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.