Amritsar – The Gilded City (Part 1 – The Journey)

Leaving hundreds of early morning squatters behind in the suburbs of Delhi, our train to Amritsar made its way swiftly into the heart of lush green Punjab where miles and miles of farmland spread like a butter soft quilt over the landscape. Villages dotted the land for as far as one could see. Well fed cattle grazed tranquilly and red and blue tractors chugged their way through fields. Our coach carried a mixed bag of passengers. There was a large group of elderly military veterans – both men and women. Most men in this group sported snow white handlebar moustaches that were quite the rage amongst military men a few decades ago. The women were sleek and fit despite their ripe age. They spent their hours on the train debating convivially about current affairs like the recent OROP bill, tension at the Indo-Pak border etc. It was nice to see them as it reminded me of my own parents who would have felt right at home with these gentlemen and ladies.

Then there was the quintessential Indian-American family on their annual vacation to India. The kids were armed with iPads to ward off an ailment that seems to assail the young very frequently these days – Boredom. They spoke in thick accents that no one but their parents seemed to understand. The parents, on the other hand, were well equipped to battle an Indian menace of another kind altogether – Germs! With swathes of disinfectant wipes and bottles of scented hand sanitizers, Indians who come back after years spent abroad, try to annihilate all generations of germs around them by furiously scrubbing and wiping every surface that they might deign to touch.

And then we had the nauseatingly love-struck newlyweds. This is in fact a unique subsection of mankind. The male and female counterparts are so engrossed in each other that they look like one giant glob instead of two separate individuals. The excessive love that is oozing from each pore on their bodies aids in this fusion. Braving the sharp lacquer work on the girl’s twenty two dozen glass bangles and the skin-repelling fabric of the guy’s shirt, the two remain firmly glued to each other.

Keeping Abu entertained and busy throughout the 7 hour journey was not a big challenge. There were many sights that kept him peeled to the window. Stacks of large shipping containers that looked like life-sized Lego blocks, baby goats frolicking by a gurgling stream and a gaggle of geese merrily waddling away were just a few of them. The excitement of being inside the womb of an actual train made him even more gleeful.

Having heard endless tales of the delicious food that Amritsar has to offer, we were eager to sample some of its famous wares. As our train pulled into Amritsar Junction right around lunch time, we happily scooped up our meagre luggage and our not-so-meagre toddler and headed straight to one of the most iconic eateries of Amritsar – Makhan. It is here that we had our first taste of the much talked about – Amritsari Fried Fish. Crisp and mildly flavoured with salt and chaat masala, the fried fish at Amritsar is not like anything I have tasted before.  The thin and crunchy outer layer is a perfect encasement for the succulent fish inside. Even though it is fried, there is no oily after-taste in the mouth upon eating it. The Amritsari Fried Fish is a must-try if someone is visiting Amritsar. The naans and the kulchas at Makhan are to die for too as are the chicken ra-ra and the paneer tikka masala. After eating at Makhan I can safely say that if I were to place the same order at any popular eatery in Delhi, it would taste half as scrumptious as it did here at Amritsar.

From Makhan we could think of nowhere else to go but our comfortable hotel room where a large bed awaited us. All those carbs that we had ingested at Makhan were beginning to have a stronger effect than any prescription sleep medication and soon all three of us were out like lightbulbs...to be continued

India Diary - Of Animated Monkeys, Celebrity Parrots and Marble Elephants

Curtains of fog cloaked the ancient city of Agra at the crack of dawn one morning in early January. A fog so thick that walking through it felt like ferreting through a bucket of whipped cream. Despite the hindrance it posed to daily lives, the streets had already begun whirring into action. Store shutters were noisily rolled up by bedraggled shopkeepers, boys and girls with bands of oil-slicked hair stuck to their heads restlessly waited for school buses and milkmen donning snug balaclavas and sweaters pedaled their way through routes where dozens of families waited for them to ladle fresh milk into their milk-pots.

Amidst all of this, troops of red-faced monkeys casually went about their business, scouring rooftops for food, picking ticks off each other or simply watching their human descendants crank start a brand new workday. Dragging their coiled tails behind them, these dusty brown creatures ambled from one roof to the next with a confident air of being very much at home in the city. Had they been fashionable enough to dress up in a ‘conical hat and red jacket’ ensemble, they would have quite easily passed off as over-sized replicas of Abu the monkey from Aladdin. Even so, thanks to them and the vaulted exteriors of aging constructions, the city wore an esoteric, ‘Arabian Nights’ glow.

Negotiating a maze of arterial alleys, choked with piles of garbage and rows of houses stacked cheek to jowl; we made our way to the hallowed site of Mumtaz Mahal’s final resting place, the grandeur of which has earned it a place on the list of the Seven Wonders of the World. On our final mile, the congestion suddenly disappeared as the confined lane gave way to a wide cemented road. It appeared as though recovering from a bout of population and pollution induced flu, the city had finally blown its nose clean and was now taking a deep, refreshing breath. The russet walls of the Red Fort ran alongside, directing us to the parking lot at the monument’s doorstep which turned out to be a colourful mosaic of cars with hilariously corny bumper stickers (Gussa nahi, Pyaar chahiye), scooters with shiny tassels on their handles, flamboyantly decorated albeit malodorous camels with equally jazzed up carts hitched to their backs and battery operated rickshaws that looked like three-legged mules.

Like an apparition, the Taj Mahal rose from the grip of a cloud of fog that, instead of thinning, seemed to be getting denser by each passing hour. In the vicinity, a quintessential coterie of pale, light eyed foreigners clutching ‘Lonely Planet’ guide books and hi-tech cameras were fighting a losing battle to deter a pack of touts that had hungrily descended upon them. Steering clear of the smooth talking salesmen and the harried bunch, I slipped on the gauzy shoe covers that are required to be worn over footwear before entering the mausoleum and walked into the marble monolith. This wasn’t my first time at the Taj, yet it’s intricately carved and delicately filigreed features did not fail to enthrall me. Even though it is a mausoleum that is said to signify the angst of a bereft husband over the death of his beloved wife, the pulchritude of the Taj was sufficient to shoo away any lugubriousness that the story threatened to bring about. 

Shah Jehan’s second love – that for the cool confines of marble structures, seems to have rubbed onto Agra dwellers over centuries. Treated as a mark of prosperity, slabs of marble are still used extensively as building material here. If not the whole house, at least the floors in most houses are made of either the original mottled white marble or its fancier coloured variants. In the form of a small marble elephant with a lapis lazuli flower inlaid on its rump, a piece of this obsession made its way into my luggage as well.  

As it turned out, the poker-faced camels that welcomed us at the Taj weren’t meant to be the last animals to greet us that day. Our foray into the behemothic Agra Fort began with sighting a jalapeno coloured parrot with a bright red beak, lounging blithely in a slight nook in the wall while amusing itself by posing like a diva for the tourist cameras. The ease with which animals blend into public spaces in India has always tickled me. For instance, it is completely natural for traffic to come to a standstill as a cow parks herself in the middle of the road, lazily chewing her afternoon cud. Similarly, a horse trotting languidly next to a car on the main road is not a sight that will make the driver do a double take before succumbing to a stroke. Herds of goats making their way back to their barns at the end of a long day seem to commiserate in loud bleats with their human counterparts who share the same back alleys on their way home. It is thus a country where livestock is not confined to the countryside; it has equal rights to enjoy the glitter and glamour of city life as well.

Examples of enterprising Indians conjuring opportunities out of thin air can be seen in abundance at sites like the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort. At the gates of the Agra Fort, my ears pricked up as the sound of a flurry of excited German commentary mouthed by a puny Indian lad with a shock of disheveled hair drifted by. Upon closer inspection I found that he was a tourist guide who made a living by showing German tourists around. The fact that he spoke their language made even the oft stingy Germans loosen their purse strings instantly. Later, as I explored the fort, I found Russian, Japanese, Mandarin and Cantonese speaking tourist guides too, seeking those who preferred listening to the enchanting tales of history in their own dialects. These tales mostly sounded authentic and got a thumbs-up from Google but they were also laced with a handful of fabricated figments, sprinkled on to add a pinch of drama.

Then there were those selling a deluge of articles on mobile carts. Cut from the same cloth as their ‘tourist-guide’ cousins, these hawkers were difficult to shake off as they attached themselves inextricably by our side while trying to convince us that theirs was the best deal in town and that ignoring them was a grave folly that would come to haunt us later. Quick to deduce the needs of their prospective clientele, their wares were a motley collection of plastic souvenirs, memory sticks for cameras, suspiciously flimsy plastic bottles with muddy ‘mineral water’, feeble key chains, tacky fridge magnets, pencil torches, picture postcards and a variety of quick bites packaged in transparent cellophane paper.

One of the most crucial messengers of love in India is food. Aaloo kachoris fried to a golden crisp, flaky bajre ke (pearl millet) paranthe ready to be dunked in flavourful curries, syrupy jalebis fried in skillets of bubbling hot shudh ghee and stuffed paranthas fresh off the stove with a blob of homemade butter melting atop into a rich pool of creamy indulgence – they all carry calorie laden tidings of deep rooted affection. The best season to partake of this largesse is the winter as our perennial love for food seems to peak just as the first winter chills start seeping into our houses. Luckily, I found myself quite in time for it. With each day starting with a steaming cup of sugary tea spiked alternately with black pepper and ginger and ending with a generous helping of flaming red gaajar halwa, I was in food paradise.

A few added inches to my waistline, a satiated tongue, a trumpeting marble elephant, a picture book brimming with stories and an undying urge to visit again are souvenirs from my days in Agra. They remind me of a city that is slowly but surely making its way into my heart.

India Diary - Exploring the Enchanting Ruins of Old Bhopal - Part 2

A pea-shaped face peeked from behind a set of rusted iron doors at the Taj Mahal palace as I firmly rapped the heavy door-knocker against its metal backrest. “I wish to look around”, I said determinedly in response to the quizzical expression that stared back at me. The possessor of the tiny, question-marked face – Abhinav, a young boy of perhaps 15 turned out to be one of the three caretakers who had been bestowed upon the responsibility of guarding the premise. At first, he seemed mighty reluctant to let me in, let alone explore, but a healthy dose of incessant cajoling and emotional blackmail made him buckle and agree to show me around. 

Moments ago, fuelled by the tea at Raju tea stall, I had been high as a kite at the thought of exploring the ruins of Begum Shah Jahan’s castle which, if I were to believe the rumors, was a magnificent structure, spread over a whopping 17 acres in the heart of the otherwise congested Jahangirabad locality. Threatening to burst my happy bubble of adventure though, was a rather sad vision that welcomed me at the venue. A decrepit, narrow frontispiece snuggled in an easy-to-miss recess by the main road. It was hard to envision a grand citadel hidden behind those doors. But, sure enough, as Abhinav cranked them open, a gargantuan forum of ruins unfurled magically like a page in a pop-up book. 

 

Within minutes of wandering with him, I realized that Abhinav’s bag-of-bones constitution was deceptive. Once he started regaling the castle’s history it was as if an electric wave of energy had coursed through his lanky frame. I could tell he loved every nook and corner of the crumbling acropolis as he bounced vivaciously from one section to the next. One of the fully intact features within the premise, he told me, was Saawan Bhado – an airy structure peppered with wrought iron spouts that were used to sprinkle cool underground water on the palace walls to temper down the excruciating summer heat. Standing beneath one of its red stone arches, I could almost smell the aroma exuded by a patch of earth, the cracked lips of which had just been caressed by a refreshing trickle.

Contrary to the hard-as-nails reputation earned by her mother and grandmother, Begum Shah Jahan (who was number 3 in the line of Bhopal’s 4 Begums) was said to be soft and lady like, with a penchant for all things beautiful like poetry, architecture and art. Her love for intricate architecture is evident from the mirror work and carvings found in the Sheesh Mahal, one of the many sub-sections of the palace. Even in its current state of abandon, the walls of Sheesh Mahal give an illusion of being studded with bits of precious stones; leading me to believe that in its hey-day, its glitter must have been quite a sight for sore eyes. From the jharokhas that hang over the adjoining Motia Talaab (Motia Lake), the twin minarets and the colossal dome of the Tajul Masjid can be seen along with their inverted mirror images reflecting in the lake. The mosque, which was also the Begum’s brainchild, is supposed to be one of the largest in Asia and is perhaps just as imposing as Delhi’s Jama Masjid or Lahore’s Badshahi Masjid.

It is said that those predisposed to literature and fine arts tend to be emotional fools by default. Begum Shah Jahan too seems to have conformed perfectly to this rule. From falling hopelessly in love with her ambitious, gold-digging tutor Syed Siddiq Hassan to upholding a 13-year long iciness towards her daughter, the then heir apparent - Kai Khusrau Jahan Begum, upon whom she squarely placed the blame for the untimely death of her first grand-daughter– there are plenty of stories that give an idea of how drama riddled the Begum’s life was. This is not to say that she was an inept ruler who turned a blind eye towards the welfare of her subjects while engaging solely in frivolous activities. A truly secular ruler, Begum Shah Jahan established a Hindu Property Trust for conserving Hindu properties. She also inaugurated the railway system in Bhopal, a project once spearheaded by her grandmother. It was projects like these and many others that made her a much loved sovereign. 

On one hand, the palace’s quiet seclusion and lack of publicity allows one to peacefully soak in its splendor without being distracted by packs of noisy tourists, annoying school children on class picnics, roguish touts trying to palm off cheap trinkets and fake guides concocting spicy stories to pique their clients’ interest. On the other hand, the government’s obliviousness towards its upkeep has forced the structure into accepting a life of neglect and subsequent decay. The flourishing jungles of wild grass that seem to have gobbled up portions of the palace, fungus laden walls that are lined with webs of pitiful fractures and rotting animal carcasses that can be found within the once sumptuous rock pile are sad reminders of the fact that the palace is fast approaching its own demise.

Yet, Abhinav seems hopeful. The local newspapers have reported that the property is soon to be converted into a fancy heritage hotel. He sees himself getting employed in some capacity as part of the enterprise and this pleases him immensely. I, on the flip side, can’t help feeling dismayed at the news even though it probably means a much needed face-lift for the palace. Chances are pretty high that this is the first and the last time that I have the luxury to pry around untroubled like a true adventurer examining prospective trapdoors or simply sit by the lake in a dreamy trance like a poet mulling over frilly ideas. 

As the sky changed into its evening garb of crimson streaked china-blue, with great difficulty I pulled my spellbound self away from the untouched beauty of a quaint castle. A castle that was once the loving abode of a wistful princess who dreamt of things like finding true love, creating a world where all faiths coexisted in harmony, providing for each of her subjects  and growing old gracefully, surrounded by a happy roost of children and grandchildren. Just as I exited, a band of grime-covered, wide-eyed urchins ambushed me, hungrily eyeing my knapsack, clawing at my arms and pointing towards their famished mouths. And just like that, the spell I was under broke, its shattered pieces taking on the form of these wretched souls who dragged me back to the real world.

India Diary - Exploring the Enchanting Ruins of Old Bhopal - Part 1

Picture courtesy - www.tripadvisor.in

The city of Bhopal is like a mysterious old bard. In a tattered gunny bag swung over one of his atrophied shoulders, he hides a treasure trove of rare gems plucked right out of history books. It takes effusive flattery, gentle persuasion and an unrelenting perseverance to get him to allow a peek into his sack of stories. But once he warms up, there is no stopping him. Not only does he whisper mystical tales from his past into eager ears, but also abets greedy eyes in shamelessly feasting upon sights that only few know exist. 

One chilly winter evening in Dec 2014, I found myself in the august company of this Methuselah of sorts, who after years of constant wheedling had finally agreed to chat with me. For the first time I experienced a Bhopal that I had never seen before – one that remains unsullied even though the rest of the city is undergoing rapid remolding in an effort to keep up with changing times. This is a section that represents an era of iron-willed Begums who ruled the city with a flair that is hard to find even today.

My peregrinations were flagged off as I stepped into the rose pink edifice of Gauhar Mahal – a 19th century palace built for the first female ruler of Bhopal – Begum Qudsia. Against its moss-encased arches a handicrafts exhibition was in full swing. In the center of the main courtyard sat a dried up marble fountain wearing yellow stains of age. Around it, the air was thick with the sweet essence of rose, lotus and sandalwood attar originating from the open vials of a hijab clad lady whose ingenious advertising gimmick was proving quite effective in luring customers. Hand-painted silk scarves hung from makeshift displays, fluttering tantalizingly in a cool breeze and life-like figures carved in brass silently beckoned clamoring patrons.

The mise-en-scene was such that it transcended all borders of time, invoking images from when Bhopal was 200 years younger. I could almost spot the sparkling anklet of a lady-in-waiting just as she disappeared behind a carved column or hear the hoof-beats as patrolling soldiers returned from their nightly vigil. Through the torch-illuminated corridors of this very palace the aristocratic Begum, who shunned the purdah amongst other regressive traditions, must have once walked, pearls tinkling and silk and brocade robes swishing around. With a shopping bag overflowing with goodies and a head overflowing with sepia toned ideas, I returned home, excited about the prospect of exploring other jewels of Old Bhopal in the coming days.

As the nebulous rays of winter sunshine escorted in a new day, another 19th century relic patiently waited for me to come calling. Hidden behind a coat of white-wash, in the busy lanes of Royal Enclave, I found Sadar Manzil. The pearl white paint that was deemed suitable for the ancient structure by new age ministers is in-fact totally inefficacious in concealing its true age. Built during the reign of Bhopal’s fourth and final female ruler - Kaikhusrau Jahan Begum, the palatial building was used as a hall of public audience where the Begum convened with her subjects. Despite the seemingly mundane administrative work that went on within its walls, it is apparent that no stone was left unturned in its beautification. The proof of this can be seen in a series of decadent murals that decorate its domed ceilings. Through charcoal wisps of decimated cobwebs and a thick blanket of dust, one can still trace the beautiful patterns of blossoming buds, dewy leaves and curling stems on the walls.

Wall Art at Sadar Manzil

Keeping up with its tradition, Sadar Manzil now houses government offices like those of the Municipal Corporation. As a result it has taken on the appearance of any other modern day government office in India. Every available inch of space bears towering stacks of old official files tied with pieces of frayed red string and brown with years of accumulated grime. Most corners and alcoves are encrusted with maroon spatters where scores of insouciant paan masticators over years have mercilessly regurgitated the contents of their mouths. Picking my way through haphazard rows of sealed Godrej almirahs, scurrying rats and piles of rubble, I made it to the terrace from where the Bhojtal or Upper Lake can be seen placidly stretched out in all its silvery grey glory. I can well imagine court poets of yore making use of this visage as inspiration for producing soul stirring poetry.

Breaking my fable-like journey for a cup of tea at the famous Raju Tea Stall at Sultania Road near Peer Gate was a revelation in itself. Who could have guessed that a seemingly footling tea stall which had innocuously elbowed its way between tightly packed hardware and kirana stores could serve the most succulent mawa jalebi and rabri, crisp pakodas and aromatic chai. Legend has it that despite its rather run-down veneer and common-man clientele, many an important government officials frequent it to get their regular fix of chai and snacks....To be continued

India Diary - A Long Road Home

The only part that can be appropriately labelled as ‘excruciating’ in a 3.5 week vacation home (India), is perhaps the 20+ hours spent cooped up in an air-plane or counting crows during layovers. An 8 hour flight from Detroit to Amsterdam, wandering aimlessly through the occluded corridors of Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport before boarding the next 8 hour flight to New Delhi, landing in New Delhi hours before the first blush of dawn, napping fitfully on the rock hard benches at the terminal and finally embarking on the last leg of the journey, a 1.5 hour flight to Bhopal – post all this, it wasn’t surprising that I was mere inches away from collapsing in a pitiful heap of cramped muscles and sore bones, yesterday.

Regardless though, the moment I stepped out of the airport at Bhopal, it was as if the familiar smells, sounds and sights of this much-loved city breathed new life into a travel-weary me. Soon enough my jet lagged eyes popped wide open in excitement as Papa meandered through the narrow by-lanes burgeoning with life and past the quiescent ‘bada talaab’ (big lake) over which a translucent curtain of mist hung low, adding manifold to the acute sense of nostalgia that was slowly setting in. The moribund yet charming pink arches of Gauhar Mahal and the quaint minarets of Tajul Masjid seemed to break into wide smiles as they welcomed me back. Even the stern looking Raja Bhoj carved in stone looked pretty pleased to see me. What accentuated the hilarity of the situation was me grinning foolishly back at all of them. This is what happens when one has an imagination that gallops faster than wild horses.

For the first few days everything feels surreal. It is as if I have stepped out of a Skype session with my parents, right into their living room. The transition from miniature 2 dimensional images on my computer screen to real flesh and blood 3 dimensional versions has left me momentarily dazed and I constantly feel the need to reach out and touch everything and everyone around to make sure that this is not a dream. Even the city pretends to unfold slowly and dramatically in front of me, making me believe that I am seeing it in a fresh perspective today.

Small town India peeks cheekily from around every nook and corner – a posse of students crowding a tin shanty, from within the charcoal walls of which a delectable breakfast of ‘poha-jalebi’ materializes on square pieces of newspaper, mothers balancing their cubs on two-wheelers while on their way to drop them at the school bus-stops and old men in monkey-caps and thick wool sweaters, emitting bursts of loud belly-laughs in the park early in the morning. Neither do I have to try too hard to hear the sounds of small town India, as they filter in seamlessly through meshed windows and make their way to my eager ears – the loud whistle of a train zipping on its tracks somewhere in the vicinity, the strains of Hindi movie songs trickling in as they play on someone’s radio-set in the neighbourhood, the cacophony of competitive honking on the roads and the constant hum of life as it goes by.

Picture this - I am sitting cross-legged in the living room, with a blanket of golden sunlight warming my legs and the sound of Ashoka trees rustling merrily in a mild winter breeze. From the corner of my eye I can see Ma shuffling from one room to another, carrying out her ritualistic morning chores. Papa is lounging on a chair in front of me with a cup of tea. He has his nose buried in today’s newspaper. On my left, my brother, Pranay is lying supine on the couch, his eyes glued to the television set on which an India-Australia cricket match is on. This is my very own paradise. None of the harshness associated with life as a grown-up touches me here. With me are those who love me unconditionally, a bookcase that groans under the weight of books from all around the world and crisp mooli/methi/gobhi paranthas that turn golden brown in Ma’s kitchen. I can speak in Hindi all day long without having to see even a hint of incomprehension on the faces of those whom I am speaking to. If this isn’t pure joy, then what is?

Pops – A Heady Shot of Life

For most of my childhood years, I believed with a certain unwavering conviction (that only kids are known to possess), that Papa was no different than one of my bicycle riding, hop-scotch playing, squeals of joy producing little friends. There was something very light hearted and guileless about him that appealed immensely to us kiddies. In a world where most fathers could be slotted in insalubrious categories like – the irritable ones who growled at the drop of a hat, the distant ones who didn’t give a hoot, the strict ones who didn’t spare the rod and the nagging ones whose lengthy sermons could lull the most insomniac ghosts to sleep – Papa shone like a solitary lighthouse whose beacon of light cut through the densest of darkness. Far from being grumpy, nasty or even preoccupied, he was, for the most part, full of life and mirth. Even when ensnared in a complex web of worries – emblematic of adulthood – he somehow managed to keep up a happy demeanour that brightened every room he walked into. Today, as I grapple with worries of my own, I can barely keep up a façade of having my act together, let alone ooze pure contentment and joy from within. How he did it all his life is a confounding mystery.

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A couple of decades later, at my wedding, after a rather hilarious encounter with him, a friend of mine emphatically stated – “Your Dad is super cool!!” Her innocuous little observation made me closely study Papa and his innate ability to build and sustain human ties. Turns out, he is in fact the quintessential ‘Yaaron ka Yaar’. That he can effortlessly wiggle his way into cliques of all kinds and all age groups, acts as an apt attestation of the above appellation. From being a hoot amidst little ones to being a worthy partner in crime to a pack of 20-somethings to being an energy packed ball of witticisms amongst his own classmates and colleagues to being kind and respectful to the oldies, yet bringing a smile to their wrinkled faces by cracking a joke here and a joke there - he is a welcome addition to any gathering under the sun. It is thus not surprising that under every second rock, in every other country around the world; we end up unearthing long lost friends of his. And when Papa meets them, it is almost like they had never parted. Rib-tickling anecdotes flow unbridled and bubbles of laughter permeate every open space and every open heart in the vicinity.

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This is not to say that Papa is just about fun and games. In the face of seemingly insurmountable circumstances, he is like a solid rock that one can lean on without a second thought. I wonder what infinite pool of worldly wisdom and resilience he draws from while patiently (and occasionally impatiently) listening to other’s woes and dishing out sound advice! Sometimes, something as simple as hearing him recite his favourite verse from the Bhagwad Geeta - "Jo hua,woh achchha hua,Jo ho raha hai,woh bhi achchha ho raha hai,Jo hoga,woh bhi achchha hi hoga" serves as a perfect antidote for all maladies. Just like a cup of hot tea, spiced with ginger and cinnamon can get rid of the most stubborn of all sniffles, a dose of Papa’s stoicism laced with veracity and a sprinkle of love can shoo away the fiercest of life’s ogre like troubles.

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Now that the sentimentalities are out of the way, let’s bring back those smiles with an account of some of Papa’s outlandish talents. His snores, for instance, are so potent that even the dead rise from their graves to stuff their ears with balls of cotton wool. If you are still able to somehow fall asleep and wake up in time, you can be privy to a magical sight  – that of him enjoying  a plateful of breakfast – a one-egg omelette, a piece of toast and some almonds. Watching Papa savour his meals can make the fullest of tummies rumble uncontrollably again. After a mandatory one hour nap in the afternoon and a cup of tea, he gears up every day for his favourite time of the day – squash time. On most days he dominates the squash court like a professional player. With the zest of an 18 year old, he smashes the ball against the red-lined wall and mercilessly crushes his opponents. His jubilation was thus not surprising the day Pranay picked up the sport. Not only did Papa gain a lifelong partner to play with but he also passed on the baton and the great news was that it had stayed in the family.

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Thirty two years ago, a pretty Pune-based damsel agreed to give up a cushy job and a cosmopolitan life to marry a strapping young officer whom she had never met. A quick peek at a thumb-sized, sepia toned picture of his was all she had to put a face to the words that consistently arrived wrapped in blue inland letter envelopes. She probably had a stomach full of butterflies and a heart full of anxieties as she read his letters and hoped that he was just as dependable as the frequency of his letters. If only I could travel back in time, I’d hold her hand and assure her of the astuteness of her decision. I would tell her that she is destined to live a happy, fun-filled life with a man who will not only prove to be a good husband but also a loving father. He is going to be the one who will sit by her and watch 3 hour long Hindi movies even though he can barely stand them, just because she loves going to the movies. He is going to share her love for travel, long drives, aaloo bondas at train stations and shelves full of books. He is going to be the one pulling her leg and breaking into loud belly laughs when she reacts and he is also going to be the one melodiously singing her favourite song - ‘Heyyy Neele Gagan ke tale’ to cheer her up on gloomy days. Since time travel isn’t yet a possibility, I will settle for the next best option, which is telling her today – “Ma, you did well!” 

Ma – The sun around which my world revolves

My earliest memories of my mother are of zipping through the streets of Secunderabad, perched precariously behind her on a shiny black moped (a cross breed between a scooter and a bicycle, popular in India) as she whisked me back from preschool each day. Those were the days when Papa was away on an assignment to Sri Lanka with IPKF and Pranay wasn’t conceived even in our wildest imaginations. To me, even at that age, Ma was a bag full of mixed experiences. Like most mothers she too transmuted from one form to another in the blink of an eyelid – from a whack wielding discipliner to a magic spinning storyteller to a tasty treats whipping culinarian to a mollycoddling soother to a stern instruction giver. And since it was just the two of us together and there was no one else to share it with, I got a taste of each version in abundance.

She was always warm and indulgent while reading aloud a chapter from my favourite books like ‘Heidi’ and ‘Lady and the Tramp’. Her eyes danced in excitement as the colourful stories unfurled. Sitting cross legged on the dining table, hanging on every word that came out of her mouth, my imagination took flights of fantasy. I would find myself hopping and skipping with Heidi and Peter amidst snow capped peaks in the Alps or trudging miserably alongside David Copperfield on his way to Dover from London or slurping a strand of spaghetti from the same bowl as Lady and Tramp. Then, as the evening wore off and the dreaded ‘study-hour’ approached, Ma became all tough and no-nonsense. With my long hair oiled and neatly braided in two thick rope-like plaits, I worked through my daily arithmetic exercises, science projects, poetry recitation and other homework under Ma’s percipient gaze.  

Note to Ma – Books will forever be my most trustworthy companions thanks to you. 

Summer vacations with Ma were always a treat. I remember one time when she caught me covetously ogling at a pretty dolls’ house featured in a popular children’s magazine. The lavish structure had a red tiled sloping roof and beautiful interiors with real wood armoires crammed full of tiny clothes, carved bed heads, mini stainless steel pots and pans, glass crockery etc. Obviously the price to be paid to own it was commensurate with all its fanciness. So, instead of giving in to my childish pipe dream, Ma sold me the idea of actually attempting to build a dolls’ house of my own. After rummaging through various knick-knacks in the store room, she unearthed a large cardboard carton which served as the frame for my house. Piece by piece we imagined and created a resplendent multi-storey structure with a small brick coloured chimney sticking out at the top, vibrantly upholstered furniture made of various odds and ends and walls covered in wallpaper made out of eclectic scraps of leftover fabric. Having enjoyed each hour of hard work that went into building it, it was no surprise that the dolls’ house became my most prized possession and occupied the best spot in my room. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for teaching me the pointlessness of extravagance and the joy of imagining and creating something out of nothing. 

The layered trifle puddings, spongy chocolate cakes, creamy rabri and other heavenly preparations that materialized from Ma’s kitchen were also quite the rage in our household. Despite being employed full time almost throughout, it was a miracle how Ma never fell short of time for conjuring such marvels. Especially on cold winter evenings when all of us curled in our favourite spots reading silently, these delicacies vanished with surprising speed. Of course, when Pranay wiggled his way into the family, the speed quadrupled. Ma’s biggest bone of contention was and probably still is the fact that whenever she peers into the refrigerator, she invariably finds at least one empty pudding bowl licked clean or a cake box relieved of its contents or a crumpled foil sans the chocolate fudge that it previously held. The futility of empty containers in the refrigerator exasperates her beyond measure. 

Note to Ma - But Ma, that’s just our way of showing how much your lip-smacking goodies are appreciated!

I must admit that as a teenager I wasn’t particularly Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Then too Ma had a multitude of plots and ploys that she used every now and then to wheedle me into doing the right things. In the process she became the recipient of many a nasty retorts from a belligerent me. If those retorts hurt her, she never made it evident. On the contrary, she’d casually brush them off and stalk away giving me the impression that she did not care much for my temper tantrums. It was her way or the highway. For instance, if I ever threw a fit over what she’d made for lunch, I’d be calmly told to leave the table at the cost of going without lunch. In a show of defiance, I would go huffing and puffing to my room and sulk there. A few hours later, with the proverbial rats doing a little jig in my stomach, I would slink into the kitchen hoping to ransack the larder which usually held treasure troves of cookies, chips and other quick bites. Alas, Ma was a seasoned player at this game. I was more often than not greeted by a big fat lock on the pantry. My plateful of food from lunch was found laid out neatly on the table with Ma quietly sitting and reading beside it. With no other choice, I would eat my own words and devour the food that I had originally turned up my nose on. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for showing me all the tricks of the trade. I will now use them gleefully on my kids-to-be.

From an assortment of tools in her tool box, she has always managed to cleverly extricate just the right one to counteract each one of my multifarious dispositions. If I ache she soothes, if I am unnecessarily stubborn she cajoles, if I make a mistake she reads me the riot act, if I show traces of false haughtiness she shows me a mirror and if I need her even in the middle of the night for an impromptu cooking lesson she is there without a hint of annoyance. If nothing else, just speaking to her makes most problems look like small potatoes. In fact, I will let you in on a little secret - arguing and fighting with her is also quite cathartic and has had therapeutic effects in the past. After all these years, I have finally accepted that she has an ingrained savoir faire to deal with me. 

Ma, Amma, Ammi, Ammoo, Mum – multiple names for a multifaceted person whom I love to bits and wouldn’t know what to do without. On her 56^th birthday, I hope she knows that she is the sun around which at least three people in this world revolve.