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!