And Then There Were Three - Part 3

Amiable people. Indifferent people. People as nutty as fruit cake. People as industrious as bees. People ready to forgive anything. People ready to pick a fight over anything. People, people and more people – This is what India is mostly about, a cauldron bubbling with millions of people of all kinds.  There is not one square inch in a city like New Delhi where one isn’t part of a crowd. It is difficult to feel lonely here especially because there is always someone ready to stick their nose in your business. The point being that your business is no longer your own in India, it is communal. Unbelievable though it may seem but this heaving surge of humanity is what I missed the most each time I lived abroad.

Now that our tedious transition was a thing of the past, I was ready to bask in the relative lull that prevailed before Abu’s arrival. It was as if a storm had passed and my life was once again calm and unperturbed, much like an ocean after a tempest. Apart from the work that I continued to do for my company back in the US, there was little on my plate.  And even then, it made a world of a difference that I could now work in my pajamas with my ballooned feet propped up as opposed to being in the office, at a desk in formal garb.  All of this often makes me wonder how the world has shrunk in terms of physical distances in these past few years! It is possible to be separated by continents and time zones and yet feel as if your co-workers are working right by your side. On the other hand though, if you consider a larger perspective, as far as attenuating the more non-tangible distances like those between races, economic classes and religions are concerned; mankind still has a long way to go.

Meanwhile, Abu’s activities were peaking with each passing day. Pranay, my brother, who was also home on vacation during this time, cooked up new experiments for Abu each day. For instance, he deliberately played all kinds of music and gleefully waited for Abu’s reaction to each number. If Abu kicked on a rock number, it meant that he was going to be butch like his Mamu (uncle Pranay) and if he made his presence felt when a Hindi movie song was played, it meant that he was going to be sappy like his Mum.  Pranay also insisted that I lounge in the cozy winter sun each morning just because he felt this would keep Abu nice and warm. This was a period rife with games of ludo, books galore, great homemade food and general bonhomie. Times like these are what anecdotes are made of, stories that are wistfully reminisced for years to come.

March 13^th 2016, a day forecasted by my doctors as the day when Abu would make an appearance, rolled-in and rolled-out uneventfully. It looked like Abu was reluctant to leave his sanctuary of 40 weeks to make acquaintance with the world outside.  Finally, after extending his womb-vacation by 3 days, Abu emerged all slippery and slimy on March 16^th and said hello to those who had been waiting eagerly to meet him. It was as if it had taken him 3 additional days to make up his mind about ending his sojourn and even then he had to be coaxed and cajoled into surfacing from the crack that the doctors had made in his Mum’s tummy. I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to vacate the cozy confines of his safe cocoon. Had it been me, I would have perhaps been just as disinclined, especially after having known the complexities of life on this planet.

Out he came covered in gloop, looking like a spindly, pale lizard (or so I am told) with long fingers and delicate features. Swaddled in a soft cloth, he was presented to me like a tiny parcel, a birthday gift of sorts that had arrived 10 days before my birthday. While the rest of the world continued to function in its usual rhythm, Arjun and I stopped dead in our tracks to marvel at what we had created. Child bearing is one of the most common natural phenomena. If statistics are to be believed, 150 babies are born across the world every single minute and yet, when we actually experienced the process, it suddenly changed from what we believed was a run-of-the-mill event to an absolutely momentous, one-of-a-kind occurrence. What followed was chaos of apocalyptic proportions. That such a tiny creature was capable of emitting such high pitched howls and could possess such an insatiable appetite that it needed to be quenched every couple of hours, was utterly flummoxing. As the country celebrated the Indian cricket team’s win over Pakistan in the T20 world cup and mourned the heinous terrorist attack in Brussels, we were deeply entrenched in our own little universe, grappling with newfound responsibilities.

All hands in the house were now busy tending to Abu. No one had a second to spare. Diapers churned with surprising promptness, massages and baths were executed with tentative hands and nursing schedules were chalked with as much efficiency as possible. Life as we knew it had changed overnight. The first thing that hit me hard about this new phase was the lack of sleep. One morning, Ma found both Abu and me sprawled in the living room, bawling our eyes out, exhausted beyond our wits after a sleepless night. Imagine her dilemma when she realized that she not only had a crying new-born to pacify but also her own 3 decade old baby to deal with! With Abu nestled in the crook of her elbow and my head resting on her shoulder, she successfully soothed our jangled nerves that day. How she achieved such a feat is still a mystery to me. I may have suffered a bout of bipolarity during these days too. My spirit seemed to sway like a pendulum. Within a matter of a few hours I would go from loathing the thought of Abu growing even a day older as his tininess was so adorable to fervently wishing for the next few months to speed by as quickly as possible so that things would get a little easier.

There were heated debates about the appropriate rate of weight gain and the need for supplementing with formula. There were also lengthy discussions on the different hues of Abu’s poop – something I had never fathomed doing especially since just the thought of bodily excrement used to make me queasy once upon a time. Even the faintest hint of a smile on Abu’s face became as coveted a sight as probably a rare bird on our balcony. Battles were waged over who got to cuddle him first. Each one of us had our own methods – Arjun had a peculiar dance which entailed holding Abu and bobbing up and down like a piece of cork floating in the ocean. Abu’s Nanaji formed a recliner with his hands, on which Abu lounged like a king while Nanaji strolled up and down. Nani often flipped him over on her lap and caressed his back, giving him relief on many a colicky nights. I loved napping with him spread-eagled on my stomach, moving up and down in sync with my breath. Pranay, when he first met Abu, was so scared of holding him that he decided to just look at him from a distance. And eventually when he did pick him up, they looked like the giant and the pea with the pea balancing precariously on the giant’s shoulder.

5 months later, the house is still in a tizzy on most days. The frenzy though is more controlled and that there is a baby amongst us is no longer an intimidating thought. The once spick and span living room is now a tiny playground with Freddie, the firefly relaxing on the couch, Ellie the elephant peeking from behind the bolster and Bandy, the monkey striking acrobatic poses on the center table. Right now if I survey my surroundings, I can spot nappies drying on the back rests of dining chairs because they can’t be hung outside due to the rain and there is a baby blanket carelessly draped over a feeding cushion with a crumpled bib tossed in to add to the mess. Preeti from a prior life might have gone insane at just the thought of a living room looking like this early in the morning but today I know I must wisely choose what to spend my precious time on before Abu wakes up. Tidying up thus will have to wait because breathing life into my dying blog is the need of the hour. 

And Then There Were Three - Part 2

“How are we ever going to pack all of this and move it across continents?” I often lamented in the days that followed. All our possessions, everything that we had to show for all the years spent in the country, were strewn around like flotsam. Each time I ran my gaze over the state of affairs of our apartment, my heart skipped a beat. There was a colossal mound of books occupying an entire section of the living room. On most days I would come back from work to find Arjun diligently sifting through this heap, trying to sieve out the books that were really worthy of making the trip overseas. Being book-lovers of gargantuan proportions, this was a mighty dreadful task. We ended up donating quite a few books to the Farmington Hills city library, an action that made us feel much better about abandoning some of our books. As for the rest of our belongings, a huge part made for a sizeable handout to The Salvation Army while some other things found their way on to resale websites like Craigs’ List and MI Indians.

Selling stuff on these sites was like a lesson in human psychology as it forced us to deal with a variety of personalities. There were the stingy ones – those whose cheese paring methods made for hard bargains. One such ‘Uncle Scrooge’ came looking for a book rack one evening. Scrutinizing our hardly 2 month old cabinet like he was buying a million dollar race horse instead of a generic piece of furniture, he pointed at imaginary cracks on its glossy veneer so as to persuade us to shave off a couple of dollars. Tired of his whining and wheedling, we gave in and sold it to him for 12 dollars versus the 15 dollars that we had originally quoted. I would love to see the marble castles he built with the measly 3 dollars he saved that day. Then there were the excited ones like the lady who figured that a singular wooden chair that we were selling looked exactly like the 5 chairs she already had and hence flawlessly completed a set of 6. The sheer happiness that comes from unearthing something that you have been long hunting for was written large on her face the day she picked it up.

There was also the kid who took a fancy to my 8-cube organizer with the pretty purple and beige cloth drawers. He explained to me in great detail why I should wait for him instead of selling it off to someone else as he was trying very hard to piece together the amount by pooling his allowance money and doing additional chores for his Dad to earn the balance. His earnestness was endearing and I had no qualms in reducing the asking price to fit his budget even before he could ask. The Gujarati aunty, who brought us dhoklas and khandavis while picking up some of our kitchenware that she wanted to buy, was thoughtful beyond words. She didn’t want a discount in return for her kindness. She just assumed that we would be short on munchies as we had emptied our kitchen and wanted to make sure we didn’t go hungry. All of this makes me now believe with greater conviction that the world is a circle of goodwill after all. You do end up being recipients of generosity at some point if you keep the faith, avoid the cynicism and pump endless benevolence into the universe.

Somewhere along the way, during the 7 weeks that we had before moving, my friend C organized a cozy little baby shower (at Crispelli’s, a pizzeria and bakery) which left me misty-eyed and regretful about leaving such wonderful people behind. A friend even drove all the way from Chicago to celebrate Abu’s imminent arrival into our lives. There was so much love around that day! The baby shower was just a start to the waterworks that were to follow as my day of departure neared, although I now realize that I was nowhere close to being prepared for the degree of sorrow that was going to envelope me. As C later described the situation very eloquently in her quintessential American drawl – “It was a total shit show”.

13 pieces of luggage. That was all it took to finally wrap up whatever was left of our worldly belongings. At 4am on Saturday, December the 12^th, when all of Farmington Hills was still doused in a deep black inkiness, we loaded our rented car and headed off to the Metro Detroit airport to catch a Chicago-bound plane. In a few hours we were to board our next flight from Chicago’s O’Hare airport to New Delhi. If there was any remorse regarding the fact that all our possessions had boiled down to just 13 bags, it quickly dissipated the moment we saw the long serpentine queue at the check-in counter. It was going to take us forever to reach the counter, check in all our bags, complete the security check and traverse the rather large airport to reach the gate. As I waited nervously for Arjun to return the rental car and meet me back at the airport, the mountainous stack of luggage next to me suddenly started looking ominous.

A thoroughly scatter-brained lady awaited us at the check-in counter and after just a couple of minutes of dealing with her I was convinced that our flight was going to leave sans us. Snatching our boarding cards from her talons after what seemed like an eternity of watching her punch buttons, calculate excess baggage fee, recheck luggage weight and reconfirm airline policies for additional baggage, we sprinted to the security check area, hoping to finally encounter some good Samaritans who would let us cut ahead in line. We were lucky this time. With a whole lot of cooperation from the kind people in line and the airport staff we were able to complete the security check in no time. To the perturbing sounds of the final boarding call for our flight, we made a mad dash to the gate. Even with Abu presumably jangling in my tummy, my backpack - which held both my personal as well as work laptops - feeling like a block of iron dangling from my aching shoulders and roller-bags zigzagging behind us like crazed pets, we managed to avoid missing our flight, although it was merely by the skin of our teeth.

Digging into warm croissants and eggs never felt better and it gave us the fortification needed to kill time at the O’Hare airport. After breakfast I meandered casually through the cavernous terminals, picking some last minute treats to take back. Garret’s famous caramel and cheese popcorn was one of them. In retrospect, had I known that in a few weeks I was going to hanker terribly for its sweet and salty taste, I would have bought a larger tin instead of the minuscule one. It felt odd that we were taking a one-way flight out of the United States, perhaps because it rang with a resounding finality, almost like the end of an era. A deluge of good memories that America had given us, came flooding back like an inundated river. The clean, green, crowd-free environs were no longer going to be right in our backyard (I was in fact wrong about this) and there was no saying if and when we would ever meet the friends we were leaving behind. Then again, we were going back to our own country, a place bursting with old friends and family which made it difficult to remain melancholic for long. What I was feeling can be succinctly described in one simple word - bittersweet....To be continued

And Then There Were Three - Part 1

Baby Fingers

Pudgy, pudding-like arms and legs, gummy grins, twinkly eyes and moods that shift from happy giggles to not-so-happy wails in the blink of an eyelid – the tiny being (let’s call him Abu, simply because he reminds me of Abu, the monkey from Aladdin) who has been gobbling up my days and nights much like the eponymous caterpillar from Eric Carle’s book – ‘The very hungry caterpillar’, is all this and more. Such is the dearth of time lately that it feels like I am barely able to catch my breath, let alone ruminate on more complex ideas of the literary kind. At the same time, though, an existence devoid of pen and paper has made me uneasy enough to finally squeeze out the last dregs of energy and invest them in the pursuit of resurrecting my blog and thereby my personal almanac.

Having been created in capricious Michigan weather, Abu rightfully exhibits a kaleidoscopic disposition. Ah, Michigan, there is a tiny bit of you in my baby too! Allow me to digress, albeit only for a moment, to fondly remember a land that I recently left behind in favour of the comforting familiarity offered by the motherland. Ochre autumns and chalky winters, Tomatoes Apizza and The Breakfast Club (our favourite restaurants), gregarious friends and memories woven with them – Michigan, you will forever be missed. With my propensity for nostalgia, I seem to have merely gone from pining for family and friends in India to longing for friends and colleagues in Michigan. Oh, how the tables have turned!

Farmington Hills, Michigan, July 2015 - Not so long ago, I remember sitting at the doctor’s office, staring at a faint smudge on a black and white, Polaroid-like ultrasound image. That this amorphous speck was slowly but surely going to bloom into a wiggly monkey with a pug nose, a head full of ringlets and a personality to be reckoned with, sounded pretty preposterous at the time. Just as I was taking off on the magic carpet of my outlandish imagination to concoct tales of fantasy about this new development, the travails of the dreaded first trimester hit me like a sack of bricks, brusquely cutting my flight of fancy short. For the uninitiated, this simply meant that my favourite ‘spaghetti and pizza’ binges were replaced by bland bread and butter to avoid the unpleasantness of acid re-flux and my evening runs suddenly turned into evening naps to fight a losing battle against ever-building exhaustion. Consequently I turned into a stark raving lunatic, ready to bite people’s heads off.

Things weren’t too different at the office either.  Imagine if you will, a cantankerous, carrot-munching ogress stamping her way through the office alleys, decimating everything and everyone in her path, whilst harried co-workers scurry helter-skelter, anxious to get out of trouble’s way. Yes, I shamefully admit that for almost a quarter of a year, I was that ogress. It didn’t help that I was also growing in size with each passing day. “Is she ingesting full-grown humans now?” colleagues wondered while cowering in their cubicles. To add to my woes there was an inevitable trip that had to be made all the way to India in order to get our visas renewed. Lodged in a cramped aircraft seat for over 20 hours was an unsavory idea that made my already sick stomach turn. But, what had to be done, had to be done.

New Delhi, October 2015 – As I debarked on Indian soil, all my afflictions melted away in the scorching heat. Elbowing my way into a packed metro-train at New Delhi, it occurred to me that right then Abu was perhaps forming his very first impressions of this bustling country. Far-fetched though this notion was, it still tickled me pink. The soaring mercury, jostling crowds and a mélange of chatter were all welcoming him back to the land of his ancestors. As if responding to the mad pace at which Dilli-waalas were teeming around us, he too began exploring the joy of kicking and flailing his newly formed limbs. Soon enough I could physically discern his shenanigans. It was as if a bottle of bubbly had been popped open inside my tummy and was effervescing merrily.

Interviews at the American consulate were given and visas were stamped, ensuring our entry back into what many believe to be the ultimate hallowed borders - those of the United States. Our primary chore done and dusted, I was now eager to meet family and friends. After a year of drudgery it was finally time to indulge in some good, old-fashioned pampering - the kinds that can only be doled out by one’s parents. Also, this time I carried with me a license to eat to my heart’s content and to laze around guilt-free and this was exactly what I did. Deep fried pooris and kachoris, creamy palak paneer, sugary jalebis and crumbly samosas, fleshy custard apples and plump almonds – I devoured them all like there was no tomorrow. This was also a time when people around me loved giving my belly a little rub once in a while to pass on their love to little Abu. Just when I was beginning to feel like a ‘laughing Buddha’ whose belly is rubbed to invoke good fortune; it was time to take the plane back to Detroit.

Farmington Hills, Michigan, November 2015 - 10 pounds heavier yet 10 times more affable than what I was when I had left, I returned home, raring to get back to business.  We were just starting to settle into our banausic routines when Arjun heard back from one of the leading universities in India. They were offering him a permanent faculty position – something he had been vying for, for long. It was as if all the major decisions and events in life were piling in front of us at once. Contrary to what I had naively believed all along, moving back to India wasn’t a snap-your-fingers-and-move kind of choice. To uproot our lives here and move to a country that Arjun hadn’t lived or worked in for 10 full years, to bring Abu into the world in our own country thereby changing the course of his life altogether but also making him truly one of us, to let go of my job yet again without any back-up plans – all of this made our heads spin.

In true ‘Arjun Sharma’ and ‘Preeti Sharma’ style, we left the mountain of choices to be made and the stress associated with them at home to go watch the latest James Bond flick – Spectre. Decisions could be left to cool their heels for a bit but James Bond wasn’t going to wait for us, twiddling his thumbs when he had a world to save using fancy cars and gadgets. A big bucket of popcorn and Mr. Bond’s antics set Abu off again. As I squirmed in my seat while he packed the punches in accordance with the action sequences in the movie, Abu made it quite clear that he was going to be just like his Papa and Nanaji (grandfather), both of whom are action-movie buffs.......Continued here - Part 2

The Zayeqa of Good Food

Thousands of miles and almost half of earth’s circumference away from the perennially hostile Indo-Pak border, there exists a Pakistani restaurant where an Indian like me is welcomed with warm smiles, steaming plates of kebabs and biryanis and friendly conversations. This hole-in-the-wall establishment that goes by the name ‘Zayeqa’, was discovered by me the day I had my first hankering for succulent kebabs in Detroit. Having moved from Austin where an equally Lilliputian, Persian restaurant catered to my cravings, I was instantly on the lookout for something just as worthy, if not more, to fill the rather big shoes that I’d left behind. Lucky for me, Zayeqa fit the bill perfectly and I became one of its many frequent customers.

It all began one warm summer afternoon as I lay around salivating at the sight of hot shaami kebabs being fried by Kashaf’s ammi in the Hum TV series ‘Zindagi Gulzar Hai’ that I’d been binge watching all week long. A quick Google search gave me the names of the three most popular Pakistani restaurants in the area. On a whim I picked Zayeqa, perhaps because its name called to mind images of all those piquant treats that I had been longing for.

Mellifluous sentences in chaste Urdu poured out of my phone and into my ears as I heard Aunty Z for the first time. I was placing a take-away order for I wanted to sample their wares in the warm coziness of my own room so that if I had to, I could unselfconsciously screw my nose if it turned out to be a bad choice or conversely lick my fingers clean if I was pleased. Their signature ‘Chicken Bihari Kebab platter’ was my first order which immediately became a hot favourite. Tender strips of roasted chicken delicately enrobed in aromatic masalas and served with raw, sliced onions, a wedge of lime, mint chutney and naan fresh out of the tandoor – made for a meal that not just filled me up but also left an indelible mark on my satiated palate. Thus the deal between me and Zayeqa was sealed.

There was no looking back after that first experience. Each time the husband and I felt a carnivorous urge, we headed straight to Zayeqa. Along the way, some friends from work joined the fan club and these trips became more frequent. Soon enough, Uncle and Aunty Z started recognizing me as that tiny Indian girl with an elephant’s appetite, who brought them regular business. Uncle Z, a man close to Papa in age, wears a salt-and-pepper moustache and beard and possesses eyes that twinkle in merriment when he sees me. He brims with stories of his singular trip across the border to India. The unbridled excitement that filled him up as he set foot in Delhi, the adventures he had in Amritsar, the awestruck tourist he embodied  in Mumbai, are precious vignettes he shares with us every time we visit.

Aunty Z is a calm, ever-smiling, matronly figure. Like every other Indian/Pakistani parent, she too oozes pride from every pore when she speaks about her son who is a dentist or her daughter, who is studying to become a doctor. Tell her that you feel akin to a stuffed turkey after a large meal and she will give you a quick once-over and declare, much to your satisfaction, that you are nothing but a bag of bones that needs to be nourished with good protein in the form of her famous chicken and mutton qormas. Uncle Z and Aunty Z share an endearing camaraderie that can only develop when two individuals have faced years of thick and thin together. She loves pulling his leg ever so often and he enjoys gently chiding her over frivolous things like too much sugar in a batch of mango lassi. Once you are done savoring the food as well as their comical repartee, they see you off with an affectionate ‘Allah Hafiz beta. Mummy-Papa aayein toh unhe saath leke aana. Hum vegetarian khaana bhi badhiya banaate hain.’

Zayeqa is no longer just another restaurant for me. Within its cramped 6-table premise and amidst its stacks of disposable crockery and cutlery, beats a large, loving heart that does not comprehend man made differences based on culture, class, race or nationality. It is here that I find food, people, smells and sounds that remind me of home. These people and their ways do not appear different than what I am accustomed to. That such blatant animosity breeds between our two nations despite our very many similarities is all the more flummoxing especially on a tummy that rumbles in satisfaction.  

Haider - Hamlet in Kashmir

The sludge like greyness that I woke up to this morning was a perfect nod to the movie I had picked for the day – Haider. From the moment the lights dimmed in the theatre and the movie opened to a rather dreary scene, I knew that it was going to be two and a half hours of hard hitting cinema. Through Vishal Bharadwaj’s lens we are whisked to an eerily silent village cradled in the beautiful yet bloodied Kashmir valley of the 90s. The only sound that resonates once in a while is the collective clattering of soldiers’ boots as they hit the stone pathways or the muffled whispers of those who scuttle back home, trying to make it in time before the curfew sets in. Within this premise, unfolds a tale of a boy (Haider) who returns from college to charred remains of his childhood home, a missing father (Dr. Meer) whose name now bears the black mark of a terrorist-sympathizer and a mother (Ghazala) who is seen happily humming Kashmiri folk songs with her brother-in-law (Khurram) instead of being crazed with grief.

Even though the story is primarily about Haider’s hunt for his father and his burning desire to avenge everything that he has lost, there is a haunting larger picture. To me, the poignant exchange that takes place in the first few shots between Ghazala and Dr. Meer sums it up. To Ghazala’s quivering question – ‘Kiske taraf hain aap’ (Whose side are you on - India, Pakistan or the Separatists?), the composed doctor replies ‘Zindagi ke’ (I am on life’s side). It is an exchange that is rife with many unanswered ideological quandaries. On one hand the humanitarian aspect prods us to believe that a human life, irrespective of whether it is that of a fierce terrorist or an innocent bystander, is of utmost importance. On the other hand, the possibility that the same terrorist will, in all likelihood, end up mauling anyone who poses a roadblock in his quest for validating fanatical beliefs, makes us question the humanitarian within.

That the Indian Army isn’t shown in a particularly positive light is definitely a big dampener for me especially because the story feels lopsided in its narration. This is not to say that the plight of Kashmiris whose loved ones have been taken away for interrogation is in any way less excruciating than what has been depicted. What is missing though is the delineation of the circumstances under which troops are obligated to conduct cordon and search operations and catechize those found suspicious. Contrary to what is shown in the movie, this task isn’t one that our soldiers find amusing or pleasurable.

A close personal source once shared his own experience of just how physically strenuous and mentally draining these operations are. Imagine waking up at 2:30 am and preparing for an exercise that will last almost 20 hours, carefully shepherding the village men (many of whom are often hostile towards you) to a designated area, thoroughly scouring the village for hidden troublemakers – all under the constant threat of sudden ambushes and open fire from unseen vantage points that might leave you dead within seconds. Having seen them at close quarters for the better half of my life, I can assure you that these soldiers and officers are far removed from what they are made out to be – insolent louts lounging inebriated in interrogation camps which double as torture cells, deriving sadistic pleasure in the misery of those imprisoned.

Apart from the above, the movie is quite riveting in its account of Haider’s journey. As he painfully exhumes the rancorous truth about the iniquities perpetrated by his uncle, Khurram, the unintentional flaws in his mother’s character and the confusing canons of the ‘Azad Kashmir’ movement, you can see his soul swell with a black rage that eventually pours out and destroys everyone. Tabu as Ghazala, the woman torn between a desire to fulfil her personal needs and those of her enraged son is as usual a pleasure to watch. Her eyes speak a thousand words with the help of which she credibly portrays Ghazala’s insecurities and failures.

Kay Kay Menon plays out an apt version of the treacherous uncle Khurram – a consequentialist who believes that the end justifies the means. Without a flicker of remorse in his hardened eyes, he not only pretends to be a messiah to the grief-stricken masses with the sole intent of furthering his own political interests, but also double-crosses his brother in order to bring to fruition his personal agenda. Irrfan Khan brings a cold metallic insidiousness to the story with his character – Roohdaar – an ISI agent. In sharp contrast to Haider’s fury and Khurram’s greed that profusely dominate their expressions and dialogues, Roohdaar’s calculated vileness is subtle. Yet he is successful in sending a shiver down your spine. It suffices to say that Irrfan Khan has proved his mettle once again.

Shraddha Kapoor as Arshee, Haider’s love interest, breaks the morbidity for a few rare moments with her scintillating smile that calms raw nerves and her hazel eyes that are pools of innocence. And last but not the least, Shahid Kapoor’s aura as Haider himself is a far cry from the chocolate boy image that he has been known for in the past. Dangling precariously between sanity and insanity, Haider’s character demands a certain degree of precision which Shahid Kapoor has painstakingly achieved. Through him you experience the five stages of loss – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventually acceptance and at each stage his emotions are honest and palpable.

The director clearly focuses on telling an unsparing tale and carving out characters and dialogues that fit like puzzle pieces in it. Resultantly, the landscape fails to win even a smidgen of screen space. There are no wide angle shots of the serene Dal Lake and the umpteen houseboats bobbing in it or of the breathtaking apple orchards and snow-capped peaks that Kashmir is famous for. Snippets of still life in the region are however recreated by things like carved walnut-wood furniture, multi-hued namdas and firans, rows of arched windowpanes and handle-less cups brimming with steaming kahwa that can be spotted in the background in most scenes.

All in all, in spite of not sharing the storyteller's beliefs on the subject of Kashmir, I enjoyed the multi-layered intrigue of the story itself. And to the naysayers, more importantly the ones who are foaming at the mouth about the movie’s lack of patriotism, all I would like to say is that in a democratic country like India, each one has the right to form an opinion and talk about it. After all, isn’t that what sets us apart from countries like North Korea and Afghanistan where every non-conforming voice is unceremoniously muted?

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.

******************  

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.

******************  

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.

******************  

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.

******************  

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!” 

A Desi in Pardes

A little over 2 years back I moved lock, stock and barrel to a new country, a world and a half away from my motherland. At the time, the fairy dust sprinkled idea of new beginnings made the transition feel like a barrel of fun. I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I wittingly jumped into the rabbit hole with all intentions of embracing every new experience that awaited me behind each locked door. And embrace I did! From the newness of married life to the unfamiliarity of the environs to the deliciousness of possessing a profusion of time – I accepted it all with arms wide open. As I took baby steps at finding my bearings, each day slipped by as smooth as butter silk, leaving me slightly wiser about the laws of the land. Yet, at the end of each day, just before going to bed, I felt a tug at my heartstrings. A tug so faint that at first it was quite easy for me to ignore it or conveniently place the blame for it on what I had eaten for dinner that day. I did not want to give it any credence especially for the fear of being labelled ‘soft and sentimental’ as opposed to ‘rough and tough’. 

******************

While ‘Time’ lived up to its reputation of being a fast runner and days amalgamated into each other in a blur of sorts, the aforementioned tug took on a life of its own and grew into a more pronounced ache. Stubborn as I am, I still refused to acknowledge this strange feeling and callously dismissed it as one of the many quirks that an average human body exhibits. Then one day, after the usual Sunday morning Skype call with my folks, Arjun expressed a desire for a plateful of über greasy, yet super tasty Chole Bhature (a type of deep fried Indian street-food). Thankfully, California provides an array of options to pick from, to satisfy a mid-morning hankering of this kind. Within minutes we settled upon a typical roadside, ‘Sardaarji’-owned dhaaba called ‘Lovely Sweets’ that had been highly recommended by Arjun’s advisor. Getting dressed, I thought to myself, ‘Back in India I would rarely eat Chole Bhature. In fact I remember screwing up my nose at the thought of devouring such oily fare. Then why am I so excited about it today?’ There was only one way to find out.

******************

Inside the run-down little dhaaba, I breathed deeply the smell of desi food and took in the sights of a miniature India right in the heart of a foreign land. It was like an exotic brown island in the middle of a sea of white frothy waves. The Hindi that I could hear other patrons speak was music to my ears, even in its slightly convoluted, accented form. Like magic, the ache within subsided almost as if I had taken a pain killer. That’s when an epiphany struck me hard. What had surfaced in the form of physical discomfiture was actually a craving for a sense of belonging. I longed for those aspects of life back home that had seemed usual and mundane. To call a shopkeeper ‘Bhaiyya’ and haggle away to glory or yell my lungs out at a bothersome ‘Autowallah’ or hear a cacophony of car horns on the road or devour a variety of flavourful mangoes by the dozen or speak in a strange medley of Hindi and English and still be understood by all and sundry - these were the sort of things I had grown up doing and was thus feeling odd without. As absurd as it may sound, the chaotic vibrancy of my country had trumped over the mechanical predictability of the ‘land of plenty’, at least for a short while.

****************** 

I do not know how many days, months or even years it would take for this yearning to fade away. In the jigsaw puzzle that this new country is, will I ever fit in perfectly like a piece that is an integral part? It might be difficult owing to a conglomeration of several small reasons like the fact that I need a rather difficult-to-procure work-permit to be employable here or that sometimes I do not understand the tone of speech and mannerisms of people or that I speak with a different cadence which they find difficult to comprehend at times or that my British influenced English pronunciations amuse them.....I can go on with a laundry list of dissimilarities. Despite all this, I must say that I have been fortunate enough to make friends here who look beyond these petty differences and even though we have disparate backgrounds, they remind me very much of my friends back home especially when we get together and giggle away about silly little things. On the other hand, no matter how many years I spend here, India will always be the country where my roots are safely entrenched. It will forever be the country where my heart resides. That my tongue still salivates for a ghee soaked motichoor laddoo or that I always know which new Hindi movies I want to watch and when are they releasing goes to prove that you can take Preeti out of her des but you cannot take the desi-ness out of Preeti!

Des - country 

Pardes - foreign land 

Chole Bhature - a type of deep fried Indian bread with chick-peas in gravy

dhaaba - roadside restaurants found on highways in India and Pakistan

ghee - clarified butter

motichoor laddoo - Indian dessert 
desi -  is a Hindi term for the people, cultures, and products of the Indian subcontinent

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.