It was a bright sunny day when my parents dropped me at the school at 12 noon. The campus looked empty to me as the secondary classes were going on. I was, a big one hour early to school. My primary mates were yet to arrive. My parents had to go see the movie, EK DUJE KE LIYE. It was a big hit those days and drove hordes of young cupid struck couples to fling themselves off cliffs.
I sat alone on the school steps vowing vengeance on my parents who hurriedly went to catch up the show. They looked so happy. I felt left out of the whole picture. I failed to understand the reason for leaving me all alone. I skipped my dinner in protest that day. I was a kid and behaved like one. After much cajoling and an ice cream candy bribe, I had a late dinner much to their relief.
I never understood what an adult movie meant and why we innocent kids were never supposed to even talk about, leave aside viewing them. I simply understood that my parents had left me all alone, even if for a small period of time. During that hour which I spent on the school steps, I plotted a future revenge plan when I would leave my parents all alone and see an adult movie.
When they came back to pick me up, I just hugged them and cried. I wanted them to never leave me alone.
Time passed by and I grew up to be a tall teenager and finally an adult. The past memories of the revenge had faded away. The movie was screened umpteen times on the tv screen and our country had liberalised from the pallus to the micro minis. The titillation threshold had progressed beyond imagination.
What was covert once had blatantly become overt now.
It was a black day for the city when in 1990 many commuters lost their lives in the train blasts. My train to my coaching classes ran during that ill fated schedule and I narrowly missed that train as I had left early that day. I was in the preceding train. We were unaware of the situation.
My parents had no clue of my whereabouts and as soon as they heard the news on their tv screens, they panicked helter skelter. Landlines got jammed and there was chaos.I blissfully was coming home and was surprised to see them on my building steps sobbing profusely. They just rushed at my sight and hugged me with all their might.
I saw tears in my dad's eyes for the very first time in my life.
The whole scene was like a flashback from the past. Me, hugging my parents on the steps. The only difference being that now I was consoling them about things being alright.I reminded them about the past incident of my revenge plot and we all laughed it off.
The common factor being fearful anxiety.
Last year, my dad took the greatest revenge of all and went far away into the arms of God.
As long as we are together,Let us all live for each other, i:e EK DUJE KE LIYE.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
THE MALINGA WIG.
After much persuasion by Chaitra, I procured the pricey pavilion IPL tickets in black. This was our first time visit to see a live match in a stadium. Normally, I prefer seeing matches in the cool confines of my home with a refilling glass of scotch. This time, I had to go for my daughter. My wife came along with us leaving my son behind as the din would be too overwhelming for him.
The experience was like a festival of sights and sounds. It seemed that the entire city was trailing towards the stadium. The flood lights lit up the evening sky. We bought blue fluoroscent wigs and tees to support our home team. Vuvuzelas resounded in their glory. The entire crowd was in a state of intoxication. Film stars and Industrialists were seated in and around us to add to the excitement.
We were floating on fluffy clouds of unabashed man made entertainment. An ethereal luminous state.
The dirt laden lanes surrounding the stadium painted a different grim picture.A swarm of homeless had made the city roads their only abode with kids in tow.
As soon as the match got over and we were walking out, a group of feisty kids started to pester us to let go of the 'malinga wigs' and the vuvuzelas.They would sell them to the vendors who would recycle them back to the unsuspecting spectators.
The dishevelled kids knew little about 'malinga'. He was in a way,their sole wage provider during matches held in the stadium.
It was such a stark let downing contrast.
My eyes failed to adapt from such bright lights to the sad deplorable darkness.The eyes let down a stream of held back tears.
A normal expected reaction.
The blue fluoroscent wig covering the bare naked core of the city was torn apart. It revealed the apathetic tragic pate, fate of the cruel city.
The pretence was broken apart with a noise even more shattering than all the merry sounds of the packed bursting stadium.
I walked on with a heavy heart.
The experience was like a festival of sights and sounds. It seemed that the entire city was trailing towards the stadium. The flood lights lit up the evening sky. We bought blue fluoroscent wigs and tees to support our home team. Vuvuzelas resounded in their glory. The entire crowd was in a state of intoxication. Film stars and Industrialists were seated in and around us to add to the excitement.
We were floating on fluffy clouds of unabashed man made entertainment. An ethereal luminous state.
The dirt laden lanes surrounding the stadium painted a different grim picture.A swarm of homeless had made the city roads their only abode with kids in tow.
As soon as the match got over and we were walking out, a group of feisty kids started to pester us to let go of the 'malinga wigs' and the vuvuzelas.They would sell them to the vendors who would recycle them back to the unsuspecting spectators.
The dishevelled kids knew little about 'malinga'. He was in a way,their sole wage provider during matches held in the stadium.
It was such a stark let downing contrast.
My eyes failed to adapt from such bright lights to the sad deplorable darkness.The eyes let down a stream of held back tears.
A normal expected reaction.
The blue fluoroscent wig covering the bare naked core of the city was torn apart. It revealed the apathetic tragic pate, fate of the cruel city.
The pretence was broken apart with a noise even more shattering than all the merry sounds of the packed bursting stadium.
I walked on with a heavy heart.
Monday, July 23, 2012
CITY OF DREAMS.
My kids wished to go SoBo yesterday.They wanted to sniff the sea breeze and explore the fabled Gateway of India,enjoy a motor boat ride and soak the sights of the city.
Nausea struck me as I alighted from the car.A strange rancid smell of diesel,dry fishes and horse manure wafted through the stagnant air assaulting my senses. The gateway is flocked by out of town desi tourists and a scattered group of foreigners.
Everywhere, you could see squatted hawkers selling cheap plastic toys and nuts. A guy sat with a weighing machine too. He was quite busy.Photographers with tattered albums in hand tried in vain to solicit us for backdrop photographs.
The motor boat ride was a scary one for my kids as the boat swayed wildly from side to side.A desi drunk tourist puked, showering some people onboard with his spittle. After a turbulent bawling ride, we returned ashore.The drunk desi slowly crept out of the boat, hiding his face.
The ill lit promenade was littered with plastic bottles, cola cans and peanut shells They crunched under our shoes..It was an ugly sight.A few couples tried to get cosy on the parapet adjoining the sea in excitement.Heavily made up desi folks scuttled for souvenir group photos.They wanted this slice of history, hung on their native walls.
As we were walking back to the car, my son got attracted to an illuminated spinning top being sold by a hawker. The wares were mounted on one sheet of a raggedy cloth and a naked infant slept on the adjoining equally dirty rag. He was oblivious to the onslaught of the buzzing flies and biting mosquitoes. I bought the top and walked away.
I took a snap of my family against the backdrop for the sake of posterity. The look on my kids' faces indicated that this was the last trip over here.
across the street lay one of the swankiest hotel of our entire city.A world of bright lights and liveried butlers. The lavish spread failed to activate my appetite. My kids ran about the place, amnesiac about the dismal time spent earlier.
A small dust filled road separated two different worlds like day and night.
Welcome to the city of dreams.
Nausea struck me as I alighted from the car.A strange rancid smell of diesel,dry fishes and horse manure wafted through the stagnant air assaulting my senses. The gateway is flocked by out of town desi tourists and a scattered group of foreigners.
Everywhere, you could see squatted hawkers selling cheap plastic toys and nuts. A guy sat with a weighing machine too. He was quite busy.Photographers with tattered albums in hand tried in vain to solicit us for backdrop photographs.
The motor boat ride was a scary one for my kids as the boat swayed wildly from side to side.A desi drunk tourist puked, showering some people onboard with his spittle. After a turbulent bawling ride, we returned ashore.The drunk desi slowly crept out of the boat, hiding his face.
The ill lit promenade was littered with plastic bottles, cola cans and peanut shells They crunched under our shoes..It was an ugly sight.A few couples tried to get cosy on the parapet adjoining the sea in excitement.Heavily made up desi folks scuttled for souvenir group photos.They wanted this slice of history, hung on their native walls.
As we were walking back to the car, my son got attracted to an illuminated spinning top being sold by a hawker. The wares were mounted on one sheet of a raggedy cloth and a naked infant slept on the adjoining equally dirty rag. He was oblivious to the onslaught of the buzzing flies and biting mosquitoes. I bought the top and walked away.
I took a snap of my family against the backdrop for the sake of posterity. The look on my kids' faces indicated that this was the last trip over here.
across the street lay one of the swankiest hotel of our entire city.A world of bright lights and liveried butlers. The lavish spread failed to activate my appetite. My kids ran about the place, amnesiac about the dismal time spent earlier.
A small dust filled road separated two different worlds like day and night.
Welcome to the city of dreams.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
FORGIVENESS.
A painted lady was sitting next to me with a girl child aged 7-8 years or so. She began her loud sob interspersed story to the uninterested yawning lady constable.She complained about a strange lady calling her daughter in the middle of the night on her cell phone. On further enquiry, the strange lady was the mother of the girl who had accompanied her. She was her husband's ex wife.The lady constable told her to switch off the phone in the night and berated her for wasting her time.
A bawling dishevelled lady strode inside the room with her equally tattered husband in tow. It was a case of domestic violence. The poor lady melodramatically cried and the inebriated husband just stood picking some precious stuff from his bulbous nose trying hard to suppress his laughter. He was taken to another room and bashed up by the itchy cops.His cries sounded like the laughter of a trapped hyena. The couple went home soon promising to mend their ways.
The on duty cops were busy greasing tobacco and lime on their dirty palms to be alert for the nocturnal onslaught. It was a busy police station and nights would always be heavy in view of the nearby slum locality. The insides were bustling like a public hospital.
A group of huddled boys were rounded up for creating nuisance in their locality and looked worried as they sighted the gleaming belt buckles on the paunches of cops which would be used on them. I could see local fly by night self proclaimed white clothed politicians trying to use their non existent clout and influence the cops. I saw a couple of reporters sniffing around for any print worthy scoop or scandal.
Some people had come to report losses of cell phones and other trivia. A solitary sad dog guarded the entrance of this police station.
Under the most bizarre circumstances, I had to enter this police station. An addict had color zeroxed my prescription sheets and was merrily forging addictive'ketamine' injections for his consumption. I had already made an official complaint to the cops regarding the same a few months back. The chemist association had also been informed and they were on his trail. Last week, I got a call from a chemist about this forged prescription and he had managed to nab the offender who incidentally was a maid working for the accused. Soon, she was joined by her lady 'memsaab' to rescue her. I rushed with a team of cops to catch them.
I was shocked to see that the 'memsaab' was one of my old patients who was abusing my prescription to fuel her ailing son's addiction.
She begged for forgiveness under the garb of crocodile tears.
I wanted to punish her but at the same time sympathised with her. She had an old mother to look after and an equally ill addict son. A defamation suit and a charge of forgery would land her a couple of years' time in the grind.
After the submission of official apology letters, I decided not to pursue the case further.
The doctor in me always wanted to help the helpless.
I could not over ride my 'samaritan' conscience. I even suggested local deaddiction centres for her son's treatment. Besides, my head was reeling, just sitting in the police station listening to the tales of debauchery and other assorted evils.
I walked out of the police station, head held high.
'Forgiveness is the sweetest revenge'.
A bawling dishevelled lady strode inside the room with her equally tattered husband in tow. It was a case of domestic violence. The poor lady melodramatically cried and the inebriated husband just stood picking some precious stuff from his bulbous nose trying hard to suppress his laughter. He was taken to another room and bashed up by the itchy cops.His cries sounded like the laughter of a trapped hyena. The couple went home soon promising to mend their ways.
The on duty cops were busy greasing tobacco and lime on their dirty palms to be alert for the nocturnal onslaught. It was a busy police station and nights would always be heavy in view of the nearby slum locality. The insides were bustling like a public hospital.
A group of huddled boys were rounded up for creating nuisance in their locality and looked worried as they sighted the gleaming belt buckles on the paunches of cops which would be used on them. I could see local fly by night self proclaimed white clothed politicians trying to use their non existent clout and influence the cops. I saw a couple of reporters sniffing around for any print worthy scoop or scandal.
Some people had come to report losses of cell phones and other trivia. A solitary sad dog guarded the entrance of this police station.
Under the most bizarre circumstances, I had to enter this police station. An addict had color zeroxed my prescription sheets and was merrily forging addictive'ketamine' injections for his consumption. I had already made an official complaint to the cops regarding the same a few months back. The chemist association had also been informed and they were on his trail. Last week, I got a call from a chemist about this forged prescription and he had managed to nab the offender who incidentally was a maid working for the accused. Soon, she was joined by her lady 'memsaab' to rescue her. I rushed with a team of cops to catch them.
I was shocked to see that the 'memsaab' was one of my old patients who was abusing my prescription to fuel her ailing son's addiction.
She begged for forgiveness under the garb of crocodile tears.
I wanted to punish her but at the same time sympathised with her. She had an old mother to look after and an equally ill addict son. A defamation suit and a charge of forgery would land her a couple of years' time in the grind.
After the submission of official apology letters, I decided not to pursue the case further.
The doctor in me always wanted to help the helpless.
I could not over ride my 'samaritan' conscience. I even suggested local deaddiction centres for her son's treatment. Besides, my head was reeling, just sitting in the police station listening to the tales of debauchery and other assorted evils.
I walked out of the police station, head held high.
'Forgiveness is the sweetest revenge'.
CHEAP LABOUR.
My cook is a 30 year old lady with an alcoholic husband and a 7 year old kid named Prem. She comes twice a day to cook meals for us, working folks. She liberally opens the fridge and offers pricey swiss chocolates and biscuits to her son followed by a glass of milk. Prem plays around with my son and lazes like a tiger cub on the upholstered sofa. He runs around the house, playing with Prithvy's toys. We gave him a brand new bicycle this year on his birthday.
My maid is a middle aged tiny lady who scampers around the house like a mouse as she is busier than me. She hurriedly goes about her work. She moistens my ebony wooden flooring despite repeated warnings to use a dry cloth. My hankies often go missing and require replacements round the year. A good number of divorced socks have accumulated in my drawer. They are single, desperately searching for their matching partner. Sometimes, she destroys my shirts by soaking them with multi coloured petti coats and other colour running items. The shirts become designer stained then. They are carefully hidden by my wife then till I lose memory of them. The fruit tray is showered with special attention by her. She likes exotic fruits. They disappear within no time.
Prithvy had a lot of maids in the past. They were young not so innocent girls who chatted on the phone with their boy friends rather than pay attention to him in the garden. Some had special affection for cheese cubes and slices while others only ate dry fruits. Some used to steal Mansi's designer dupattas and still have the audacity of wearing them with their faded non matching dresses.Little do they know that we know everything. We are like fools for them.
Monetary needs are just around the corner.
Festivals and feigned illnesses of their relatives rule the roost. Last year, our maid asked for a flat screen TV.I refused flatly. I do not know how she got it but she worked with a renewed vigour in our house after the acquisition. My wife and my mother keep me in the dark when it comes to such things.
My driver had a baby girl this year who was premature at birth. We footed the entire private NICU bill, no questions asked and no answers given. We gave her a chunky gold pendant and silver trinkets for her feet when she came home.
A few days back, my driver started cribbing about his pay. I obliged, quietly.
Everbody in our house acts in a hushed manner when it comes to the maids.
They are indispensable.
Whenever we travel abroad, we see everyone working with their own hands and feet. They are happy doing their house hold work. Labour costs are prohibitive.
In our country, Its a different story.
Hey! Hey! Where's my pudding??
A burrp from my maid says it all.
My maid is a middle aged tiny lady who scampers around the house like a mouse as she is busier than me. She hurriedly goes about her work. She moistens my ebony wooden flooring despite repeated warnings to use a dry cloth. My hankies often go missing and require replacements round the year. A good number of divorced socks have accumulated in my drawer. They are single, desperately searching for their matching partner. Sometimes, she destroys my shirts by soaking them with multi coloured petti coats and other colour running items. The shirts become designer stained then. They are carefully hidden by my wife then till I lose memory of them. The fruit tray is showered with special attention by her. She likes exotic fruits. They disappear within no time.
Prithvy had a lot of maids in the past. They were young not so innocent girls who chatted on the phone with their boy friends rather than pay attention to him in the garden. Some had special affection for cheese cubes and slices while others only ate dry fruits. Some used to steal Mansi's designer dupattas and still have the audacity of wearing them with their faded non matching dresses.Little do they know that we know everything. We are like fools for them.
Monetary needs are just around the corner.
Festivals and feigned illnesses of their relatives rule the roost. Last year, our maid asked for a flat screen TV.I refused flatly. I do not know how she got it but she worked with a renewed vigour in our house after the acquisition. My wife and my mother keep me in the dark when it comes to such things.
My driver had a baby girl this year who was premature at birth. We footed the entire private NICU bill, no questions asked and no answers given. We gave her a chunky gold pendant and silver trinkets for her feet when she came home.
A few days back, my driver started cribbing about his pay. I obliged, quietly.
Everbody in our house acts in a hushed manner when it comes to the maids.
They are indispensable.
Whenever we travel abroad, we see everyone working with their own hands and feet. They are happy doing their house hold work. Labour costs are prohibitive.
In our country, Its a different story.
Hey! Hey! Where's my pudding??
A burrp from my maid says it all.
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