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!

A DEBT OF CHILDHOOD.

It was early in the morning when she arrived at our home looking frail and tired of her long journey from our native town. Savita was our new caretaker. She was a very distant relative of my dad. We were small kids and my parents were working so it was a necessity to have one.Savita came in a floral dress which looked weather beaten. She came from a very poor farming family and this new job would help her family back home.

Savita stayed with us for nearly a decade and took good care of us. She was a strict maid who insured discipline in us.We would consider her as a part of our family.She became a metamorphosed person with new dresses, lip stick and powder on her dark face.She also was growing along with us and soon wedding bells rang for her. She settled in the city. We were very sad kids that day. After all,She had been a part of our growing up years.

Time flies away and people get busy in their own enmeshed lives. Her visits became very sporadic and soon a solitary annual phone call was the only means of contact with her. I always remembered her fondly.

Yesterday afternoon my door bell rang and I was pleasantly surprised to see Savita with her son. She had come to invite us for her daughter's wedding.

She was as excited as a small child. She was very happy for her daughter who would now settle in a building flat and move out of her shanty chawl. The bride groom was a bank employee to boot. She was on cloud 9. Her unfulfilled dreams would come true for her daughter atleast.

Savita's husband was a watchman who earnt a paltry sum which he wasted on alcohol every night.She used to cook at a couple of houses to sustain her household. It was a sad struggle for her everyday and everynight. Her current enthusiasm and happiness belied her abject status.She had only her daughter's marriage, uppermost in her mind.

She waxed eloquent about her wedding plans, the hall, the menu and the sarees and the decor. She had saved every penny for this day.The marriage would be conducted in a low budget. There would be compromises and cut shorts.

I went into my room and cried, hugging Mansi whose eyes also were moist.

Her child like enthusiasm despite her shoe string budget really made me sad.

She also mentioned that she had just come only to invite us without any monetary expectation.

I did what I could do best. I had to repay my debt of childhood.

We spend so much on luxuries without batting an eye lid.

My act of kindness would atleast mitigate her current trouble.

Seeing the red notes amounting to nearly half her wedding budget, she just hugged my mother and cried in sobs.

We all cried yesterday.

TOY STORY..

We have a small room in our home behind the hall. We store stuff over there.

The attics have long disappeared from current homes by the greedy builders who try to build as many floors as possible in the given space.I have been to places where an odd out stretched yawn would hurtle my hands towards the ceiling fan.

My store room is crammed with an exotic collection of all the available toys in our town. Birthdays and pampering relatives have helped the cause further. There are soft toys, hard toys, cars, trains,doll houses and various board games too. If a new toy is desired by my kid on a daily basis, the room would never be tired of providing them. The toys sing and dance regaling the kids. Some jump in the air. My store room looks like a toy shop. The very act of entering and removing a toy also requires a lot of dexterity and care in the stuffed room. They keep on replicating exponentially like rabbits.

A curious incident happened that day in my place which set my bells ringing. My kids were playing with a toy G I Joe soldier who could fly in the air for a short distance with the aid of a rotating fan attached above his head and a battery powered generator. I had bought this toy only looking at the incessant pleas of my daughter.The soldier set me back by an astronomical figure which was the monthly income of our maid, sustaining her family. The kids were playing and suddenly the soldier flew out of our window. The soldier crashed down on the floor and a car just ran over him. I went down to look at the dismembered toy. I felt bad for him.

When I went home,the kids were merrily playing with some other toy. They had no guilt or remorse over loss of the soldier. They casually asked and moved on. If one toy went away there were others to take their place. This incident alarmed me and I thought of some action with its resultant consequences.The kids had to be taught a lesson which would make them value their possessions.

I remembered a small plastic car which was my sole companion during a part of my childhood. I used to eat, sleep and even shower with the car. It was a sturdy companion and break proof too. The car had become an extension of my body and at no times would I be seen without the car. I treasured it.I valued it. My brother too had a similar car and we would play racing games. We had the best of times. We would enjoy even the smallest niceties in life, those days.

We were not spoilt with many choices.

'Take it or Leave it' was the mantra chanted by my parents.

I still thank my parents for inculcating a sense of value in early years of life.

Last Sunday saw a massive exodus of toys from my place. The store room now contained only a handful of toys. The kids were allowed to keep only their most favoured toys. The orphanage authorities were flabbergasted with the number of packed and unused toys donated last Sunday. Each and every orphan would at least have a couple of toys to play with.

The kids were happy that day. They felt a hitherto unexperienced joy in sharing their toys with the unfortunate ones in the society.

I see them now more attached to their toys, taking good care of them.

Maybe, they will thank me in the latter years of my life.

ABSENT HEART SOUNDS.

Mr Gopal happily walked into my consulting room the other day to share some good news with me. He was a NRI, settled abroad for the last few years. His trips to India were infrequent and only materialised when either of his parents fell sick.He in a relieved tone mentioned about the admission of his parents in an old aged home. His business was expanding and that meant fewer trips to India.His heart was abroad and getting smaller, day by day. I knew that his parents were not happy with this decision but their whimpers and grumblings failed to move their son.
I was perplexed by the son's happy demeanour. He was washing hands off his parents in an aseptic acceptable manner.

I revered my parents,always sought their company and counsel. They were just another part of me. Their mere presence in the house instilled a sense of security in me. My kids loved to play around them. I used to feel blessed by their auspicious presence.
As they withered with age, our duty was to love them even more. Sending them away to some old age home was a sacrilegious act.

The young couple had happily decided to send their 8 year old child to a boarding school. They claimed that it was a good thoughtful decision ensuring a better future for their child. They were displacing their responsibility. I wondered about their problems which made them take this drastic step. I pitied their pseudo satisfaction in this horrific decision.

A growing child needs the loving comfort and shelter of his parents all the time. To teach him rights and wrongs of life. To pamper him. The parents had missed this vital fact, glaringly. Their myopic stance would distort the long term vision of their innocent child. I miss my kids even when I am off to work. I call them up frequently, just to hear their sweet jargon.The mere thought of my daughter's marriage in the future brings tears to my eyes. Sending them away would indeed break my heart.

We work day in and day out to seek comfort for our elders and a secure future for our young ones.

Some people fail me.

I think they fail themselves too.

When I auscultate their chest to listen to the heart beats. My ears fail to detect any sounds.God never gave them hearts.

SPARE THE ROD.

We, as kids used to be petrified of our disciplinarian dad. A stern gaze at us would send us shivering to our rooms to hug our compassionate mom. She was a kind, all encompassing umbrella of solace for us.Dad used to love us a lot but expected a lot from us. We had to adhere to time tables and study rigorously under his watchful hawk eyes.Play time was also rationed for us. Movies and Dinners at a restaurant were fixed on Thursdays. Friday was an off for him.

We rarely failed to abide by his rules. A smile and a pat on our heads used to send us kids to seventh heaven. We used to play truant at times ignoring the schedules in his absence. Our bedroom window was adjacent to the road and it offered us a view of his arrival time.As soon as his familiar figure ambled by with a newspaper in his hand and a brief case in the other hand, we would scamper and tidy up our house and sit on the study table as if we were trying hard to crack some hard laws of Quantum Physics.He usually saw through our lies and used to smile slyly at us.

I, an elder son, understood responsibilities and the reality of a middle class hardship filled life at a very tender age. My younger brother was a pet and shielded by me as well. The fear of displeasing my parents motivated me to drive myself to greater heights. I was a diligent student and never let them down. Their pleasant faces used to fill my soul with happiness.

1980-It was Diwali time and I was wearing a velvet corduroy trousers with a shimmering shirt. The dress had cost a princely sum those days. I went to play cricket in our compound. I was batting and as I ran for a cheeky single at full speed, my gallop was broken by the falling bat and I tumbled badly scraping my right knee badly. I saw a big gash on the new trouser and began crying. My friends thought I was hurt and gathered around me. I said that I was fine. An even bigger laceration on my skin hid beneath the velvet trousers.I was oblivious to pain and the wound on my knee. I was worried about the tear in the trousers more than anything else in the world.I went home and immediately hid the trousers in the ward robe.My wound was glaring at everyone, saying hello to my dad. He personally dressed up the wound for me and asked me to be careful. My mom later, went to her tailor and darned the tear in my trousers. I was saved by her that day. I was somehow,subconsciously afraid of my dad's reaction.

2000-I was driving in my new car on the highway, listening to loud music. A lost truck suddenly cut corners and attacked the left side of my car. The grill tore through my doors like a hot knife through butter. It was an accident but I was not at fault at all. The shining car looked pale and sad with one half of its side ripped off. I went into an immediate panic attack. I was at a loss of words to describe the mishap to my dad.

Mustering some courage, I dialled his number and described the accident in a hurried manner. He asked me just one question, "Are you okay, Ajay?" I was relieved and said that I was fine. He asked to me leave the car at the side and return home. As soon as I reached home, He hugged me and cried. He thanked God for saving my skin.

All throughout my life, I was wrong in interpreting his actions. He cared for me and loved me utmostly. His discipline meant only one thing.He wanted me to be the best in life. His strictness was only superficial,like a hard kernel of coconut but soft from within.

2012-I am a doting father for my children.I am relatively mild when compared to my dad but I too ensure discipline for my kids. Low grades in school elicit an unpleasant response in me. The TV goes off cable for a few days till the grades are restored to their high glory. My son's tantrums are sometimes dealt with 'time outs' when we keep him alone in the balcony for a few minutes till he becomes quiet and cheerful.

Discipline is necessary in Life.

A few days back, I encountered a friend of mine who was doing odd jobs to make his ends meet. He had squandered opportunities all his life, right from school days.He blamed his dad along with himself for his current plight. He lamented that his dad never corrected or disciplined him. A firm slap would have aborted his vagrant ways in the early budding years of his life.

I read my newspapers in the wash room. It saves time.I fold them properly and keep them on my dad's table.He would yell at me if I wet the papers with the basin water which I used to, at times.

My dad passed away 5 months back. Yet, the newspapers are always neatly kept on the table by me.

I do not want to displease him.

GERMOPHOBE FINGERS.

I pride upon my neatly trimmed manicured finger nails.I hydrate my fingers with soft moisturising creams to keep them supple.I am a germophobe and do not readily shake hands with strangerly hands which could have been in any god forsaken places.I wash them after their persistent enforced hand shakes.

The white clothed, yet nakedly ambitious ingrates came at my door to clamour my support for them. They bragged about their various achievements over the last 5 years which were probably conjured up by them.The suburb was as decrepit as ever with the overflowing sewers and expedition worthy, pot holed roads. The once green parks were stripped of the grass tops and lay barren. The suburb was in a state of anarchy. The power cuts regularly crippled us and the rising prices of essential commodities were shooting through the roofs day by day. An air of dissatisfaction lingered around the suburb.The rich rode in their cool over sized vehicles while the hoi polloi walked in a heated disgruntled state.The entire populace were in a state of impotence, unable to react at all.

A thought of rebellion germinated in a small percent of the crowd. The clean white capped ones got support in the initial movement but slowly were marginalised and eventually fizzled out. Nothing could stand the might of the corrupt rulers. Days would come and go but things would remain the same.

Everyone in the electoral fray had their own axes to grind. The parties never mattered, all that they ever wanted was their own slice of crumbling pie. They were the cyclic marauders and ravagers who had the official right to strip the city's naked core.
They had our permission.
They had our votes.

I live a guiltless life, I dont blame myself and never live in a denial mode.

I have never entered a voting booth.
I understand the futility of that entire process.

My manicured nails are clean as ever.

They do not bear any ink of guilt,submission or any 'germs' of corruption.

My opinions and beliefs may be open to protracted debates.

Last week, my son rushed to greet me at the door proudly showing an ink tattoo on his index finger.He had been immunised with a vaccine, was happily prancing around. The vaccine tattoo would 'protect' him through out life. Today also, some gullible adult folks will show off their inked fingers as if they have laid their lives for the country by voting.

Little do they know, their future is 'unprotected' as ever.

LOST CHILDHOOD.

She was a middle aged lady who was the cynosure of all eyes in our old society. In the 80s, She was considered too advanced for that decade. She was always dressed in dazzling sarees and sleeveless blouses, hair cut short in auburn brown colours. Red lipstick oozing out from the lips and a lily fragrance left by her in the air wherever she passed by. We were kids and overheard our peers calling her 'sexy'. We never knew the meaning of the word. She spoke fluent accented English and walked tall with her high heeled shoes. The shabbily dressed ladies of our society secretly admired her but used to scorn her. She was the embodiement of their unfulfilled middle class dreams.She was a bold lady,They naturally used to avoid her.

Her husband was an alcoholic whose sole purpose in life was to fight with her day in, night out.He worked at some place for a pittance which hardly used to fuel his liquor budget, leave aside food and clothing. They had 2 dysfunctional kids who were in a runny nosed,perpetually dishevelled state.Their maternal uncle, settled abroad was the only saviour for the family. He used to look after the family.

Every evening was a fashion parade for the lady when she used to go out. Where she went was a matter of intense speculation and a hot topic of discussion amongst the members of the society. They doubted her character and labelled her as a 'loose lady'. Tongues wagged freely in that era.People used to bother about others,a wee bit more than themselves.But, no one had any evidence to back their accusations.

We never bothered them and got accustomed to their daily brawls.The kids grew up to be real pests who had no social norms and cuss words flowed from their mouths like water from a sea. They hardly attended school and were frequently seen loitering in the streets. The seeds of void in their lives were carefully sown by their good for nothing parents.They were the victims of a disturbed family. I pitied their docile decent neighbours who bore the maximum brunt and spent sleepless nights.

A decade passed and a few things changed. The lady aged and lost her marbles.She too became an alcoholic and sank into depression. The kids grew physically but with shrunken brains. The brawls were more vociferous as the kids too joined in. Fist fights and a free for all ensued in this mayhem. The deprived kids vented their fury on the hapless couple. Their father would disappear for days together. The lady had grown frail and virtually stopped eating. She would sit at the window sill and abuse for hours together. They had become an unbearable nuisance for the society.

One day after the yelling and yelping got out of hand, I along with my friends pushed open their door to see a ghastly sight. My blood curdled and hair stood out of every pore of the body. The lady was sprawling on the floor and the kids were jumping on her abdomen repeatedly from a substantial height of a stool. Why this satanic depravity? was the question lingering on my mind. We berated the kids and took them to the police.They shrugged their shoulders and pleaded helplessness. After a stern warning, they were let off.

One quiet afternoon, we were playing cricket in our compound. Yet, more was in store for us,We were flabbergasted to see the lady descend the stairs wearing nothing at all. We were scared to see her in such a plightful state. We did react by swinging our bats at her to push her back into her first floor house. The situation had gone out of control now.We were deeply affected by this episode.

Some newly formed social group got a call from our committee and promptly put her in a nearby mental hospital. The kids were taken over by child welfare foundation. Their father was nowhere to be seen.

PRESENT-

The kids are all grown up now. They eke out their living doing okay jobs. They have lost their parents. They look decent and behave in a well mannered way. They have attempted to catch up with their lives.
They do not recollect any memory of their parents.
They have buried their past.
Tears stream down their cheeks as they gaze at their photographs on the wall.
One question is uppermost in their mind,
God! Can you give us back our lost childhood?