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.