. It was a heady feeling for me. We were on cloud 9! We were a rookie team and yet we reached the semi finals,topping the league stage. It was a praise worthy performance. The spectators were always rooting for us and this result gave them a new high.

I danced uninhibitedly to the tunes of the DJ and everybody danced in unison. My dancing Prithvy too, was dressed in red colours, he did not understand the significance of matches but used to clap when the ball used to come to me. Mansi and Our moms too supported us. After all , team pride was at stake. After fall of every wicket, I used to kiss Chaitra in the stands. It was all unabashed fun. My cousin Nirav and his family had specially come for the week end to cheer my team.

Chaitra is my die hard fan and expects me to win all the time. She is very attached to me and can never bear to see me lose. She frequently accompanies me during my tennis tournaments to cheer me up. She is my lucky mascot.

The semi finals began and my kids started feeling the jitters. They simply wilted under pressure and we lost the semi finals. I was cool with the outcome and took it sportingly. Reaching the semis was a stupendous task. I was happy for them. The kids were dejected though.

After the customary hand shakes, my eye scanned the stands to see Chaitra who was nowhere to be seen. I went home and saw her crying in Mansi's lap. Tears rolled down her chubby cheeks and she asked me, Papa! Why did your team lose? and resumed her wailing again.

I did not answer her question and I quietly reclined on the sofa.

I could have told her that I was out of touch with Cricket for last 20 years, I was ageing now, I am into professional tennis, I had been up since 6 am that day to attend to my hospital patients. I had millions of legit and valid excuses. I had no time for net practice either.

Mustering courage, I told her 'Chaitra! The other team played better'.

I cannot hide the truth and fool her. She has to face certain realities in life. I'm a doctor and my playing field is the hospital. I have to battle against illnesses and alleviate the sufferings of the patients, I was born for that. Those victories matter to me.

She got the drift of my talk and wiped her tears. She wished me better luck for next year.

We slowly retreated to our rooms with our heads held high.

A COLD WINTER NIGHT.

It was a cold dark night.
In the early 80s, pre global warming era, It used to be real cold in the winters. The slit eyed people would sell their woollen wear on the streets in bright colors. You could actually see people wearing sweaters then.
I used to dread the winters as they used to trigger attacks of Asthma in my younger brother.
My brother Vinay too used to fear the dry cold winds blowing through my bed room window. My town had not yet modernized. There used to be real lonely nights after 10 pm when the streets were empty and deserted.
A silence pervaded our senses. Then the wheezing spells would begin. They would shatter my inner silence. All through the night I would sit besides him and massage his chest with Vicks balm hoping to cure him of his attack.
I felt so helpless then.
If there would be no respite, I would run to our family doctor in the dark of the night. The chasing mongrel dogs would impart a god speed to my feet. My doctor was a bespectacled marwari guy in his 40s with silver hair and a grey moustache. He was a very kind person unlike the doctors today. He would immediately change and come to my house on a scooter with me as a pillion rider carrying his bag. After administering drug shots, he would wait patiently till the asthma attack subsided. My mom would make coffee for him. He would leave after collecting a paltry sum as his visit fees.
At times, my brother would just turn blue and we had to take him to a hospital. There were no rickshaws or taxis in our small town. I used to carry him on my shoulders to the hospital which was about 2 kms away from my place. These attacks of asthma continued till the age of 16 years. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could not bear to see my brother suffer. The seeds of becoming a doctor germinated when I was a young kid.
I could not bear to see the uncertainty, anxiety and fear on the faces of my parents. I had already made up my mind to become a doctor.

Now after so many decades, My shoulders still hurt, I carry the huge burden of expectations of my patients, their relatives and my family. My first job is to reassure them. Treatment then usually works better. A healthy discussion allays all their anxieties and fears.I have to balance my professional and family life. It is like walking a tight rope.

It is 3 am and my cell phone rings, I'm down with viral fever and my body hurts like anything. The patient on the line is having chest pain. My shoulders still aching, I drive down to my hospital, fresh as a daisy. I usually reach before the arrival of the patient.
My nocturnal street dogs, accustomed to my car, do not bother to chase me.

Recently, I had gone to my old town for some work. I saw a familiar face in the crowd. It was my family doctor. He had aged considerably. I thanked him for all the kindness and for the visits he made to my place during our childhood. He had taught me the first lesson of medicine, kindness.

I folded my hands and touched his pious feet. I expressed my gratitude.

Sometimes during cold winter nights, I reminisce about old times and lay on the bed with moist eyes.

HANDS FREE...

It was a few days back when I was lazing on my sofa with a smart phone in my right hand and the left hand under my pillow. This was my usual FB posture. The right hand was always occupied either commenting on irrelevant updates or updating unnecessary statuses.

My toddler son was just playing around me and I was giving him partial attention. A small puddle of spilt water grabbed my eyeballs for a brief time. The very next instant, Prithvy slipped on it and landed on his soft diaper shielded bums. There was no injury but after a transient whimpering, he resumed his running about. This incident was relatively a minor one in significance but drastically changed my thinking in life.

I had unlimited and unrestricted access to the net. There was Wi-Fi and my laptop too had a net connection. To top it up, my phone also had internet. The magnetic rays of net were all around me. I had no escape route. They followed me everywhere and I succumbed to them. I became a perpetual net surfer. FB and the net came to occupy a part of my anyways busy life.

It was as if my life was under electronic surveillance 24/7. I was living my life for others. What they would comment on my activities and photos became more important to me than the primary activity itself. It was a sad plight. I had sacrificed simple pleasures of my family life while living the digital fake life.
A pseudo life was not worthy of living.

The all pervading concern was superficial.
Everybody was busy in their own quagmire of lives to bother about our life.
The plastic smiles and the crocodile tears had to stop at one point.

I made the best decision of my life a few weeks back.
My phone has no net now, The Wi Fi box was set free of all the connections and kept aside, later disposed off by my son who just flung it outside our window. The impact shattered the plastic box.
The impact shattered the plastic smiles for good.
I only use the laptop now, for writing my blogs.
My wife is indeed happy nowadays.
Her face beams with a contented smile.

C'mon! My son Prithvy! Hug me now.

My hands are free now!

THE FENCE AND THE CLOUDS.

The Officer's Club was located at the heart of our small town. It was an elitist sports centre with facilities for Tennis, Table Tennis and Badminton. The club was off limits for common people like us at those times. The admission was only given to high ranking officers who played there without a care in the world. The government cared for those who ran the system. All around the club were lush green trees on the side walk where people used to go for their morning strolls. The whiff of leafy fresh air would enter the lungs and refresh the walkers. Some old people would sit on the concrete benches and reminisce about good old days.

My father was a committed morning walker and would be up early at 6am to begin his walks. A pair of soft brown canvas shoes and a sweater at times were his usual companions. During vacations, I would join him at times. I would just go to the tennis court and peek through the fence to look at the game.I would imitate the players with an imaginary racquet! I was aware of the fact that this game would be out of reach for me.

We as kids would play Badminton and Cricket in our building compound, happily. We had to.

Times change. We moved from Thane to Mulund. I became a consultant physician, MD.

I began playing the elite sport of Tennis since the last 5 years. My family would often come to the courts to see me play. My daughter would cheer me from the stands imploring me to beat the opponents. My dad never saw me play. He was busy looking after his health. He could not be persuaded to see me play. It was a couple of years back when I won a state level trophy. My parents were in USA and were overjoyed to see my photos splashed all over the news papers. When I received them at the airport, A brand new racquet was gifted to me by my Dad. He had scourged the malls in Miami to search a racquet for me. Such a sweet gesture!

Last year, I played an open tournament in the Officer's Club. I reached the quarterfinals and my coach and my family were glad that I could play well amongst professional players. The Club took notice of my game and immediately extended an invitation for me to join the club.

I was on cloud nine, Life had turned a full circle for me.

I play in this club and entertain the players with my game and antics. Some players actually stay back to watch me play!

I gaze at the fence and see myself peeking through it as a small child.

Tears fill my hollow eyes.

When I finish my play and traverse through the side walk filled with young and elderly people strolling about, I try very hard to see my Dad in his soft brown canvas shoes.

I sadly realise and wonder about his whereabouts in heaven.

I look at the clouds and wave at them.

My dad at last, is seeing me play.

HURRICANE

The neatly stacked pile of shirts is in a disarray. My laundry guy is amazed at the amount of the same shirts being sent for re ironing again,he does not complain though. The shirts on the floor are picked up by the maid grudgingly.

There is talcum powder scattered all over my ebony wood floor where you can just skate with your bare feet, The soles are perfumed and the socks too feel pampered.

The I pods lie in different rooms severed from their docks. They are longing to be re attached again and resume their music. The CDs too are away from their cases, some have been scratched beyond recognition so as to be played by any player in the world. The wires connecting my theater system are pulled out of their sockets. The remotes lack crucial buttons and batteries too.

The crumbs of bread and biscuits stick to your floor as you step out of my room. Toys frequently hit your feet. A milky spill adheres like glue to your powdered feet. It slows your walking pace. A few utensils and spoons lie on the floor. They are banged at will and bear marks on them. The pillows on the sofa are over here and there.

My books which were so neatly covered with plastic are carefully stripped down. The plastic flies about making a rustling sound. Some books on the lower shelves have their pages missing too. A comic book lies on the floor which looks tired after a tough journey through a shredding machine. There is chaos everywhere.

Our watchmen frequently retrieve the toys which have been flung out from our home. They are a worried lot as objects gain momentum when thrown from a height. Their stiff caps may not be able to protect them from this onslaught.

We are the innocent victims of a Hurricane attack.

It occurs daily in our house.

Its called Hurricane Prithvy! My naughty son. He leaves a trail of destruction wherever he goes and smiles after his acts. We too smile and hope that someday he will understand.

I will have to stop typing urgently as he is pulling the laptop away from me......

Over and Out! Transmission Lost! SOS SOS HELP US!

THE GRAZED KNEES.

The balcony wall in our old house bears the marks of our knees.
As kids, we used to hang around a lot in the balcony standing on our toes with our knees firmly abutted against the wall. Be it watching the children play or gazing at the pretty girls in our neighbourhood, our balcony view never failed us.It was like a bird's eye view.
We anxiously used to await the arrival of our parents from their jobs every evening. This was very painful as we were of the opinion that they should stop working and stay at home,all the time with us.
During Diwali, the wait would get exciting as we would see our dad ambling towards home with a box of fire crackers in his hands.We would start yelling at his sight with joy and rush down to welcome him and the cracker box. This wait was worth its weight in gold.

After careful segregation and division of the crackers, Me and my brother would have a blast bursting the crackers.My dad would always supervise with his hawk eyes and help us at times with the bombs. His eyes would sparkle with joy seeing us in such a happy state. We would finish the crackers in no time and look expectantly at him for more. He always replenished our stocks. He charged our lives. He recharged our lives.

The life cycle goes on.

My kids also eagerly wait for me now, and scream with glee when they see me arrive home. Chaitra loves mild noiseless crackers but Prithvy is not afraid of noisy ones.

This Diwali is the first one without my dad.

We are in mourning and do not feel like celebrating at all. Chaitra asked innocently for sparklers and I refused her breaking her little heart.She later understood the reason behind my refusal. She did not ask again but she contentedly,watches the firework display in the building from our balcony. A child has a very tough time suppressing her desires and wishes. I am proud of her maturity at such a tender age.
This Diwali was without any sweets or lamps for us.
As per as tradition, near and dear relatives come over with sweets for us grieving folks. Mansi's aunt got a small sparkler box for her. She lit them at Mansi's clinic during Laxmi Pooja.
My eyes were sparkling and I remembered my dad's eyes. Our happiness lies in our children.

I still wait at my balcony, patiently for my dad to come home. He will never even if I graze my knees waiting for him.

Prithvy points heavenwards with his index finger when I ask him about my dad's whereabouts and Chaitra wipes my moist eyes and takes me to my room.

TEARS- NOW AND THEN.

When we were small kids, we had to undergo the religious rite of mundan ceremony. The near and dear relatives had gathered around. Me and my brother were pretty anxious and sad about losing our silky curly hair. The barber came with his rusty razor and began shaving our delicate pates. A few nicks were promptly rubbed with alum. The entire procedure left us in tears. After the mundan, a big black umbrella was kept open over us and sweetmeats were showered on the umbrella. Our cousins ran around to grab the bouncing sweets. They looked happy. A major event in our childhood was celebrated with much fanfare. But, we were sulky. We later cried in my mother's arms.

The big black umbrella was used by my dad during the rains. It was majestic and quiet sturdy. We were covered and protected from the rains under its giant canopy. My dad was also like an umbrella always protecting us from the harsh realities of life. He made us resistant and strong. We would always rely on him.
He never failed us.
He was like our invisible shield.

Last month, He failed us. He left for the heavens.

On the 10th day, We underwent the customary head shaving rite amidst misery and sadness. This time too, We brothers sulked.

We went home and cried in my mother's arms.
The rain drops hide our tears,
We have lost our only sheltering umbrella.
In the cloudy night sky, A bright star twinkles at me, I know It's my Dad.

THE MAN AT THE BUS STOP.

It was a hot humid evening that summer, last year when I was seated comfortably in the rear seat of my chauffeur driven car. My dad used to go out for evening strolls and after an hour of slow walk used to amble home to play with my kids. Mansi also used to leave the house at the same time for her clinic. Our cars used to leave the building one after another.

We used to encounter a bus stop on the way. That day while speeding along, I saw a vaguely familiar person who was in his late sixties, bespectacled and wearing a crisp white shirt atop a grey trouser. My car screeched to a halt and I rushed out to confront my dad. I was amazed, despite 2 chauffeur driven cars around at his beck and call, he chose to travel by bus to a nearby mall.
He simply did not want to trouble us around that evening time of practice.

My dad had a passion for wearing T Shirts. He wore them with pride and they made him look so fit and young. His face used to beam with a smile. Whenever I travelled abroad, I used to get a Tshirt for him unfailingly. I used to buy the best designer brands for him. My dad had a struggle filled life and he deserved the best in the world. I used to brag about the designer label tag to him. The label gave identity and dignity to the fabric. I believed so. He had a scissor which he used to snip off the tags as they used to hurt his neck.
I was always upset with him for this but he used to casually shrug his shoulders and walk off. The brands and the tags never mattered to him.

The wine bar at my place teems with the most exotic and desired scotch whiskies in the world. My brother, friends and my foreign trips have filled the bar flush. My dad was an avid fan of whisky and we used to have parties at my place when we would have drinks with him. His glass would be always filled with Indian whisky. No amount of persuasion would make him change his mind. He used to assert that he drank what he liked. The Indian whisky was effective as it used to cheer up my dad and lighten the atmosphere. My CD player emitted Raj Kapoor songs, hummed along made the atmosphere Utopian at times. We would all float in happiness.

My dad was a self made, disciplined, selfless man.
He always sought our comfort. He lived for us.
I see the bus stop and pass along wiping my moist eyes.

THE OSTRICH EFFECT.

It was many years back when I was driving down a narrow alley and a car began honking from behind asking for a way. The alley was jam packed with hand carts and hawkers flanking on both the sides. I had no space to let the other car get ahead of me. The honking continued incessantly. As I reached the end of the alley, the car occupants rushed up to me in fury and told me to roll down my windows.They looked like political goons, They started abusing me in their choicest expletives regardless of my unintentional obstruction of their car.I started trembling from inside and immediately, without a word sped from the discomfort zone. Their point being proven, made their chests swell in pride. Swaggeringly, they sat in their car. My soul was exceedingly suffocated. I could have retaliated and matched their abuses word for word but I chose to exercise self control and kept quiet. Silence at times, gives you peace.

I avoid confrontations and baseless arguments. I withdraw into myself and totally become oblivious to the ongoing bitter conversation.I try to recollect my favorite song of the day and silently hum amidst the fracas, or I recollect the better times spent with that person and smile from within, Nobody knows this secret methodology of mine. The person who may end up with a hoarse voice after the senseless berating will never get any response from me.I have retreated in my shell. The harsh words begin bouncing off the shell. The vocal cords soon get tired and ease off, The displaced anger also soon calms off and sanity prevails. I, then come out of my shell and try to communicate with the person.

In my life, Unfortunately, I encounter unpleasant people and situations all the time.

The ostrich is a tall bird which can sense danger at great distances in view of its height and big eyes.It immediately curls up into a ball like structure and it looks like as if it has buried its head in the sand. The predator fails to notice it as it just looks like a small lumpy sand dune from a distance. It just walks on by.

I also bury my head like the ostrich to save me from such aggressive hostile people and unpleasant situations in life. I do not have the time, courage and willpower to bang my head on walls.

The winds of discomfort blow over and I feel free all over again.

WHY ARE WE?

It was a Sunday that day and early morning when I zipped off in my car to take rounds in the hospital, Chaitra usually used to accompany me on holidays to the rounds.
The traffic was sparse and I casually jumped a red signal at a crossing. After a few seconds I saw a traffic cop in my rear view mirror, hot on his heels, atop a bullet bike. I slowed down and parked the car. He started berating me for breaking the signal and lamented about my negligent attitude.His mocking behavior shocked Chaitra who could not understand the ensuing argument between us. She started crying.
Children are taught to be scared of cops and they usually panic when their dear ones are being interrogated by them. She was no exception.
Normally, a doctor is leniently let off by them but this cop was adamant and was venting out all his repressed anger on me. I was trying to gain his sympathy by constantly pleading and asking for forgiveness.
He demanded to see my driving licence.
I scanned my wallet but it was not there, I had kept it in my wife's car!
His eyes beamed with further vengeance but a wry smile appeared on his face.
I got the message and curtly handed him a 100 rupee note.He was happy now and all the venom had been diluted with this gesture of mine.
I was immediately let off with a stern warning not to break traffic rules in the future.
Chaitra was a mute spectator to this whole ruckus and kept quiet all the time in the car.
As we reached home, she just asked me one question.
'AjjuPapa' Why did you pay money to the cop?
I had no immediate answer but that question rattled me and shook the earth beneath my feet.
An innocent child saw a seemingly normal day to day act but thought of it as a wrong one.
I had failed my daughter that day.
I vowed to make amends.
I always blamed and everyone for rampant corruption in our country.
The weeds of corruption were watered by people like me.
The donors were equally responsible as the recepients.
Guilt pervaded my soul.
I now wait patiently at all the red signals, even in the dead of the night.
My little child could bring about a much needed change in me.
Such small changes in every person will definitely make this world, a better one.
Children communicate with your soul. They never lie. They are never afraid of the truth.
Why are we?

STIFF UPPER LIPS.

We often take our son Prithvy to restaurants for week end dinners.
He is 17 months old and has recently developed a penchant for literally running amok. He waddles normally while walking but as soon as he runs, our hearts begin to flutter as he is yet to achieve his balance. We run behind him to protect him from falls.
Whenever we are at a fancy restaurant, he won't be seated for long in his seat.He will pester me for taking him on an indoor stroll inside the restaurant.
He will carefully stop at each and every table and offer his smile. The patrons usually pinch his cheeks and smile back at him, often asking me about his name. A cursory polite conversation begins and often I end up giving my visiting card to them. Many people click his snaps to keep them in their pleasant memories. Prithvy obliges them, often cackling with laughter. Not even the hotel manager of the hotel would match his concern.
Last month we were at a temple, All the devotees were sitting on the floor praying fervently for their wishes. Prithvy surveyed the whole lot and roamed about, sitting in laps of people whom he liked. It was a random act but he gladdened everyone who smiled back at him.
Mansi asked me one day,
When would he learn to sit at his table? When would he stop running around in circles in the restaurant? When would he stop smiling at strangers?
I said that it was a short matter of time before he began to develop his social etiquette and emotional intelligence, worldly wise manners!
I wondered about our stiff upper lips.
We, as adults would never behave like him, smiling at strangers and mixing with them freely without a care in the world.
We always judge people.
We always suspect people and their motives.
We never trust our loved ones. We always doubt their actions even if they are good.
We have our own reasons and experiences too.
Sometimes, I wish we never grew up.
The world would not be such a paranoid one, then.


I

F.R.I.E.N.D.S. 2011.

2011- It was around 10 pm in the evening when my mom called me, worried, saying that my dad had stopped eating mid meal and was just fidgeting with a bolus of rice in his hands. He had become incoherent too. I rushed immediately from my opd and also told my mom to call my friend Gopal who stays close to my house. By the time I reached, Gopal was trying to balance and wake up my dad who had lost his postural tone and looked like falling on one side. I went to his room and checked his sugars which were alarmingly low. Hypoglycemia had set in rapidly. Soon, he just became comatose and unresponsive. Panic set in. I immediately made a glucose solution but my dad was not in a position to swallow. We decided to shift him as fast as possible to a nearby hospital. Waiting for an ambulance would mean further waste of time and increase the chances of brain damage. We just lifted the chair with my dad on it, somehow huffing and puffing reached the basement and my dad slept on Gopal's lap in the back seat of my car.
my dad's breathing became laborious and Gopal started sobbing uncontrollably. I didn't pay any attention and drove as fast as I could breaking every signal in sight.
As we reached the hospital, dad had become cold and clammy and not a single vein was visible in sight for cannulation. My team of doctors tried in vain to secure an IV access but to no avail. Gopal who had worked in Pediatrics immediately found a vein in the leg and started IV dextrose on him. As the drops fell from the bottle, a glimmer of hope kindled in me. After 200 ml of the dextrose, My dad regained consciousness. He calmly asked about his whereabouts. We were mightily relieved and I just hugged Gopal and cried.
He saved my dad that day.

Gopal had actually trained under me for 5 years and done me proud that day. He runs a clinic and does his practice in a calm and composed manner.

During my dad's hospitalisations, he used to stay overnight at times to relieve me. He is a real selfless friend and has always supported me and my family in times of crisis.

He even designed and printed Prithvy's birthday cards for his party. Everybody liked the cards and kept them as souvenirs. He is an organizer who can arrange people at the drop of a hat.

Cometh the moment, Cometh the man.
I go abroad at times knowing very well that my parents will be taken care of by him, in case of any problem.

He is my best friend and probably a brother in my last birth.

I'm blessed and fortunate to have a friend like him.

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

It was the summer of 1984 when my dad had a fall from our terrace and sustained multiple fractures in his right lower limb. After a month of care and multiple surgeries in a hospital, the difficult part of rehabilitation began. My mom, a physiotherapist was an asset to him for recovery.
Mr Kumar was a childhood friend of my dad who was a huge 6 feet tall giant, weighing about 300 pounds but with a child like heart. He loved my dad a lot. After his job hours, he used to rush to our place on a bullet bike to help mobilise my dad who was incidentally heavy too, those days. He used to physically lift my dad up to the terrace and help him walk with a crutches and then a walker. After a period of intensive exercise for a period of 2 months, My dad walked again without even a stick for support. I thanked Mr kumar from the bottom of my heart. Had it not been for his dedicated efforts, My dad would have never walked again.

He shifted his base to his native town laced with sugarcane fields. We used to go at times to spend our vacations there. At mornings, he used to jump on us kids and intentionally fall upon us to crush us to an awakening. We all used to laugh and tickle him to get him off our meek frames. He was an excellent cook too and personally used to supervise the proceedings in the kitchen at times. His appetite was awesome. His belly was like a big pot, filled only with love for everyone.

As time elapsed, We grew, Our families drifted apart and a solitary phone kept the relation alive. A few years back, Mr Kumar succumbed to Diabetes and Heart disease in his native town. I cried, along with my dad. My dad rushed for his rites. He had lost his childhood friend, a true friend who had stood by him in his adverse times. A gem of a friend.

I'm also blessed with friends who have cared for and supported me in my tough times. They have kept me alive and kicking in my bad times.
My dad was relieved of the crutches by his friend.

My friends are the crutches who support me in every walk of life.

THE WAILERS

It was a cold evening that day.
The mourners had gathered in their pristine crisp whites.
An air conditioned hall was booked for the event, Everything was arranged well. The liveried butlers with their aluminium trays of water glasses. The brown china clay mugs with the steaming flavoured tea and coffee for the high class mourners.
A stage was adorned with a mike and a few musical instruments, Soon the wailers came and assembled themselves on the stage.
A few obituaries were read about the deceased person whose garlanded frame was placed on a table atop the stage. A few incense sticks were slowly fuming, giving out a floral fragrance.
The wailers soon started playing sad songs which accentuated the glum mood of the hall. A few tears from the front seated row brought out more despair from the lead singer. The lead was empathising with them and probably sharing their grief,a stray tear drop welling in her kohl lined eyes. A sombre mood could not stop the mourners, seated in the back rows from stealthily conversing amongst themselves.
After an hour or so, the sad songs stopped playing and the wailers started packing their bags.
A few concerned condolences with the near ones brought the proceedings to an end.
As I was walking down the stairs away from the hall, I eaves dropped casually on the wailer group. They were hastily counting the notes and looked in a hurry to reach else where.
They were about to perform at a pre nuptial henna function. They would sing songs of joy and dance with the crowd of revellers. All the sadness would be left behind.
The mourners would also follow the same patterned behaviour.
We all really live in a make believe artificial world.
When I die, I do not want any ceremonisation of my death.
Don't call a band of wailers to falsely empathise with my near and dear ones.
Let me die in a dignified manner.
Let me rest silently in contented peace.

RANI TOH PAPA NI.

We have a small wall in our hall which serves as a post for our hand ball goal save sessions. Chaitra is the usual goal keeper and I sit or laze on the sofa throwing balls at the wall, the saves are often acrobatic by an agile Chaitra. She has cheer leaders, cheering her to save the ball. Prithvy keeps on running amok in these goal saving sessions. Mummy and Mansi are the spectators and cheer leaders, who are often busy doing some other work amidst our game.
If a goal is scored by me, Chaitra reacts by hurling the ball at me at high speeds, often the ball loses direction and hits the ceiling fan or our tv screen. As soon as I see a smile disappear from her face, I start throwing the ball in a simple manner so as to give her a chance to save the goals. She wins and often comes and hugs me. She is happy and satisfied, rushes to her room to catch up on her homework with a smile beaming from her face.

When I was a kid, my brother used to sit on my lap and we used to play the game of counting cars on the road. We used to stay at my nani's place in Ghatkopar on LBS road way back in the early 80's. The left direction was towards Thane (Down) and the right direction was towards Bombay (Up). The traffic direction was up in the morning and down in the evening. Depending on the time of the day I used to select the direction of least traffic.My brother could count only upto 25 and he used to beat me hands down in this game. He used to giggle and dance around, saying that he always used to beat me in this game. The happiness was evident on his face. I pretended to sulk but I was contented from within.

In Cricket too, I used to let him win often dropping catches and missing the ball so as to hit my stumps. Joy is in giving Joy to others.

A few months back, My dad and me played a challenge match of carrom. My brother and my friends were all rooting for my dad, cheering him 'rani toh papa ni'! a dialogue from munnabhai series, He, despite his age and tremulous hands beat me hollow. I accepted defeat gracefully. This time, I had tried to win and not lose. We were playing after a long time but his age and experience got the better of me. My feelings were mixed but yet, I was happy to lose to my dad. He did not favour me as I was no longer a small child who needed encouragement.
A few days later, Chaitra came up to me bragging that she had beaten my dad in carrom!

I have been competitive in all the walks of life.
When it comes to my loved ones, I love losing.
Their smiles make me happy.
Their laughter echoes in my heart.

THE STRAWBERRY FACE READER.

A few months back, I had gone to Mahabaleshwar with my family for a short vacation. The weather was god sent and the kids were really happy. Chaitra wanted to see a strawberry farm very badly and we readily complied to her request. She took a small note book and a pen to record her observations. After her tour, we cooled ourselves with a strawberry milk shake and headed towards our car.

A small bespectacled man in a white dhoti and kurta with a cream boat shaped cap slanting on his pate, of about mid forties greeted me and Mansi in a respectable manner. I initially ignored him as I always do. I am a man of privacy and never smile, leave aside converse with strangers. I have a paranoia of communicating with unknown people. But as we were sitting in the car, he casually mentioned that our marriage was inter caste. I was shocked to hear that from a totally unknown stranger. No doubt, Mansi looks Gujju, but people think of me as a Gujju too. We got down from the car and asked him the reason for this statement. He told us about his profession, he was a face reader and people like him were dime a dozen in this small tourist town.

A small 50 rupee note would help him tide the day, seeing his obvious need for money, we gave him the money and listened to his jargon for about 15 minutes.

The face reader or any astrologer, palmist for the matter have a knack of enticing you, They will warble some things about the past and build hopes for a rosy future. The present phase being a struggle filled one also convinces us gullible folks about their authenticity. They will give you a small talisman and recite some mantras for your well being. We did not have the courage to break his heart. We took blessings from him and headed to our hotel.

Destiny cannot be changed and is an immutable law of the universe. Insecurities get a breather when we resort to astrology, In medicine,we call it the 'placebo' effect.

Atleast, someone was wishing well for us for a paltry sum of 5o rupees.

I am a keen observer of people and patients in general, Their body habitus and mannerisms never fail to evade my hawk like eyes. The face reader had puffy eyes with a strawberry tinge on his cheeks and swelling of his feet, the chappals were a size tight for him. His arms were slender compared to his bloated abdomen. He had few prominent capillaries in his neck. He looked ghostly pale and had a fine tremor in his clubbed hands. His eyes were desperate to earn money that day.

On the way back,I told Mansi that the face reader would not survive beyond 3 months. I wish I had the guts to tell the face reader the same but sanity prevailed and I kept my mouth shut. Some bad unpleasant things in life are better kept to oneself.

Atleast, I had told him to take care while leaving and probably he understood what I meant by the fearful look in his eyes.

Last month when we went to the strawberry farm, we encountered a different face reader, Mansi asked him about the bespectacled face reader with the cream cap.

He told us sadly that he just passed away last week after a protracted period of hospitalisation.

He had fallen prey to alcohol liver disease.

I had picked up all the signs while listening to him, a few months back.

We returned sadly from the strawberry farm.

I did not have a strawberry milk shake that day.

QUARANTINE

I kiss my children in the morning as soon as I wake up. They are in a blissful state of sleep but a smile erupts on their faces as soon as I kiss them. They know that their dad is around. During the night also, they will just keep on loitering in the bed till I reach home. Once I enter the house, they will sleep, reassured. The mere hint of my presence allays their fears and insecurities.

Mom is their unabashed favourite, they make no bones about this fact and frequently are partial towards her. She gets to spend a lot of time with them due to her semi retired status of practice. She just goes for her evening clinic when Prithvy is busy playing in the garden and Chaitra is busy with her tuitions.

Last 7 days were the toughest days of my life as Mansi abolished all my physical contact with the kids. I was shocked and worried. I could not hug or kiss them. I could not carry Prithvy in my arms and dance with him. I have a very special way of kissing Prithvy, I just plant my lips on his cherry red cheeks for a period of 10 minutes, continuously! 'Status Kissicus'! He enjoys close proximity and is happy when I stick to him. He never reciprocates a kiss. Attitude! I kiss Chaitra on her forehead every time I see her. She hugs me when she wakes up.

The final nail in the coffin stuck when Mansi pushed me out of our room in the night. I slept in the bed room, away from their room. I was close to tears. My children too wore anxious faces. They were baffled by my sudden distance.

My viral fever with the coughs and sneezes was in the highly transmissible stage and Mansi, like most of the mothers do instinctively was protecting her children.We can suffer but the kids have to be alright, all the time. That is top priority. We pray to God to transfer their problems to us. When the kids are down with fever, the entire house bears a worried look. The viruses in me were thus separated from the kids. I survived this ordeal and recovered soon to hug my kids again.

My Quarantine phase was over.

As I lay myself alone in the other room, I began to think.

The gulf had a lot of immigrant Indian population, working under the hot Sun all the time, all alone leaving their estranged families, back home in their native town. A solitary vacation in a couple of years would bring about cheer and the immigrant would be lovingly received by his wife and children at the airport with wet eyes. It was a bilateral sacrifice, the hurt was on both the sides, the longing for financially healthy family would propel these immigrants to work with all their might. No doubt, the nights would be long and be with a heavy heart.

I began to wonder about the kids who had lost their father, either naturally or accidentally or any god forsaken cause. How would they cope up?

Their stoic mothers would lead their lives to progress by living the dual role. The kids would crowd around their mother and ask her, a million times,

When will Daddy come home?

The heavens felt like a cold, desolate Quarantine......

VIVA LAS VEGAS.

I had told my younger brother,Vinay not to make any plans for me on my trip to San Diego last week. He had endured a 8 hour flight all the way from Miami to San Diego just to see me. At a short notice, he could manage only 4 days leave out of which 2 days would go in travelling.

As I entered the chic hotel Marriot La Jolla, Ajju! a familiar voice greeted me. I immediately hugged my brother and kissed his cheeks. The bags were transferred to his car, a rented Audi-5 series, sex on wheels. We went to the Sheraton where he had booked a plush room for us. We exchanged the gifts and over Glenfiddich, discussed about our families. It was 1 am and he was pretty tired, I had in fact enjoyed my 30 hour journey from Mumbai-Dubai-San Francisco to San Diego. I wasn't tired at all. I was oblivious to jet lag! Maybe, the scotch had worked right for me during the travel.
I told Vinay that sleep well, We are going to Las Vegas tomorrow! He was amused and surprised at my energy levels. I'm a cribber traveller and need rest all the time. Las Vegas beckoned me!

We woke up at 5am, I hardly slept in excitement. We began our road trip, It would take 5 hours to reach Vegas, the only known and existing heaven on our planet earth.

The uninhabitable city was overinhabitated, We, overinhibited folks were venturing into the land of complete uninhibition.

Amidst the mist laden mountains of South California, our car sped on the asphalt as if it had wings. The heat appeared as we reached Nevada desert and soon we were in Las Vegas.
Vegas in daytime appears like a normal town but at the stroke of sunset, the entire town comes to life on its own like a shimmering neon city.

We rested for a while and began our sojourn onto the fabled streets of heaven. We parked our car and like excited kids in a toy land, began exploring the city.

The lights dazzled us. The music was around everywhere and we would walk into songs. It was a trance like effect. I think every night in Vegas was like our Diwali. We saw the Eiffel Tower, Giza pyramid and Disneyland themed hotels with awe and a sense of euphoria.

Cirque du Soleil-Zumanity, a sensual show celebrating love, was applauded by us till no end. The music, visual effects, acrobatics and of course the topless babes drove us crazy. The audience gave a standing ovation and clapped till their hands hurt. I ogled. The show was world class and I was privileged to see it.

We hurried to Venetia, a Venice themed hotel with Gondolas and other crazy stuff to catch the Blue Man Group show. I had seen them so far only on DVDs and badly wanted to see a live show. My brother dragged me as I was almost half asleep on the street. Sleep can drive you mad and I was reaching that point of no return. I even missed the adjacent musical Bellagio fountains in that state. As we entered, I slumped on the seat and soon the joy ride began. The audience, young or old were dancing to their beats. I shook myself awake and danced making whooping sounds with trademark Mumbai whistles. It was manna from heaven and we were indeed blessed to view this spectacular show in Vegas. After the show, I hugged the lead person of the group and Vinay clicked me right on. I was on cloud 9.

It was nearing midnight now, after a quick bite, we booked a Limo, a stretch Limo! to go to the night club. I slept like a king in the limo, much to the chagrin of the driver.The heavy weight gunned ushers respectfully welcomed us to the club and then the night began.

The night club was like an oasis in the desert, it was like a mirage.... a dream come true.... The awesome show girls .

I can't describe further, 'cos 'what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.......'

At 6 am, we reached our hotel and crashed on our beds. I remember waking at 12 noon with a real big swollen head, migraine and selective amnesia for the whole night. I was reliving the Hangover movie!

We skipped the Grand Canyon and packed our bags to leave for San Diego at 2 pm. While returning the mood was sombre and I felt like a kid leaving Disneyland..

Next day, Vinay left for Miami, I thanked him for the trip and as he was leaving in his car, I hugged him and cried.

It was not Vegas but it was my brother's company that I enjoyed the most. I had brought him up with love and care ever since he was a toddler. I was attached to him and not Vegas. I would probably meet him after a year or so and that caused tremendous pain and anguish. We always want our near and dear ones to be around us all the time.

The rest of the trip in US, including Hollywood and Beverly Hills was just a formality.

I was homesick and badly missed my folks at home.

The overcast skies greeted me, The rush at the luggage carousel belt due to lack of trolleys and the pot bellied porters with the paan chewing cops smiled at me.

It was a letdown, a beautiful letdown. Vegas was a distant fading memory.

I had reached my sweet home town.

SUPERMAN.

The Hollywood' sign loomed large across the street cradled amidst the dull grey brown mountains. We were ambling on the 'Walk Of Fame' a side walk laden with metal stars,each one commemorating the larger than life contributors to the American Film Industry.

I saw him in a corner, puffing a cigarette, beaming a smile beckoning me to take a photograph with him for a paltry sum of a dollar. His eyes pleaded.

Many people dressed as superheroes of Hollywood roamed around this side walk hunting for tourists to partake a dollar for a photo with them. There was Batman, Spiderman, Jack Sparrow and Darth Vader to name a few. They looked remarkably similar to the original heroes.

Superman, after finishing his cigarette came up to me to grab his share of a dollar for a photo with him.He had worn goggles to hide his red eyes, the cape was frayed at the edges and the costume looked weather beaten.The tight costume obviously made him itchy and dis comfortable but he still smiled at me.

I asked him about this strange job and he poured me his story, He had come long time back to Hollywood to work as an extra in the films. With luck, he even managed a role in a crowd in a movie scene. He made a cardinal mistake of looking at the camera and was promptly kicked out of the set.An official membership in the extra actors' association was beyond his reach and he chased his dreams on the sidewalk.

He used to work as a receptionist in a seedy motel where the frequent brawls never let him sleep peacefully in the night.

He earned a paltry sum hence was forced to work on the sidewalk in the day time. Hunger and Thirst drive a man everywhere. Also, the Superman costume gave him an aura of invincibility to help him cope with his daily struggle in life.

I offered him a 10 dollar note out of compassion.

He bluntly refused and just asked for his rightful share of a dollar.

His dignity and pride were still intact. I was deeply touched.

A 'superman' like effort is required to refuse help despite being in need.

The man in the red and blue robe was made of flesh and bones

His steely resolve was indeed, Kryptonian.

He was fighting each and every day like a true Superman.

As I walked across, I came across the star sign of Christopher Reeve. He had spent his last few years in a quadriplegic state, confined to a wheel chair and a breathing apparatus. He had really made the superhero popular in the movies.

I paused for a moment, laid a small flower on his sign.

I wiped my tears, and walked on.

FORMIC ACID.

The army was marching in gay abandon. The foot soldiers were carrying their necessary rations in an orderly line. They would then stock it up in their secret bunkers. A small sugar crystal, a small bit of a leaf and a teeny weeny food morsel were enough for them to survive for days. Some heavy ration was carried in groups. They all looked happy.
We were small kids then and we were taught that the red army was a dangerous one and needed to be promptly dealt with in the fiercest manner, possible. We were armed with deadly insecticide sprays and using them like bazooka guns,we promptly sprayed them on the red ant army. The ants were taken aback by this guerrilla attack and froze in their foot steps. They never moved later. They were swept with a broom and disposed off.
We were victory drenched.
The red ants never stung anyone without provocation. The Formic Acid used to raise a small wheal and cause painful itching.
The black ant army was always treated with respect. They were meek and signified peace, wealth and good luck. They never stung anyone. They were left undisturbed. Sugar crystals were laced along their trails.
As I grew up, I realised the lessons of prejudice in life.
A rich lady was accidentally brushed by a car at a very low speed, She hardly got hurt. A crowd gathered in no time like ants pouring on a sugar cube. They were sympathetic and offered help which was not needed at all. Had she been a poor lady, the consequences would have been disastrous for her, She would have bled to death in full glory in presence of the impotent by standers. Such is life.
May be the poor people are perceived as the red ants by the populace, but the scientists haven't yet discovered any traces of Formic Acid in them. Yet, they are treated with disdain and undeserved contempt.
I have mercifully grown up and treat everyone like the black ant army, I try to infuse happiness and warmth in their lives. I go out of the way at times, just to make them feel being cared for.
I lace them with sugary words and try to sweeten their lives.
I never discriminate on lines of wealth, caste or creed.
I address them with respect.
But still at times, people hurt me with their misplaced words.
The cruel words spray out of their mouths like a deadly insecticide.
The words sting like Formic Acid,I die then, a small death.
I freeze like a red ant.
The high mighty heels crush me.
Little do they know, My spirit is indomitable.
I live on.

THE CARDBOARD BOX.

The diminutive maid easily slid inside the dark attic for the customary pre festive cleaning of our house. It was a scene common in all households when the house wives would wake up from their slumber to clean up the accumulated clutter, gathered around the entire last year.
I was supervising the cleaning operation this time and the maid after cleaning the attic spic-span drew my attention to a small cardboard box with a cloth bag lying in one corner.
It was a sturdy rectangular cotton bag with two handles on the top.
A symbol of our middle class.
The cloth bag would be used by each and everyone of us for multiple purposes. A hand without the bag would aimlessly fidget around, as if the bag had become an extension of the hand.
I rummaged through the bag and found a few now,vestigial articles inside.
It contained a copper bowl, a snuff box, a betel nut box and a pair of broken high myopic spectacles.
My paternal granny, Dadi used the copper bowl to massage her soles all the time. It was her favourite pastime. A little dab of coconut oil on the soles and the vigorous rubbing would begin in all possible directions. She was sure that the copper would get imbibed in her feet and keep her strong and sturdy. We never questioned her senile judgment. We sometimes tried to massage our soles but the heat generated by the friction used to put us off. It was meant for the senior populace and rightly we never meddled with it.
My maternal grand uncle, Mota Bhai was a much respected man in our community. A snuff box with the finest of Afghani snuff was always his companion. Sometimes we as kids would sneak up during his siesta hours and inhale the snuff with a small pinch of our fingers. The barrage of ensuing sneezes would send the elders in our joint family into raptures of laughter. We would be too, rolling in the aisles then.
My paternal uncle, Madhu Kaka was a maverick who revelled in singing songs of yesteryears. He was a music aficionado who knew the lyrics of almost all the songs of the early 60s. He could sing well. A betel nut cracker, lime and tobacco were alwas carried by him in a small aluminium box. We as kids would at times steal the betel leaves and eat them with sugar and aniseeds. Our red mouths would inevitably lead him to us but he would just smile at us forgivingly.
My maternal grandfather, Nana was a portly jolly person and was our favourite. His face radiated love and warmth. We would eagerly wait for him to take us out in vacations. He loved us a lot and lived only for us. His fulfilled dream of making me a doctor made him completely satisfied in life. He was contended. He was a man of no vices and lived a simple life. He was a perfect gentleman. In early 90s decade, as he was walking down from his house, he suffered a massive cerebral stroke and collapsed on the floor. A stream of blood from his ear trickled onto the spectacles leaving a smudge. He embraced death with a smile on his face.
The cloth bag was exclusively used by him to bring us fire crackers during Diwali. Me and my brother then would carefully divide the crackers amongst us. As we blasted them, My Nana would clap and cheer us. We used to be overjoyed in his divine presence.

All the above mentioned members of our family are no longer with us.
Their memories remain.
I carefully put the cloth bag along with flowers in a small cardboard box.
A few stray tear drops fell into the box.
Someday, my memories also would be cherished by my descendants in a cardboard box.

MR TERMINATOR.

The sports complex where we play tennis belongs to the municipal corporation. The employed fortunate staff are seen loitering around in the complex. Their working hours are miniscule and are frequently seen sipping hot tea, whiling away time which they obviously have in plenty. A job in the corporation assures them flexible hours and a chance of a second parallel job too. Such jobs are coveted by the masses and premiums are paid to procure such employments.
Mr Kambli was a ripe 60 year old mama, who walked using an old long umbrella for support. He used to wear khaki coloured uniform on duty. His face was very wrinkled for his age. He was an insecticide sprayer. He was armoured with a copper yellow tank with a nozzle pipe. The appearance was like some army soldier ready to gun down the enemy soldiers, I used to always him 'Mr. Terminator' which he always failed to understand. He used to grin innocently like a small kid.
Mr Kambli was an illiterate person but keenly used to watch our tennis matches, be it rain or shine. Slowly he started to follow the game and used to be our unofficial third umpire. He used to sit on the side lines like an avid fan. After our morning session of tennis, he used to doze off till lunch time. After a cursory spraying of some gutters, he used to return for his siesta. The tennis court complex had a lot of shady areas which offered comfort from the heat. By 5 pm he was seen trudging home. We always offered him a round of 'cutting chai' in the morning as a mark of respect.
He normally kept to himself. His son too was an employee in our complex but we never got a chance to know him. Maybe, he avoided his father or so. You could never tell nowadays.
Last week, Mr. Terminator walked inside our tennis court with a brand new safari and a gleaming new umbrella.
His face looked sad that day.
He called the ball boy and ordered a round of soft drinks for the players and the markers.
We were mightily surprised.
I went to ask him the reason for the soft drinks.
He said that it was the last working day for him.
He was relieved at last.
He would go back to his native land and live peacefully on his paddy farms.
Our third umpire would be no more with us.
We had actually got used to his presence.
Our old grandparents may not be functional or socially interactive in our homes but their presence unfailingly reassures us that their blessings are with us.
Mr Terminator evoked similar feelings in us. In his presence, the brawls and swear words had diminished substantially. We played like true sportsmen.
I usually have a couple of glares in my car, luckily one pair was unused and I immediately offered it to Mr. Terminator. He was overjoyed.
He put them on and walked away from all of us with a sense of pride.
The glares could not hide his tears.

PERFUMES OF LIFE.

I love perfumes.
I always wear them as they keep me in high spirits and give me a spring in my stride. They impart a subtle confidence in me. My staff come to know my arrival with the waft of my perfume just as I alight from the car. They start running helter skelter preparing for the rounds. They are not strong but make a statement and are an indelible part of my personality. The Mumbai heat and stench necessitates their unabashed use. A perfume is a part and parcel of my vanity kit.

I love women who wear mild floral perfumes. I am instantly attracted to them like butterflies to the flowers. They get an instant respect and my strict unwavering attention.

I detested our dissection class of Anatomy and hardly ever attended it. The putrid smell of the cadavers and the formalin just used to percolate my olfactory organs and hit my brain. An instant headache with nausea used to be the resultant reaction. I used to play carrom for a lengthy period of 4 hours during that class. The smell of the boric powder and the woody coins alongwith the ivory striker were certainly a decent proposition. A couple of smokers used to add their acrid smoke rings to uplift the dull air. I gave my Anatomy exams wearing a eucalyptus oil coated handkerchief mask. The examiner who basked in such a stinky room failed to notice my discomfort, but anyway mercifully passed me.

Hamida walked into my OPD that day with her husband in tow. A strange revulsive smell accompanied her to my consulting room. Her husband complained to me about her strange anti social behaviour and refusal to eat her meals. He also stated that it had been a month since her last shower. The smell was nauseous and unbearable for me. I grabbed a small clove from my drawer and started examining Hamida. Seeing my kind and concerned demeanour, she immediately broke down into tears. She pleaded helplessness at her sad state. Her husband was legally allowed to be polygamous and he had brought a small 16 yr old girl to be his new wife. The nocturnal screams of the new bride drove her mad. She despised her sadistic husband and made a decision of being unkempt so that he would not approach her. The stench would repel him. It indeed did. I could not help the situation.

A few months back I lost my uncle and went to the funeral. I was supposed to do the final rites and light the pyre. The smell of this place was mixed with sandalwood, flowers and wood. A sour ghee fragrance also dominated this environ. As the body caught fire, I could smell the burning flesh. The body burnt and then the bones, to convert to ashes.

The ashes have no smell or any fragrance. One day, we would also turn to ashes.

I realised the futility of our cosmetic indulgent life and walked back home with a heavy heart.

FOREIGN RETURN....

The fuss begins at the airport itself when they start their loud animated conversations about the contents of their food tiffins. The brash talk leaves no scope for imagination. I, as an innocent bystander, waiting for the plane have to endure their jargon. As I board the flight, I know the contents of most of the tiffins. Maybe their palates cannot savour the international food or maybe they are trying to save up some money. I never ventured to find out so far.

The heaviest luggage is often carried by them in the cabin of the aircraft much to the consternation of the poor air hostesses. They somehow squeeze them and silently mutter curses at them. The motley crowd, then start a mini stroll along the aisle smiling at foreigners who squirm in their seats. They are always attracted to white skin. A seat next to a foreigner is often sought after by them.

As soon as the flight begins, The pandemonium starts with the group chattering loudly about their business woes and sundries.They order free booze from the hostesses like water. They never bother about the discomfort or disturbance caused to the fellow passengers. After sloshing themselves they retire to their seats and snore. Their plane trip has fructified into a success. Sometimes they collect empty miniature whisky bottles as souvenirs.

As soon as the flight is about to land, they start running and rushing to the overhead cabin to secure their luggage and stand near the door. Some people flash their cheap phones and immediately call their near and dear ones stating that they have landed on foreign soil. The decibels are as always sadly loud.

The landing on the foreign shores instantly brings about change in their accent. They imitate accents with their broken English. I fail to understand that despite their accents they gesticulate a lot while conversing with the foreigners.

The shopping ends with a war of words over haggling of the price. Almost everything is converted to their local currency and comparisons made. Such an exercise makes them feel cheated in the end. The retailers frown on seeing them and immediately raise their existing prices to avoid any interaction with them.

It's a sad situation for the image of their country. A small measure of dignity, respect, politeness and courtesy always evades their senses.

The white skin is ogled upon quiet unabashedly by them. A camera keeps on clicking whatever skin is available at sight. These photos are their perversions. The beach is a hot bed for their prolific amateur photography skills. Not a single sun bather is spared by them. They often miss the sights of sunset or sunrise pursuing their weird perversions. Such is the state. The video cameras are constantly on, capturing the sights and sounds of the foreign city. They want to soak in the pleasure. They do not want to miss a thing. They will later invite their neighbours and bore them to death with extended DVD versions of their sojourn.

On the return flight home, They get sloshed and boast about their adventures in the foreign land. The decibels even increase further. They are boisterous and happy.

They have the tag of 'Foreign Return' on their heads.

US AND THEM.

Rocky is a labrador dog who is owned by Mr Sharma in our residential building. He is well mannered, I meant the dog.
A few mongrel dogs scour our building for the leftovers. They are weak and look like famine struck canines. A small stray pup took a liking to Rocky and wagging his tail would follow Rocky who would like his company. They used to play around in our park chasing each other playfully. One day, Mr Sharma saw this and was livid with anger. He was a discriminatory person.
A few nights back, I was returning from my hospital and I saw Mr Sharma using a big stick to scare the small pup away from the building. As he was about to unleash a blow on the puppy, I stopped my car and stared at him in the most disdainful manner. My stare froze him and worked wonders for the small pup.
I did not say a word. I do not communicate with such low grade mentally deranged people.
Next day, I got a small baby sized belt and tied around the pup's neck. The collar would give him dignity and respect. That was the least I could do.

We play Tennis in a sports complex of our small town. A lot of stray dogs reside in the campus. Sometimes, they playfully chew our tennis nets much to the dismay of our coaches. Otherwise, they hardly bother us.
Mr Varma is greeted by them every morning, His whistles work as a signal for the dogs who just run around happily to him. He carries a small plastic bag with him full of broken as well as unbroken biscuits. He feeds them daily. I respect him a lot. He does not have a family, all he has is the company of dogs in our sports complex. After feeding them, he rushes to his office.
Needless to say, his day goes well blessed by the mute animals.

Where do I figure in this blog?
Incidentally, both of them are patients of mine.
Do I ever discriminate between them?
My upbringing and compassion never allow me to.
The penniless poor patient is given as much as respect and attention by me as much a filthy stinking rich patient would get.
I thrive on wishes and blessings.

TATTOO

In a state of excitement and misplaced enthusiasm, I entered the tattoo parlour. It belonged to a friend of mine who had repeatedly requested me to visit his place. I saw a couple of girls boldly tattooing a design on their lower neck and ankles. These girls would yell if a mosquito bit them but now were somehow tolerant to pain. Fashion makes for a bearable suffering. The parlour was covered with photographs of my friend with famous tattooists from LA Ink and Miami Ink. He had indeed made a name for himself within a short span of time. His doodling skills had paid him off now. His appointments were most sought after by the teens in our small town. I had secretly thought of getting a small tattoo on my forearm and surprising my folks at home. It would be a small one and be hidden under my formal long shirt sleeves. I did not want to make a statement but I just felt like getting a tattoo done. I selected the names of my wife and kids with graphics and set up a session the next day.

Mrs Joshi was a sad patient of mine who had suffered from Diabetes and Hypertension as a result of stress and depression. Her face was wrinkled with worries despite her relative young age. Otherwise she came from a loving family and a caring polite middle aged husband. One day I probed her and tried to reach her sorrow. She said that I would come to know the reason on next follow up. She was accompanied by her son who immediately giggled on entering my consulting room. He was well built for his age. His eyes did all the talking. He was retarded since birth and could not articulate words properly. He was gazing at me with kind eyes. He looked like an innocent baby. I told her to accept her fate and move on in life. She cried and told me that she had no problem in raising the now grown up child as she had before. Her plane of dreams of a career, social and personal life never left the runway.
She was exceedingly worried about the frequent disappearing spells of her son from the house over the last few months. The child in him had grown up and tired of a bonded existence, he used to just run away from the house, escaping reality.Trains and Buses were plenty in our town. Sometimes, he would disappear for days much to the consternation and anguish of parents. Somehow, he would be escorted home and his parents would heave a sigh of relief.

I was curious to know the reason as to how her kid would return home despite having no communication skills. I was really perplexed.

She took her son's hand and showed me his forearm.
A 8 digit phone number was tattooed over there. This tattoo had somehow always saved him from getting lost in our cruel world.
The tattoo on his forearm etched my heart.
I had a very difficult night that day.
I tried hard to fight my tears.
I cancelled my tattoo appointment the next day.

BUNDLE OF JOY-

He yanks at our blankets early morning with a million dollar smile on his cute but naughty face. If we do not respond then he pats our cheeks with his small but effective palms and throws all his weight on our body with a big giggle. Its wake up time for us. We see the clock face showing 6am. We rise reluctantly otherwise a sharp cheek bite would follow as per as Dooglu's protocol of waking up his parents. The lull of the early morning is just about to shatter as my son Dooglu is on the prowl. I think, his body clock follows some another country. He is smart enough to gently nudge Chaitra, he never wakes her up as she is his favourite. All the time, he runs behind her yelling 'Chaitaaaa' 'Chaitaaaaa'!


As soon as he wakes up, he wants to listen to the latest Bollywood item numbers which set him tapping his feet and with arms swaying, he goes into a trance like mode. He shrieks with joy and claps his hands. Suddenly his demeanour changes into a serious mode with his eyes becoming glassy and all the dancing stopped midway. He becomes like a statue under a strain. This is his potty time. As he is being cleaned up, he makes it a point to roll all over the bed making it difficult to put new diapers for him. After milk and cerelac, he is all ready for his morning sojourn.


He has a fleet of vehicles to choose from. A red Ferrari, a yellow Tri-cycle, a Mobike or a simple Pram. He decides according to his mood. As he is being ferried around, he waves to his admirers like some big star. The morning walkers group dote on him.Everyone stops by to pull his cheeks. A customary slide and swing ride is a must before taking him home. I think, he secretly communicates with the doggies as they gather around his pram wagging their happy tails. He heads back home merrily banging his small fists on the elevator door.

At home, after a tub bath he begins his routine of mayhem and destruction. Any item lying on the floor is perceived as an edible delicacy by him and it promptly enters his mouth by dexterous maneuvering of fingers. We have to be on guard at all times. The fan regulator is pulled out by him and he frequently plays with the switches like toys. The remotes are dessert for him as he chews the juicy rubber knobs off them. Mummy's hair and dupatta are his staple chewing pastimes. The tonic and oil bottles are deftly opened by his sharp teeth. The water bottles too meet a similar fate and the water spills on the floor with Dooglu playing around the puddle. The CDs are used by him to scratch the floor. The books regularly fall from their shelf. He takes a book, pretends to read the last page and slyly bites off a corner for chewing. The fruits in our tray bear tiny teeth marks. He does not spare anyone. The balcony is solely used by him to fling toys outside our house. The watchman scolded him the other day but he just smiled like an assassin.

At meal times, we lock him and the maid in his room with a virtual "do not disturb" board outside. They watch TV and finish the meals. Any distraction and he starts running away from the meal. He takes a post meal walk in our house like an old grandparent checking on everyone. He has started saying a few basic words now at full volume. His noisy chatter sounds like music to our ears. In the evening he again goes for his rounds in a pram and seeing his parents off to work. We have to give him a round in our car before waving him good bye. He is contended then.

He is fast asleep in his cradle by the time I reach home.
As I see him peacefully sleeping, he smiles at me coyly.
He knows, his daddy's home!
I look at him and hug my wife.
He may be a naughty kid but he is our bundle of joy.

CONCRETE JUNGLE.

The morning begins with the sight of the walkers proudly ambling in my balcony porch. They walk in pairs like lovers muttering sweet nothings in their ear. They are the Doves who visit my home daily as a thumb rule. After a customary stroll, they start flapping their wings scattering loose feathers all over my hall. Then they get busy making love and after a week or so an egg is laid at a chosen corner in my empty carton of tennis balls. The mother viciously guards it till a small Dove hatches out much to the joy of my daughter and son who clap to celebrate the arrival of the newborn. Soon, the newborn flies away. The Doves are peaceful but they lack civic manners shitting all over my floor and silk carpet. I wonder whether they can be trained.

There is a big Bee-hive on my terrace tank. Occasionally, the killer Bees wander to our house and set a flurry of activity. The newspapers and Chaitra's badminton racket are the chosen weapons to swat them. A pillow also is used to thrash them. One day, I got stung by a Bee and trust me folks, it hurt. We are indeed scared of them.

The Lizards multiply in fury, hidden in the crevices of our false ceilings. A Lizard evokes revulsion and elicits the loudest shrieks from my family members. We have a bamboo stick to tackle them and scare them away from our house. It normally takes about 11 minutes to scare one away. When I was young, a Lizard in the loo just came from behind the bucket and leapt on me sticking to my shin. It was the scariest moment of my life. I washed my shin for 2 hours with dettol and a soap bar. Then onwards, I always check the wash room and then proceed ahead. they say an egg shell kept outside the balcony scares them but we have not yet tried that remedy.

The Rats are our rare nocturnal kitchen visitors but usually they do not trouble us as they just take their stuff and scoot outside. They have relative hypoxia at high altitudes and hence shun my 12th floor as an option for abode. They are happy in the basement of the car park. A Rat once chew some cable of my car and set my wallet aback by a hefty amount. I call them 'Hit and Run' rats as they hardly stick around.

The Mosquitoes and the Ants with the Roaches have been successfully tackled so far by my friendly pest control guys. They come dressed up as terminators with a steel bag on their backs and a spray nozzle like some machine gun heroes. They are effective though. Their swagger is awe inspiring. They behave like some members of anti terrorist squads.

A solitary Cat is my wife's friend and comes daily on my 12th floor climbing stairs to have her saucer of milk. The lapping tongue finishes the milk in minutes and she vanishes. That is the depth of friendship in today's world. A Cat teaches us lessons in life. She returns next day.

A Doggie is occasionally baby sat by us much to the delight of my young ones. He pees all over my hall proudly although it is not his territory. I am helpless at times. The joy makes it acceptable though.

My mother has a garden in our east side balcony. It has colourful flower bearing plants. A small Sparrow comes there on weekends. It chirps sweetly songs of joy and happiness. A few Butterflies take a fancy and visit our blooming flowers. It is a delightful sight. The Squirrel plays around in the pots. The garden buzzes with life.

A pair of Mynas bring us good luck at times.

I look at my family and compare them with the fauna around. My dad is the 'Lion' whose roars tremble each and everyone around. My mom and my wife are like kind 'Cows' who provide care and comfort to us. Chaitra is the sweetest 'Parrot' who keeps on chirping endlessly. Prithvy has just started walking and destroys everything in his sight. I call him the cute 'Monkey' as he is the most mischievous of all.

I am like a 'Mule' slogging around with the burden of expectations.

This is my life in a concrete jungle.

THE LIBRARY.

The summer vacations had just begun. Me and my brother were so excited. The birds would be free to fly, albeit for a short time. We hated school and its rules and homework. The vacations brought about cheer on our dull sunken faces. Waking up at our own leisure and sleeping late at night was a pleasurable thought.

'Jalaram Library and Paper Mart' was our most desired and favoured hangout during the vacations. We would ride on our tri-cycle when my brother would sit and I would pedal with my foot to reach the library.We would reach before the opening hours and wait patiently for Chandubhai, the owner to come and open the library. He was a frail myopic person with soda glasses and a constant cigarette dangling out of his lips. His coughing bouts were attributed by him to the allergy of paper dust. He never used to blame the cigarette for his state. Any case, he was the most respected person in our locality, we used to literally revere him.

The comics and books were all arranged neatly in alphabetical order. We used to go in groups and collect our comics. Mandrake,TinTin and Phantom ruled our fantasy lives. Later we would exchange comics with each other. As we grew up our taste matured to Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. We would make small clubs like Famous Five and Secret Seven and play detective games. It was our own make believe world. We were happy children then. Some books were covered in brown covers and were hidden from public view. I was always curious to know their content but Chandubhai never revealed their contents, much to our dismay.

We passed out of school and got busy with our college lives never to return to the library again. The heavy tomes of Medicine occupied most of our lives. A solitary newspaper was our only connection with the outside world. I missed my old library. We shifted our residence and my brother went abroad. It was decades since we went to my old residence.

The library was no longer there. It was just a dull paper mart where old papers were weighed and money given. English papers fetched more money by weight as compared to vernacular papers. I could not fathom this too. I met Chandubhai who looked like a pale shadow of his past. He was contended, had prospered in this paper business and boasted of a swanky car, parked outside his shop. He said that the advent of media age had taken a toll on his library business. Children were no longer interested to read like before. We understood his view point.

The library was our life line during the vacations. Seeing it shut down upset us. With a heavy heart, We left the place.

As we were leaving, we saw a tri-cycle on the road with the younger brother sitting at the front and the elder brother pedalling. A sense of 'deja vu' was felt by us.

I just hugged my younger brother and cried.

KODAK MOMENTS.

The round tables and plastic chairs in their bright colours excite the children. A sitting statue on a bench elicits a lot of snaps with the proud parents clicking their children with their cell phone cameras in a frenzy. Maybe, they would frame this snaps. The meals offer small innovative toys as bribes to entice the children. I avoid greasy food and hate the guilt inducing thick shakes and sugary ice cream. I just sit there awaiting my kids to finish their meal. I normally would never venture into such joints but the kids drag me there. They are attracted to this place as the bees to the flowers. Some parents actually enjoy eating also. Anything goes. The screen was coming to life with the vivid colours and animated figures attacking us with their swords and guns. We would swerve to avoid the impact of the bullets and shrapnel. The 3D movie was driving the kids nuts. They enjoyed and begged me to take them to such movies more often. I headed to the nearest chemist shop to gulp a couple of Naprosyn tablets to cure my Migraine. The glasses with the smudge of finger prints from the previous users distorted my vision. No amount of vigorous rubbing with my hanky would help. The exchanged glasses were even worse. The kids hardly noticed that I was seeing the movie without my 3D glasses. I tried to doze off but the screeching background music helped me stay awake. The sand lot in my building is a much favoured spot by my son. Every morning begins with a predictable bawling which only stops when I take him down to the sand lot garden. He sits on my lap and we swing and his happiness knows no bounds. I make him ride the mini slide. All the time, he is giggling with joy. I spend half an hour in the morning with him in the garden. I do not remember me as a child on a swing. We were sports fanatics and the garden was considered as a abode of the girls. A bat and a ball used to be our constant companions. Maybe, God was trying to fill in my lost hours of childhood by pushing me daily to the garden. The kids are always ecstatic in such activities. They want us to take part in them. We have to. The smiles on their rosy faces are captured by us as "Kodak Moments". We have to live for such moments. Meanwhile, My kids are scanning the paper's movie section for the latest 3D movie. I pop the painkiller pills prior to the movie and enjoy the movie rolling in the cushioned seats. My wife is unlike me and is a kid at heart. Hope, she does not read this blog!

MA'ID.

The maid was going on a leave to her native town. We were all sad but the saddest person in our family was Prithvy. He had taken a particular affinity to Lata, our new maid who was his care taker and followed him like a shadow. We were not sure whether she would return back. This was the problem with maids in Mumbai, a trip to native town meant a permanent good bye. We would have to search a new maid and Prithvy would take time to adjust. Mansi was the most worried, as her trips to her dental clinic would become more sporadic. A shut down clinic for the last 6 months, during maternity was constantly on her mind. I was also concerned. After a week of failed efforts, A bell rang one fine morning. Lata had come back. We were overjoyed. Prithvy broke into a welcome dance waving his arms wildly. We, in our urban life are so dependent on maids. The domestic maid, cook and the care taker maid rule and dictate our lives. They are all well treated by us. All their mistakes are instantly pardonable. They enjoy immunity as our home ministers, wives revere and respect them out of fear. Our domestic maid routinely flicks small denomination notes and yet we turn a blind eye. Such is our dependency! Lata is atypical and a honest maid who really takes care of my son and daughter well. When she feeds Prithvy a bowl of cereal, she will push us all out of the room as we distract him. She puts on a music channel on TV and my son finishes the meal without any fuss. She rocks him gently in the cradle using her latest bollywood song filled cell phone as a lullaby. We are amazed at her ingenuity. She takes him out on a stroller in our garden twice a day. She also prompts him to speak easy words. Also when he is unwell, she gets really worried and skips her meals. In all, Mansi is able to concentrate on her clinic. We too keep her happy and treat her as one of our own kith and kin. During Prithvy's birthday party, she missed out on all the fun as she was attending him who was blissfully asleep oblivious to the surrounding din. How noble of her! I feel really proud of her. As the cake was being cut, I could sense Prithvy scanning the big crowd for her Lata. We immediately told the compere to announce her name and called her on the stage for the cake cutting ceremony. As she climbed the stage, Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt over whelmed by our kind gesture. We recognised her role in our son's upbringing. We returned home pretty late that night, Lata was putting Prithvy to sleep in his cradle with a bollywood song blaring from her cell phone. Prithvy slept, smiling. There is a 'ma' in every 'maid'.

A BOX OF MANGOES.

The hot summer begins with the mouth watering hopes of a good mango season for the most of us. I do not eat mangoes, although they start cropping up at my place quiet early at astronomical rates. I eat them a bit late in the season for some reason which will be clear as you folks read this blog.

Mangoes are a part and parcel of our foodie culture. The wooden boxes with straw and ripening mangoes are displayed proudly in each and every household as a kind of status symbol. A sweet and mildly sour fragrance greets us when we enter our homes in mango season. The kids like them very much and devour them like no tomorrow. They also like playing with the straw. Each and every meal has 'aamras' as an accompanying dessert. The diabetics forget their illness and secretly gorge on mangoes. I see a spurt in their sugar readings during this season and they just smile at me expecting me to understand the seasonal effect on their diabetes.

Asha is a very dear patient of mine. She is an aged lady with Diabetes and Heart ailments. She has to be recurrently admitted in the hospital in view of complications. Although our profession thrives on other peoples' miseries, I decided to stop charging her in view of her poor financial status. She had a teen aged son who was a spastic and had to struggle to make her ends meet. A meagre pension of her deceased husband used to be her only life line. She sometimes even used to skip meals which she said helped her sugars from rising. I always was moved by her plight.

During the mango season, she was in a better mood as she used to fetch mangoes from her native town and sort them out in boxes and sell them door to door. At least, the mangoes offered some financial respite to her. The first box of choicest juicy plump mangoes would be packed by her and delivered to me. Its pretty late for the season, yet I tell her that I have been waiting for the mangoes eagerly. She smiles up with tears in her eyes. A few kind words never hurt. She implores me to call her if I need some more mangoes but I never call her as I do not want her to incur a loss as she will never charge me.

This box of mangoes is a symbol of her gratitude towards me. It signifies labour as she huffs and puffs while climbing the floor to deliver her box. Normally, I distribute the boxes which I get, to all my staff of ward boys and ayah bais who lovingly accept them.

This box goes straight home. My family relishes them. Even if they are sour, they taste better than the sweetest mangoes of the entire season.