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.

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'.

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.

HOT SUMMER NIGHTS.

The scorching sun used to heat up our top floor flat in the summer of 70s. The concrete and steel retained the radiated benevolent warmth late until the night to stifle our souls. ACs were an unheard of luxury, those days.The poor fans ran in a tired circular motion, relentlessly to offer respite. All they could do was to throw the warm air back at us. I did not blame them. At times we all would take our mattresses and rush to the terrace to sleep, hoping to inhale some cool breezy air. The small insects would buzz around our ears threatening to enter them. Some friends would tell ghost stories to amuse us.The pepsi colas in their thick encased plastic sheaths would be sucked furiously by us to keep cool. The ice gola wallah would do brisk business till the wee hours of the night.The early light would awaken us and we would go back to our houses to escape the glare of the sun and catch some more lazening sleep. Tempers used to run foul in the summer months amongst our parents as they had to endure more of us because of vacations.The heat used to induce some chemical changes in the brain lowering its resistance threshold. Our young bodies were flexible and adapted to the change in the weather. Our vacations meant playing all the time regardless of the heat. Our mothers used to make lime water in water bags and forcibly make us consume it. The water bag was an essential accessory of the playing kids. A few slum dwellers resided near our building,who incidentally were our hard working sweaty maids and their huge families.The brick colored mangalore tiles and asbestos over their heads would heat up like an oven and compound their misery. A certain knock in the afternoon would be from them with a dull huge utensil in their hands asking for cold refrigerated water. We happily used to comply. Humanity existed, many decades back. My dad one day had a brain wave and he rushed to the nearby grocer to get jute bags. The jute bags were stitched by our maid to make a big sheet. The sheet was placed on the terrace above our sleeping hall and in the night time we used to pour 2 buckets of water on it. The fibrous jute used to trap the moisture and cool down our ceiling. The AC like effect used to amaze us and keep us calm. The sleep was more peaceful and we used to dream of the cold breezy snow clad mountains pictured in our text books. Also, a wet brick kept in one corner of the room brought down the ambient temperature of our room. The 80s brought about a lot of changes in the middle class household. An AC was installed in our bedroom and we marvelled at the frosty air generated by it. When the AC was on, all measures would be taken to leak proof the room.Not a single waft of cold air would escape our room. All of us would sleep in the AC room and snore away to sweet glory. An AC was a luxury those days and a status symbol too. Our electricity bills started to ascend as the temperature descended in our room but hot summers were pardonable for the same. I have sweet memories of hot summers during my childhood. 2012AD- All the rooms except bathrooms have ACs and kids sometimes even ask for an AC to be on in winters and cold monsoon rains.They belong to a different era.They have never been on our terrace. The ACs now silently run, round the clock oblivious of our early struggle filled times. They will never understand our jute bag times.

HYDROPHOBIA.

It was a strange feeling for my toddler son who walked bare foot on the white sands for the first time in his life.The grains of sand were probably tickling his tiny feet as he struggled to walk on it.After a few shuffling uncertain steps he found his rhythm and started to catch us up. It was a new experience for him. He scanned the cloudy blue horizon and was amazed at the vastness of the infinite universe. The gentle waves beckoned him and he eagerly lapped them up. He sat on his mother's lap and faced the waves with a palpable fear and thrill.The waves rocked them to and fro much to his wide eyed amazement. The salty brine water swallowed by him was promptly purged by him.He enjoyed this first time beach experience and was reluctant to leave the shore. A ball carried by him was lost to the sea. It was an orange plastic ball which would float and maybe, traverse oceans to reach some destination unknown.He looked dejected as we brought him back to our hotel room. Through out the remainder of the day, he would point at the direction of the white sandy beach and urge us with his eyes to take him out there to play. Mercifully, our hotel had a large pool to satiate his hydrophilic pursuits. He and Chaitra would laze at the pool for hours together blissfully, regardless of the blazing overhead sun.He had a dragon float which became a part of his body for the next few days. He would walk with a float around him even in the hotel lobby and rooms. Some kids just love water. I think all of them do. They would play, splashing around water in the shallow kiddie pool.At times,Chaitra would be busy in the deeper waters practising her butterfly strokes. I used to enter the knee deep shallow kiddie pool then and play with my son till our bodies tanned. It was the best experience for both of us. An invisible bond was developing between us as a result of time being spent together which was a rarity in our day to day busy life. Our building complex has a oly sized swimming pool which is a much favoured haunt of the kids.It has been 5 years since I moved in here but my feet are still dry. I have never stepped inside the pool so far. I am a hydrophobic person who hates water.I do not like water on my skin. I maybe allergic to chlorine. I am afraid of water. My fears may have no basis but I am scared of drowning. A panic attack occurs as soon as I visualise deep placid pools or stormy oceans.Any water above my knee level send shivers down my spine.The kiddie pool is the most I can venture out. My wife gets visibly upset when I disallow her to take part in water sports or para sailing. I see inherent risks and dangers fraught in any aqua sports. Some fears are so deeply imbibed in us that it may take several lifetimes to overcome them. I am a happy person outside on terra firma when I take care of the cameras, phones and clothes of my family who are indeed happily enjoying in the pool.I click their pictures and enjoy the scene. I order drinks or juices for them and am glad to serve them.I run around fetching floats and towels for them. I may be scared of drowning in water but I look forward to drowning in their happiness and love...

A LAZY BOY.

He had indeed become a lazy boy. He used to sleep all day on his couch watching TV when awake. Reading was given up a few years back by him. His eyes used to droop and fail to focus on the fine print. The day used to be spent watching wrestling and cricket matches. He used to admire the rippling muscles and the athleticism of the players. With a weakened body but a strong steely resolve he used to imagine himself playing cricket and wrestle fighting with God. He was 22 years old and only one question bothered his mind. Why was he still alive? He remembered his sprightly school days when he used to run around and play with the kids with gay abandon. The memories used to fill his sallow eyes with tears. Life had been cruel to him. One not so fine day, when he was 10 years old he realised a difficulty in climbing stairs. His attentive parents immediately sought counsel and the doctor after a battery of tests arrived at the dreaded diagnosis of muscular dystrophy. He would live upto 18 years and mostly a dependent life confined to the bed or a wheel chair. A horde of healers were tried to restore power to his muscles but all to no avail. The parents slowly accepted their fate. The poor sad boy, his life, whatever was left of it. The parents withdrew him from school and focused all their energy and time to be with their boy. The muscles soon started their incessant march of atrophy. He was reduced to a skeleton with some skin on it. He never looked in the mirror and became a recluse. After he became 18 years old, he and his parents would daily look at the calendar and cry, fearing that his time would come soon now. God had planned further misery for him and further agony filled 4 years passed by. He gave up eating solid food as his pharyngeal muscles failed to swallow. He was admitted a couple of days back in my hospital for IV fluids and nutrition. Seeing his plight, tears rolled down my cheeks. His parents too joined me however their tears had dried a long time back. They were praying to God to end his misery. His breathing also had become a strenuous laboured exercise. When death would come, he would not put up a fight and lazily embrace it. He had no strength left in him. 'He that is down need fear no fall' I sometimes wonder about the existence of God. How can he bear such plight of his own children?

KANYADAAN.

It is under the most pathos filled yet humane circumstances that we have decided to bless a solemn union of two souls.

My daughter had fervently wished for our maid's marriage last month when we had visited the temple.It was a noble innocent thought from her side.When the children pray, God has to listen.He has to bow down to selfless wishes. He exists for them.

Shubha was Doogloo's best maid ever.She took care of him like an elder responsible sister.She had become like a part of our family. Doogloo used to run behind her all the time and she, behind him. He was happily looked after. Mind you Folks, he is a very difficult kid to discipline as he has naughtiness oozing out from every pore of his body. She used to feed him and make him sleep singing lullabies of her native town. She used to play like a kid in the garden and the play park. Taking care of him was her only priority in life. If he fell sick and refused to eat she would also sleep without eating. An invisible bond had been established.

Shubha had seen a guy around a year back and had expressed a desire to settle with him. He was salesboy in a mall and distantly related to her. They both liked each other but her parents were a thorn in the flesh. They consistently objected to their union citing illogical and absurdly weak reasons for the same. I knew their sad poor hand to mouth background but I kept quiet.

Their 2 daughters worked and sent money back home. Their survival depended on these earnings. Marriage would mean an abrupt cessation of the flow of money hence they resisted her marriage. The cash cow would stop giving milk to them.

Shubha is almost 26 now and not growing younger by the day. The guy had waited for over a year now. Nothing could stop this union now. She decided to take the plunge and is going to get married after 2 days. She is happily shopping, going to the parlour and applying henna to her hands.

I salute her guts and independence. Her parents have decided to boycott the event. They are in a state of shock and denial.

Doogloo and Chaitra look forlorn and sad nowadays as they have realised that Shubha is no longer gonna stay with them now on. A new maid has already walked inside our house and is strongly attempting to be friends with them.

Shubha's farmer parents live in a drought struck town. Last year, her father had even contemplated suicide. We had shipped some cash urgently to avoid the crisis. Their fears are justified to some extent.

I do not know whether they are right or wrong. God has not given me such powers to be judgmental.

From Shubha's side, We are the only guests.

Kanyadaan will have to be carried out by us.

Shubha Mangal Saavdhaan!