Straight from Papa's Mouth - A Comical Wedding

‘It is a quaint wooden chest with rusty hinges and thick metal clasps to fasten and secure the precious booty inside. Its heavy lid, when yanked, gives way with a mighty groan and reveals with a flourish what hides within. Along with wisps of golden light and sparkly stars, out spills a flurry of parchment paper stained blue by neatly stenciled tales which flutter unrestrained like butterflies in a field’ - this is how I imagine Papa’s coffer of stories. What I attempt to narrate today is one of my favourites, picked with great difficulty from this treasure trove of stories that I have grown up listening to.

10 year old R was bored stiff. The wedding preparations had trudged along for several weeks now and it felt as if no one had any time for the one activity he adored the most- frivolous mischief and games. The house resembled a frenetic bee hive with people buzzing around; feverishly preparing the edifice for Chachaji’s much awaited wedding ceremony. Strings of bright orange marigold ran endlessly along the exposed edges, red and yellow boxes of mouthwatering mithai piled high in the store room and an incessant stream of instructions poured out of Papaji’s mouth as he oversaw the activities like a weathered planner.

Had R been permitted to ransack the boxes of mithai, he would have been contentedly occupied. Gorging on syrupy sweet, butter soft, crumby laddoos from the famous Bahadura Sweets would have kept him engrossed for hours. Alas, this was not to be as he and his three impish brothers were advised in rather ominous tones against pillaging the sweet meats which were meant to be served during the wedding reception. Dragging his feet in a display of exaggerated despondence he made for the playground cooking up elaborate schemes to kill time.

As the sky turned a deep shade of violet, the shehnai waalas arrived dressed in their blue and gold band uniform. The evening air stirred as the first shrill notes of the customary wedding tunes sliced through. Everything seemed to be in order. The mandap was set on the terrace under a canopy of pretty rose buds and giant banana leaves. Panditji had been busily arranging haldi, kumkum, ghee, rice, sandalwood, copper pots and earthen lamps in a semicircle around him. Pink cheeked children (including R and his brothers), freshly scrubbed and dressed in fine clothes of velvet, silk and muslin sat cross legged on the maroon rugs encircling the mandap. They ached to run around and play noisily although under the strict watchful eyes of their parents they had no other choice but to behave themselves.

Soon enough the bride and the groom took their places on the low wooden pedestals set next to the mandap. The bride was a petite girl who looked uncomfortable under the weight of the heavy ornaments adorning her. Wrapped in a rich red and silver Banarsi saree with the edge covering her tiny head, she looked radiant albeit exhausted. Perhaps the strain of the past few days of ceaseless ceremonies had taken its toll on her. Her slight frame made the groom look all the more strong and masculine. He too was eager to get this last obligation done with, for weddings maybe tons of fun for everyone else but for the two people caught in the eye of the storm – the bride and the groom – they can get quite onerous.

Plastic cups of sweet milky chai were handed out as Panditji began the ceremony by reciting chants from the Vedas. This was going to be a long night and the guests were fortifying themselves with deep fried delicacies and chai. R squirmed restlessly from time to time craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what his older brother; S was up to a few rows ahead. ‘Maybe I could annoy S by tickling him with a stray leaf lying on the floor’, he thought gleefully. And thus R began spoiling for a fight. Having devoured a slice of juicy red water melon he proceeded to spurt the seeds on S who at first was amused but then as R persisted, started to get angry. R pulled faces at S instigating him to retaliate despite Papaji’s admonishments. What started out as flippant playfulness was slowly turning into a menace. Just when he thought he had run out of ideas, R’s eyes fell on a copper pot sitting solitarily at arm’s reach. As a final grand gesture against S and Panditji’s soporific soliloquy, R grabbed the copper pot and flung it at S.

Now, what ensued is stuff that great anecdotes are made of. It is stories like these which are narrated over and over again with each version being more colourful and vivid than the previous. Almost as if in slow motion, Papaji, Ammaji and other bewildered guests saw the copper pot flip a few times on its fateful trajectory, miss S (who had ducked) by a whisker and land with a sick thud on the frail bride’s head. The poor girl opened her mouth in a silent gasp and promptly fainted in a heap on the floor. At this point utter chaos had engulfed the arena. The women crouched next to the slumped bride, trying to revive her by sprinkling water on her face while the men including a furious Papaji tried to catch hold of the rabble-rouser who anticipating his doom had bolted like lightening.

One can imagine what was in store for R when he was ambushed and outnumbered. I am told he fought valiantly before giving himself up, trying to thrash and claw his way out. He even threatened to repeat his folly by throwing the copper pot on the people chasing him. Needless to say, Papaji returned to the wedding venue with a sheepish black and blue R in tow. Thankfully, the bride had risen from her blackout and even though she had turned a shade paler, her eyes danced and a shadow of a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she forgave R for his errant deed. It is hard for me to believe that this devilish miscreant whom everyone talks of in every family gathering is now one of the most quiet and docile people I have ever met – he is none other than my father’s older brother Raju Tauji!!! 

An Obsessed Organizer

My name is Preeti Sharma and I am an Obsessed Organizer. There, I have said it! I can almost hear a collective sigh emanating from harried souls around the world – half a dozen ex room-mates who sacrificed many a weekends to the crack of my cleaning/dusting/arranging whip, a bunch of friends murmuring ‘we always knew’ under their breath, a set of parents who cannot stop blaming each other for passing on the ‘hyper-organized' gene to me and finally one poor husband who has to deal with it for the rest of his life.

At first my symptoms mushroomed as seemingly innocent quirks. Arranging my dolls in a perfect straight line so that they sat in ascending order of their heights on top of the olive green cupboard in my room gave me immense satisfaction. Inside this cupboard was a treasure cove of books which also adhered to one of my many patterns of organization-alphabetical, author-based, subject- based……..What passed off as adorable nuttiness should have set a hundred alarm bells ringing and perhaps the condition would have been nipped in the bud.

As I left the pristine boundaries of home to hunt for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I found myself staring at a big, bad, MESSY world which lay like a repugnant pool of spilt tea on a marble floor, waiting for me to wipe clean. I began yearning fervently for a world where pairs of shoes were organized in neat stacks on shelves instead of lying asymmetrically crooked on the floor, a world where coats and shirts were hung separately instead of mixed together, a world devoid of specks of dust enveloping all exposed surfaces, a world where dishes were done immediately after a meal and dabbed dry before being replaced in designated spots inside cabinets, a world where clothes always smelled laundry-fresh and tidily occupied allotted slots…my wish list went on.

I walked a tightrope for many years, trying to balance work, friends, hobbies and my unrelenting fetish for patterned harmony in spaces I called my own. Truth be told, I was always happiest when I was engaging in some good old fashioned housekeeping. An ensemble comprising a pair of comfy pyjamas circa 1998, an over sized tee from the same era and a head scarf to keep the powdery dust off my crown of curls easily kicked the rear end of pretty dresses and dainty heels. And eventually I started trading in parties for spending time dolling up my house. Since my most favourite section at the super market has always been the one which stores all sorts of cleaning products, I invariably possessed a plethora of objects to help achieve my standards of perfection in the task at hand.

State of the art mops and brushes, surface cleaners which promise a spotless clean house - fragrant like flowers in spring, glass cleaners to scrub window panes so perfectly that for a minute one would wonder if there was any glass at all, thick blue toilet bowl cleaners and a multitude of detergents (one for keeping my woollens supple, one specializing in retaining colours, a fabric conditioner to pamper my favourites, starch for my cotton 'kurtis', a stain remover for times when clumsy people subjected me to the horrors of their gaucherie…..) - This was my ammunition to wage a personal jihad against the forces of filth. When I was done banishing trash to the confines of a trash bag, I focused on arranging furniture, books, clothes, accessories and other things in exact locations and positions, just as my heart desired.

They say ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. My private version is: ‘Hell hath no fury as when you spoileth what Preeti arrangeth’. Loved ones understood and resorted to rolling their eyes and toeing the invisible line I drew. In return I sometimes offered to do up their rooms for them. Like a whimsical artist I admired my handiwork every few hours for the next couple of days till my almost satanic arch nemesis - dust and grime - found its way through cracks and fissures and lay dirty, mangled, gaunt fingers on my spick-and-span dwelling. And then the entire cycle repeated itself.

After years of filth-fuelled crankiness and working myself to death, I have finally realized that sometimes it is all right to coexist with a tiny modicum of clutter instead of driving everyone, including myself, insane. To be honest, despite this epiphany, I still jolt out of deep sleep once in a while to stow away a pair of errant socks which somehow found their way on the living room couch or to wipe off ring-shaped coffee stains left behind as a stubborn mark of defiance by coaster-less mugs. I suppose the journey to a neurosis free life is long and difficult. But I am determined to reach my destination and am slowly inching forward.

Now that I have written this cathartic article and the weight is off my chest, I want to get back to what I was doing earlier – polishing the kitchen counters till I can see my reflection smiling back at me, giving me the thumbs-up... Satanic grime, here I come!

A Perfect Afternoon to Reminisce

Shimmering shadows of leaves rustling in a light afternoon breeze have cast a mystical spell over my living room today. Pale yellow streaks of sunlight creep in through the open blinds carrying these shadows on their back. With fragile yet warm fingers, an ever elusive sun lightly caresses my cheek and urges me to slip into a wonderland of memories and tales. Soaked in words, these memories seek to make eternal marks on the pages of this blog.

I reel back to a time when winter vacations meant spending an extra hour in bed under my thick patchwork blanket, tucking into fluffy cheese omelets served with paranthas while warming my toes in front of the heater, devouring Enid Blyton's books by the dozen, waiting for Ma to come back from work so that we could play board games, sipping the customary after-dinner hot chocolate while watching Doogie Howser M.D and finally calling it a day, peacefully snuggled between Papa and Ma.

The second half of the year was always more special. It brought along festivities, lights, mithai, presents and general merriment. The holiday-season kicked off in style with Dusshera. Diwali too closely followed at its heels. My exceptional vacation privileges were revoked on these special days and Ma would badger me into rising early and showering. With the ease of a skillful storyteller, within seconds she would make me believe that if I did not, God would morph me into a donkey.

Each of these events was an experience in itself. Dusshera would begin with a grand pooja at the Army parade ground, conducted usually by the Gorkha regiment. The celebration typically ended on a gory note with the sacrifice of an animal to appease the goddess. Evenings were reserved for witnessing the colossal statues of Ravana, Kumbhkarana and Meghanada being gobbled up by angry flames and finally reduced to ashes.

A few weeks later Diwali would knock at our doors. The tedious process of making gujiyas and laddoos commenced well in advance. Tiny clay lamps with cotton wicks would find their place in front of the household temple. Crackers also shared space with the lamps and were gleefully gawked at by Pranay every single day till Diwali. Come evening and the glimmer of stringed lights on each house alchemized the cantonment into a fairyland. The aroma of fresh gujiyas mingled with the pungent odour of smoke from the firecrackers made for a signature Diwali memory.

On one of my trips home, I came across a letter supposedly written to me by Santa Claus although the handwriting suspiciously resembled Ma’s. It brought back a flood of reminiscences. The socks I would hang on our clothesline on Christmas Eve and the excitement I fought the whole night long were almost always amply rewarded the next morning. This was one day other than my birthday when I needed no coaxing or cajoling to get out of bed. The chocolates stuffed in my old socks and the toys and books littered on the floor bolstered my belief in magical creatures like elves, gnomes, pixies and of course Santa Claus. And every year with my bundle of gifts I got a letter from Santa telling me how much I was loved.

Finally the year would bid adieu with a flourish as we ushered in the New Year with friends and family at the Officers’ Institute. The quintessential elements of a party – loud music, dancing, copious amounts of food and happy people in pretty clothes – made for a pleasant picture. A patina of jollity hung over the crowd as tired but eager voices bellowed the countdown to a brand new year. In a shower of colourful ribbons and glitter the much awaited year would arrive donning new hopes, experiences and resolutions.

For most people the festivities of the year drew to an end here but for us there was one more eagerly awaited event – the Raising Day and Paagal Gymkhana – an occasion commemorating the day when the Armed Medical Corps - the establishment to which Papa belonged - was formed. Paagal Gymkhana – a fair of sorts – included all sorts of unheard of games like the ‘Jalebi race’, ‘Sack Race’, the ‘Three legged race’ followed by a ‘Badakhaana’- a large community meal. All the unspoken barriers between officers, soldiers and their respective families were lifted as the entire regiment participated as one big happy family. Binging on the excessively oily yet lip smacking delicious food was a norm to which I most enthusiastically conformed.

My first holiday-season away from India has made me believe that festivities all over the globe are just as exciting and elevating. The gaiety, the lights, the food and the merry-making are intrinsically the same though they may differ in form and fashion. Candy and costumes on Halloween and Christmas trees, lights and gifts on Christmas are as much fun as the crackers and mithai on Diwali. I am finally ready to open my heart and generously allot space to these new entrants right next to my traditional Indian ones. Three cheers to making fresh memories and writing about them on future cozy winter afternoons.

Conversations with a cabbie

Yet another week in Michigan and I find myself staring at an even more dismal sight than what I beheld the last time I was here. The weather app on my phone shows a tiny grey cloud showering drops of water over the city and sure enough, the view outside is a real life, zoomed-in replica. I walk out of the airport lugging my satchel and trolley bag, engulfed in a mighty overcoat, the tag on which assures me that it is lined with the finest quality felt to keep me warm. I am still shivering despite these assurances. The makers perhaps didn’t comprehend how cold a girl from India can get.

I approach the Metro Cabs booth and shudder at the thought of eliciting services from a cab driver after my past experience. This time though, I am in store for a pleasant surprise. My cabbie – Mahmoud – looks nothing like the surly brute I encountered last week. On the contrary, he has clear blue eyes which never stop dancing and an almost musical Middle Eastern lilt. His cheeriness feels as comforting as a cup of hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day. With my luggage safely tucked in the boot and the heat turned up I feel my good humour rise from the dead.

As we cruise past familiar landmarks, Mahmoud informs me about the Tsunami that has recently hit Japan. His depth of information on the subject startles and embarrasses me all at once. With a hint of scepticism, I surreptitiously cross check the news on the internet and am surprised by the accuracy of his knowledge. I realize that in the routine chaos of my day, I haven’t had the time to browse the headlines of a newspaper or pay attention to the newsreader’s monologue on TV. In short, I am clueless about what is happening in the world around me. In addition, his succinct description of the topography of Japan leads me to conclude that he can easily give Geography teachers around the world a run for their money.

Now I am all ears, eagerly waiting for Mahmoud’s next flurry of wisdom. This time I get a brief but power packed lesson in History. He talks about varied subjects like the British colonization of America and the American Civil War. It isn't just facts that he is rattling off; he has his own perspective about everything he speaks. Mesmerized, I sit upright and absorb everything he has to say. Somewhere in between,the conversation turns philosophical and we discuss the futility of being one in a million rats in the rat race of life. ‘Life is meant to be enjoyed, not frittered away, consumed in jealousy and greed’ he says. I couldn't agree more.

A few more nuggets of wisdom about propane laws and traffic rules in the state are thrown my way before Mahmoud promptly pulls up in front of my hotel. For the first time I am feeling sorry about having covered the distance so quickly. Before I know it, Mahmoud is gone and I am left standing on the curb, a lot more enlightened than I was thirty minutes ago. In a world teeming with over ambitious, over stressed and over cranky people, Mahmoud and the likes of him who are knowledgeable, hard working yet cheerful form a fast diminishing breed. The world would certainly be a more interesting and happy place if there were more of his kind.

Straight from Papa's mouth - The Gum Boots

I have sometimes wondered how I came to possess a fervent imagination, one which is constantly itching to get down to business. The answer perhaps lies in the fact that I was born to parents who placed a high premium on good reading, listening and regaling skills. I grew up hearing Papa narrate comical incidents from his own childhood with such merry abandon and animated gesticulations that no matter how many times they were repeated, these tales of mischief would always manage to gather an avid audience. Mummy ‘s bed time tales from Aesop’s Fables, Grimms Brothers’ Fairy Tales and Mahabharata were also recounted with such aplomb that it was difficult not to picture the quixotic characters and places. Enraptured, I would listen to both sets of stories, building corresponding images in my mind while dreaming of someday being able to recapitulate with just as much gusto.

This is my first attempt to put on paper these tit-bits from the past and I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed listening to them.

It was one of those late December evenings in Gwalior when merciless gusts of cold wind threatened to freeze those who dared to venture out and cups of hot masala chai (masala tea) and pakoras were handed out to those ensconced in the warmth of Buaji’s house. Three generations of family huddled around an old heater which barely managed to spout enough hot air to warm ice cold fingers and toes. Enveloped in sweaters, scarves and shawls, we braved the sub zero temperature that night with chai, pakoras, a rickety heater and an inevitable round of storytelling. Fuelled by the sweet gingery kick of chai, anecdotes and real life incidents soon started flowing in copious amounts. Several stories branched out, multiplying like neutrons in a nuclear fission reaction.

4 brothers (my father being one of them) – the biggest mischief makers of their time- figured in more than one tale. A story of one of these brothers, brother number 3 to be precise, who will be referred to as P (a respected doctor in today’s day and age) left everyone laughing so hard that tears trickled down most cheeks. Here goes……. Summer vacations had begun and the first day dawned bright and sunny - simply perfect for all the tomfoolery already mushrooming in his head. With much effort P shook off the drowsiness which lay heavy on his eyelids and looked around to check if he was the last one to get up. As conscientious as ever, his oldest brother S was sitting at his study deeply immersed in a book while brother number 2, R was nowhere to be seen. His youngest brother, brother number 4, also known as my Dad or D, sat on his bed fiddling around in general.

‘Let’s play Hide and Seek today!!!’ exclaimed P jumping out of bed in one quick leap and landing right in front of S. Keeping his book aside, S appraised him from top to bottom and replied with great disdain ‘At least brush your teeth and drink your milk before you begin hatching plans for the day’. P turned a questioning gaze towards D who was already nodding excitedly, giving his consent for a game of Hide and Seek. Within minutes all 4 brothers were outside in the courtyard along with their friends from the neighborhood all set to kick off the vacations in style. With a whole lot of cheating and some luck P managed to avoid being the Seeker and couldn’t help making fun of his poor slob of a friend who was conned into being one. As the Seeker turned his back to the rest of the boys and began counting, the group scattered in an instant. A few crouched behind nearby stone pillars while others slinked into the recesses between houses.

P took off as quickly as his legs could take him, determined to find the most ingenious place to hide. Soon he found himself standing at a road construction site a little further away from home. The place was littered with empty cylindrical cans of coal tar (dambar in Hindi) which were almost as tall as P himself. But crouching behind one of these cans seemed too clichéd to P. Just as he was about to take off once again in search of a perfect hiding place a glimmer of an idea lit up in his head bringing a broad smile to his face. He checked the can in front of him and found it devoid of its usual content: molten coal tar. Having checked a few more cans he was convinced that all the cans were empty and would serve as an ideal hiding place.

With great dexterity P hauled himself over the can kept at the far end of the construction site and swiftly lowered himself inside. All this while, he did not take his eyes off the road as he knew that by now the Seeker would be roaming around like a wild animal searching for his prey. When he had almost sunk to the bottom of the can he happened to look down at his body inside the can and couldn’t believe his eyes. His lower body, beyond the waist, was submerged in a shiny jet black viscous solution of coal tar! ‘How could this happen?’ he thought in dismay. In his hurry, he had not checked all the cans and had assumed after looking into a few that the rest were empty as well. A little shred of panic wriggled its way into P’s heart as he sank deeper into the quick sand like coal tar. ‘This is no time to panic’, he told himself sternly. The gears in his brain started creaking and grunting as he mulled over plans to get out of his predicament

A few hours of struggle later an exhausted P heaved himself out of the can. Huffing and panting he stood on the road now but his troubles had not ended just as yet. His legs were covered in a thick layer of coal tar and it appeared as if he was wearing knee length dark black gum boots which stuck to the hot road as if they had adhesive on their soles. Slowly he inched back home as each step felt like a mile. ‘Maybe this is how it feels when one is walking on an iron road wearing magnetic shoes’ he imagined. Thoughts of super heroes swooping in and carrying him back home crossed his mind along with images of his favorite halwa-poori which painfully tantalized his fast building hunger.

Needless to say, P reached home and was received by a stunned group of brothers and friends. Not wanting to look like a complete fool in front of everyone, P began boasting about his adventures and clowning around showing off his coal tar boots. I can only imagine what must have transpired between him and his mother (my Dadiji) when she found out what had happened but I am cent percent sure that he wasn’t rewarded with halwa-poori. I am told that it took all of her patience and a gallon or more of kerosene oil to peel off the adventures of the day. In that moment all characters of this story must have been unaware of the number of times this incident was to be recounted in years to come and the generations ahead who were going to hear about it on cold winter nights drinking chai and devouring pakoras.

An ode to the Birthday Girl......

There she stood, her eyes framed in a pair of gigantic glasses, wearing a baggy brown t shirt over equally baggy dark brown corduroy trousers and a wide smile stretched across her face. “Hi I am Manisha, you can call me Mini” she bubbled. Hearing her effervesce, I couldn't believe my mother had coerced me into befriending her simply because her parents had moved next door. From the moment we met I knew that the bully inside me could finally be unleashed and let loose on this unsuspecting simpleton. While hatching all the devious plans to trouble her (tricking her into believing that I had original autographs of the entire Indian cricket team, making fun of her low grades in Polynomials and so on),  little did I know then that she was soon to become a permanent and irreplaceably important fixture in my life.

Two very tumultuous years later, Mini and her family moved to another city. This inevitably spelled ‘The End’ for our blow-hot-blow-cold friendship, or so I thought. Owing to the fact that we weren't big on snail mail and also perhaps as neither of us had anything great to exchange, we lost contact and moved on with our lives.

I never imagined that our paths would cross again but as luck would have it, not only did we bump into each other in a new city where we were off to start our lives as college students but we also began a brand new experience of hostel life together. And so, on a very warm night in June of 2002, we found ourselves at our new hostel, shivering at the mere prospect of getting ragged by a bunch of formidable seniors. Since Mini had an elder brother who had gone through his days of ragging a few years back, she had been counseled on how to survive the much feared first month of ragging. With his advice as her mantra, she appeared calmer. ‘Don’t worry Preeti’ she said valiantly, “Just do whatever they ask you to do”. By the time we reached the staircase to hell which was our common room, her pep talk had given me just enough courage to get by. However, I may have sucked all her valor because she suddenly froze on the last step and mumbled “I cannot do this Preeti. They are going to butcher us”. Thus began a cycle of mutual motivation and consolation which was to last for several years to come. Through countless moments of feeling lost in the crowd and agonizing over growing-up pains I found Mini by my side making things a tad bit easier. We got through the night albeit with a painful introduction to the ‘chawanni athanni’ dance and an interaction with the much dreaded Tashi ma’am who was soon to become our nemesis.

An era of life changing endeavours had begun. Each day would bring with it weird experiences which later made for great anecdotes. Be it the time when we were sent to get a dirty movie for the seniors from a nearby movie library and wanting to believe that we were as inconspicuous as possible even with the  helmets and terrorist like scarves tied around our faces-which we refused to take off even when inside the shop (now come on, this was the first time we had laid hands on something as despicable as an X-rated movie let alone having seen one before), or the time when our God awful warden cornered us into almost giving away the seniors in our dorm for having a midnight alcohol party the previous night (Mini’s valour, which made itself evident in flashes, did a guest appearance again that day)or the time when we got into trouble for returning 30 minutes after the hostel in-time, each incident was one of a kind. What was common though among these seemingly diverse events was the fact that Mini and I were always at the epicenter together. Somewhere along the way several nicknames were bestowed upon us like Pinki-Rinki, Pinty-Minty and so on.

The excruciating torture of semester exams became tolerable with Mini being there to share the suffering. Being a part of an ever shrinking bunch of engineering students in the hostel, we were always unfortunate enough to have our exams during those times of the year when the rest of our dorm mates would be free as birds and as a result prone to creating ruckus ad infinitum. Often, one or both of us would succumb to the notorious examination blues. Such times called for desperate stress busting measures - the ‘Friends’ marathon or the 60 buck delectable dinner at our filthy road side Chinese ‘tapri’ (this comprised mountainous portions of vegetable noodles and chilly chicken followed by a single scoop of ice cream split in two). The ‘Friends’ marathon always started with a mutual agreement over watching only one episode but both of us had such wavering will power when it came to studies that we would end up watching an entire season or more only to realize that half the day had gone by (the exam being the next day) and we had barely covered the tip of the iceberg which was our syllabus for the exam. The Chinese tapri on the other hand aside from being just as dirty as any other roadside fast food vending cart, provided us the crucial spirit lifting tasty treats. Braving all fears of jaundice ridden livers and diarrhea ridden guts we would devour the meal as if it was our last meal before being executed.

As we slowly climbed the seniority ladder, we added new experiences and new friends to our kitty. The time we ragged our juniors, the time we sneaked into the common room through the window to watch ‘Sex and the City’ and then scurried out the same way, the time we stayed up all night trying to develop a taste for a terrible concoction of vodka and Milkmaid, the abnormal jubilation we felt after watching ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, the terrible trauma we went through while watching ‘Kal ho na Ho’, our astonishment when we saw Mini’s hair ablaze as part of an unexpected prank, the unusual strength she exhibited during the ‘Maro-Maro’ fights, the midnight ludo or even the time we waged war against an uber snooty group of girls in the hostel are stories worth a million.  

Today as I try to encapsulate these memories for Mini’s birthday write up I find it difficult to pick only a handful because, cheesy as it may sound, each and every story is just as dear as the other. Times have changed and we all seem to have grown up which means that we now have clouds of mundane worry hovering incessantly over our heads. Yet, thankfully, each time I speak to Mini we embark upon an insane giggle trip which lasts for anything between 15 minutes to an hour. Our inane chatter is so rejuvenating that even on a cloudy day I feel a warm, golden sun shining upon me. She has an ingrained ability to crack me up with her comical stories and antics.  From being my sounding board to being the crazy clown in my life and from being someone whom I can trust my darkest secret with to being my practical touchstone and gossip partner, Mini has always been there during the good and not so good times and I love her for that. Oh and before I forget, I also give her credit for a whole lot of important milestones in my life, the most vital one being pruning my caterpillar shaped eyebrows to a more acceptable earthworm like shape. On her birthday today, I wish her all the giggles, craziness, happiness and love to last her a lifetime and more………Mintyyyyy, have a blast, cannot wait to start a new chapter of our lives in ‘phoren’ land together!!

Pranay's Mango tree

Bright yellow mangoes with their characteristic heady aroma and juicy sweetness occupied most of little Pranay's thoughts these days. This was not an out of ordinary occurrence given that Pranay and his family were major mango fanatics. Year after year along with the summer heat a certain mango mania descended upon the Sharma household.

Mummy being the sanest of the lot had realized early on in life that the only way she could deal with her family's crazy love for mangoes was by ensuring that the brown wicker basket adorning the dining table was forever groaning under the weight of several varieties of the coveted fruit. However, despite her best efforts, Pranay who was the youngest in the family, suffered from a nagging apprehension that one day he would come home from school to find an empty wicker basket and no mangoes to sink his teeth in. What with a bully of an elder sister who shared his maniacal love for the fruit, he could well imagine his worst fear coming true any day.

As he sat one day contemplating this terrible consequence a sudden bright idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. What if he planted a mango tree of his own? Then all the mangoes borne by this tree would technically belong to him, thought a jubilant Pranay. Proud of himself for having hatched such a brilliant plan, he quickly approached his sole counsel for all affairs-Mummy.

What ensued was a rather long drawn process with an air of urgency making it resemble a high priority project concerning state security. The best mango of the lot was prudently chosen and sliced. Its oval seed was extracted and washed with utmost care almost as if a new born baby was being cleaned post delivery. After Vishnu Bhaiyya, the sahayak detailed to Papa (who was more a family member than a sahayak), had dug a pit of exact dimensions in the backyard, Pranay placed the dried seed in Mother Earth's womb. The cherished seed now tucked in folds of soft black mud was to be guarded and nurtured by Pranay.

Each day Pranay would eagerly rush back from school to water the seed and feed it manure.This ritual went on for over two months and as each day passed without any trace of the much awaited tiny sprout pushing it's way out of the layer of mud, Pranay's disappointment grew. Finally, no longer able to see him downcast and distraught, Mummy asked Vishnu Bhaiyya to dig out the errant seed so that she could figure out the problem. Vishnu Bhaiyya rummaged through the mud and pryed out a half rotten mango seed studded with nasty worms feeding on it. Mummy looked at the find in dismay. She couldn't help but picture Pranay's crestfallen face when told about the horrible end suffered by his beloved mango seed.

Making up her mind, she rushed Vishnu Bhaiyya to the nearest nursery instructing him to get the tiniest mango sapling available. Vishnu Bhaiyya returned shortly with a 4 feet tall plant which was nowhere close to the tiny sapling that Mummy was expecting. "There were no tiny saplings in any of the nurseries. I checked all the nurseries around this area", he said helplessly. "Pranay will never buy this tale", despaired Mummy.

Guess what..this is what the crazy boy looks like now

 Nevertheless, Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya proceeded to place the plant in the exact same location where the erstwhile seed was buried. As soon as Pranay returned, he was welcomed with more than usual exuberance and a tall glass of his favourite mango milk shake. Unsure of what he had done to deserve it, Pranay habitually made way to the backyard to water the mango seed. Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya followed him shakily and waited a few steps away as Pranay stood rooted in his place staring at the mango plant which had magically appeared. A soft breeze made the long green and brown leaves of the plant sway. Pranay snapped out of his trance and let out a sharp squeal of joy. "Mummy, look my mango seed has sprouted and has grown so quickly!! I always knew that the manure meals will pay off someday" And just as suddenly Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya's grim faces broke into big smiles.

It has been 12 years since then and little Pranay is no longer little. He acts all macho and manly showing off his Elvis like side burns and his toned muscles but there is one thing that brings back the 6 year old boy in him-complete with a toothy grin and dimples. Till this day he firmly believes that the mango seed he had lovingly planted, miraculously grew into a fine looking 4 feet tall plant overnight all because of his love and care.

Santa Claus, the Tooth fairy, Christmas elves and the likes-that is the list which Pranay's mango tree belonged to. It was an innocent child's figment of imagination which proved to him how perfect the world was.
I wish this was something grownups could do as well. It would make each day so much easier to get by, won’t it?

The Sunglasses

Summer vacations had finally begun and 15 year old Mala was glad to be one of the few lucky ones amongst her group of friends who would be escaping the sordid Bhopal heat. Her parents had finally decided to take the long overdue vacation to Bangalore and they were all set to spend a glorious summer with the Shettys - her parents’ friends ever since she could remember. Better still was the fact that Anshika, Shetty uncle’s daughter was Mala’s best friend and when they were together, they needed no one else.

Mala stood in front of her tiny wardrobe trying to pick out clothes she could pack so that she had some chance of blending in with the hip Bangalore crowd. She had decided to enjoy herself to the fullest; after all she deserved the break. She had slogged hard for her final exams, as a result of which, not only had she secured first position in her class but Amma had also promised her a grand prize. Although Amma would have preferred to present Mala with a copy of ‘The Great Expectations’ by Charles Dickens, Mala was resolutely determined to acquire a pair of hip sunglasses. ‘Sunglasses are in, Amma. Besides, almost all my friends possess a pair’, she argued. Finally Amma had given in and Mala couldn’t help feeling over the moon.

As the sound of Papa’s loud guffaw drifted in from the living room, shaking her out of her blissful reverie, Mala said a silent prayer. She hoped against hopes that her family would not ‘be themselves’ and embarrass her in Bangalore. Even as she prayed she knew that it was too much to ask for because this year she also had her 26 month old brother - Mohit to cope with. In Mala’s opinion, had there been something like a competition for the ‘World’s most embarrassing family’, her family- Mohit with his stupid baby antics in public, Papa with his loud laugh and Amma with her nose always buried in some book or the other - would have won hands down. “Why couldn’t Amma bother more about how she dressed instead of what she read and why couldn’t Papa understand that his booming voice and resonating laughter could be heard from miles away”, she rued. At last a 24-hour journey later, their train pulled into the crowded Bangalore City Junction. Mala spotted Shetty uncle and Anshika who had come to receive them at the railway station. Exhibiting classic teenage-girl behaviour, Mala and Anshika instantly glued themselves together and bantered all the way home, totally unaware of the rest of the world.

That summer the atmosphere at the Shetty residence was one of gaiety as the families enjoyed each others' company. Over the next few days, the girls indulged in several fun activities together. They participated in swimming competitions at the club house, went to the movies, gossiped, played Uno and other board games and had a great time. True to its reputation, time rolled by quickly. Their vacation was soon approaching an end and the important shopping trip was yet to be made. So, one fine Saturday morning, Anshika and Mala pestered their parents into taking them to MG Road - the hip street which had all the branded stores and all the ‘cool’ people. The day had come when Mala would choose her perfect pair of sunglasses and that too from a fancy big store. Clad in her favourite t-shirt and jeans, Mala hopped from one room to another in an animated delirium.

Once at the store, her excitement knew no bounds as she tried several pairs of sunglasses and finally had her heart set on a very glamorous one. Just looking at them she knew that she had found her sunglasses. Amma and Papa exchanged a look as she and Anshika drooled over this particular sample. In no time the deal was finalized and Mala walked out clutching her beloved sunglasses which were neatly tucked in a pretty black velvet case. Stepping out of the store, Mala entrusted Papa with her precious velvet case as their party of eight headed to a restaurant to celebrate the occasion. Settling down in an unoccupied booth at the restaurant Mala squealed “Papa; can I have my sunglasses please. I cannot stop looking at them!” Papa fumbled from one pocket to another, his expressions changing from pleasant to quizzical to apologetic. Mala had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Papa had managed to lose her brand new sunglasses! Mala could not believe that her happiness was destined to be so short-lived. She gave Papa an accusatory look and promptly burst into tears. Everyone sympathized with her and tried to console her, but no one could really understand her grief - or so Mala thought. Papa stood silently looking at his woebegone daughter and felt just as miserable. He blamed himself for Mala’s misery.

An ice cream and a promise of a new t-shirt later, a semi- mollified Mala headed back home. She knew that she would never forgive Papa. She had been a proud owner of expensive sun glasses for exactly 15 minutes and now they were gone. Her parents could not afford another pair this year and it was all Papa’s fault. “How could he do this to me?” she thought. On the way back, Mala was so dissolved in self pity and anger that she did not realize that ever since the dreadful incident, Papa had vanished. A couple of hours later, Mala had already tucked herself in bed. As she lay there moping, she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door and Papa walked in. Mala was in no mood to face either of her parents, least of all - Papa. “What do you want Papa? Should I give you something else that I like so that you can go ahead and lose that as well?”, she asked in an acerbic tone. Without uttering a word, Papa sat down next to Mala and placed a familiar velvet case in Mala’s tiny hand. ‘ I am sorry betu for causing you so much sorrow’, he said softly.

As it turned out, Papa had gone all the way back to the same store where they had bought the original sunglasses. He had laboriously checked all the available sun glasses along with the sales person and had finally been able to locate another piece of the exact same kind. Delighted, he had quickly made the payment and rushed back home to surprise his little girl. Mala jumped out of bed, gave Papa a quick hug and rushed to Anshika’s room with the new acquisition. Even though in her excitement she had forgotten to thank Papa, he was happy to see his daughter’s elation.

Today, sitting in her beautiful apartment, thousands of miles away from Bhopal and her family, Mala stares at the broken pieces of her favourite sun glasses in pin drop silence. Earlier in the day, her cleaning lady had accidently dropped them from their place on the shelf. Papa isn’t here to replace them for her, just so that he can see her smile again and Amma isn’t here to console her either. Today, there is nothing in the world that she would not be willing to give to be able to curl up in Amma’s lap and listen to her read, to hear Papa’s deep throated chortle or Mohit’s constant banter.

Life is like coffee and our coffee mugs are the jobs we hold, the money we earn and our status in society. These are just tools to hold and contain Life. The type of mug we have does not define or change the quality of life we live. Sometimes by concentrating only on the cup we fail to enjoy the coffee. Savour the coffee, not the mug.—> Courtesy-www.flickspire.com and Amma.

Hook, Line and Sinker

I plead guilty to being lazy and uncommitted to my blog lately. I hope to be more regular henceforth. To set the context, I must tell you what all has transpired in the past few months especially ever since I 'poofed' out of the scene (I can imagine myself going up in a cloud of smoke like Jeannie from the sitcom 'I dream of Jeannie'). Well, to begin with I went off and got engaged, which came as quite a surprise to a lot of my friends and acquaintances. I mean, yes I did turn twenty seven and all but then that does not mean that I had wandered into the land of the unmarriageables.. :). It was interesting for me to note that most of these people had already resigned to the fact that their friend, daughter, sister….. a.k.a yours truly would never want to get married given the degree of independence that I had gotten used to. My take on this is that yes, I agree that I am a little set in my ways, now that I have been living on my own for the past 10 years and yes I do cherish my independence a lot but then getting married also means having an exclusive room mate for life and for a Type A person like me this works just fine. At least now I have someone else to share the pleasures of organizing and cleaning with.

The engagement itself was a whirlwind of an affair. I vaguely remember partying hard the night before I had to travel to Bhopal. Me and a couple of friends went to a popular roof top restaurant called 'Spiga' on St. Mark's road in Bangalore and binged on fish fingers, chicken tikkas and one too many long island iced teas. I barely managed to make it on time for my flight the following morning. I had unfortunately developed a bad case of the infamous 'Jitters' during the past one week and I almost made up my mind to pull off a vanishing act at the airport, but then as always, the film of insanity lifted at the last minute and I let the events roll as they were meant to. My two weeks long vacation had begun and I had so much steam to let out. The first week rolled by easy and slow, giving me a sneak peek of how life would have been had I quit my job and decided to stay at home as planned earlier. Week 2 being the engagement week turned out to be a preview of what madness would ensue during the actual wedding. Suddenly our cozy little house seemed to be bursting at the seams. One could not traverse the house without bumping into dozens of well wishing relatives - Uncles, Aunts, Great grandparents etc…you get the drift right??…There were all kinds of delicacies churning out of the kitchen every minute. For once I threw caution and fitness issues to the wind and devoured the goodies by the dozen.

At first it was a divine experience, being the centre of attention all the time, being pampered by everyone and being asked after but then as the day drew nearer, the horrific jitters started to get to me once again….'Run away Preeti, enjoy your freedom, why do you want to take on responsibilities, why do you want to grow up???': these were some of the very many questions that the wicked 'Me' hurled at the sane ‘Me’. However, inspired by a certain someone who was as cool as a cucumber, I kicked myself and got rid of rebellious thoughts and evil designs which were mushrooming inside my head by the second. I was glad that two of my closest friends were attending the engagement even though I am sure I drove them nuts with my jittery, spoilt rotten behaviour. In fact, it was one of these two who formulated the kick ass plan which I refer to as 'Mission Sneak In'. As I have been sworn to silence by a certain someone, I would refrain from divulging the details of the aforementioned mission (tempted as I am to reveal the deep dark secrets of that day). Kudos to my parents for executing the grand plan flawlessly. To someone looking from the outside, everything would have looked rosy and ripple free but only a selected few can claim to have seen all the potential disasters which were averted at the last minute by my very composed parents. From the caterers not turning up to unexpected last minute guests, every possible complication tried to rear its ugly head but was promptly crushed.

The day everyone left, I felt happy to have the house to myself. I could now go back to lazing around and doing absolutely nothing. Little did I know that my small bubble of joy was short-lived and very soon Ma was going to prick it with a needle. I was dragged around town to pick clothes for the wedding as my mother argued with me saying "You will go to Germany and will be back only by Oct. Saari shaadi ki shopping kab hogi beta???" My weak and insipid counter argument of "What if I gain weight in these seven months" was immediately chopped into little pieces and washed down the drain. Ma cleverly retorted with a glint in her eye "This gives you all the more reason to ensure that you continue running in Germany and do not gain weight". So, needless to say, my first trip abroad and my last pseudo vacation as a single girl has a big footnote attached to it which says in bold capital letters : DO NOT GAIN WEIGHT !!!!!!! So much for wanting to dip myself in cheese in Europe…(More on the fantabulous Europe trip in the following posts).

Well, one milestone crossed and one more to go this year. According to me this is good progress... :)

The Box of Delight

Although I wish to think of myself as someone with a literary bent of mind, a few days back when my 'Idiot Box' crashed, I found myself fretting, fuming and at a loss for what seemed like a very important part of my life -  mindless entertainment. The following is a tribute to what turns out to be an indispensable fixture in my life....so, read on......

In the past few days, an eerie silence has prevailed over my tiny studio apartment. It has been a silence which resembles the lull that engulfs a battlefield after the battle is long over or the quiescence which is associated with a placid lake on a breeze-less summer day. This silence is solely attributed to the unfortunate event that occurred last Thursday. As I awoke to the persistent chirping of a sparrow on my window sill and habitually reached out for the TV remote, I realized that my television had stopped displaying the arrays of amusing, colourful pictures and varying sounds and was hung on a sickly blue screen which refused to give way even though I broke a few fingers, frantically flicking from one channel to the other. The previous night had been rather rough with the rains lashing out at the city and I presumed that my cable operator would be able to pull off his usual magic and set things straight by changing a damaged cable or two.

So, without worrying much I proceeded with my daily morning chores, making a mental note of calling my cable operator as soon as I reached office. Upon arriving, I indulged in my usual leisurely morning routine of grabbing a cup of Horlicks and ambling languidly to my desk(I hope my Boss isn't reading this :-) ). At last, settling into my seat I decided to make the important call. I was greeted by a rather sullen voice which in my head belonged to a surly old Kannadiga man, bent over an old fashioned CRT monitor, slowly typing out the revenue figures of his small enterprise. In my most cordial tone, I began to explain my predicament, only to be rudely interrupted by a flurry of indecipherable Kannad words flung at me at an alarming speed of probably 100 words per millisecond. After a meaningless five minutes during which I unsuccessfully tried to put across my point, I decided to hang up and visit the Hathway (cable operator) office on my way back home.

By this time, a strange gloom and a premonition of bad news awaiting me, had started to creep in and my usual cheerful disposition was turning grey. The day rolled by and as soon as the clock struck six, I packed my bags and headed towards the Hathway office. By some stroke of luck, I managed to convey my concern to the relevant authorities and after being assured that my little box of delight would resurface from its comatose by the following morning, I returned home with a tiny smile and a hopeful heart. However, the next day my face fell as I again stared at the stubborn blue screen. Needless to say, I drove the entire staff at Hathway crazy over the next 48 hours. They tried all the tricks of their trade to figure out what had gone wrong with the connection, only to conclude by saying : 'Ma'am, we feel that there is a problem with your television. Please stop calling us every day, as you have chewed our brains enough and there isn't anything left for you to chew on further."

To stress upon how devastated I was, I would like to reiterate the importance of television in my life. During my transition from the wild college days to the more organized and rather mechanical days of employment, my faithful little 14 inch television was always by my side. Sitting on its ever changing perches (sometimes a broken chair, sometimes a big suitcase and on luckier days a proper TV trolley), it has been my companion on many a lonesome days and nights, doling out large portions of entertainment of all kinds at the click of a button. Without even realizing, over the past three years I have metamorphosed into an obsessive, compulsive TV addict with a predilection for the remote control which is like a magic wand in my hand. From the gruesomeness of ‘Bones’ and ‘Criminal Minds’ to the drama of reality shows like ‘Big Boss’ and ‘Khatron ke Khiladi’ and from the buffoonery of ‘Friends’ and ‘How I met your mother’ to tear jerking soaps like ‘Brothers and Sisters’, my TV provided it all and I was instantly hooked.

Now that my daily fix of tele-entertainment was being denied, I felt agony similar to perhaps that experienced by someone who has recently undergone a limb amputation and yet continues to feel the urge to scratch a persistent itch on the severed area. I constantly kept reaching for the remote only to be confronted by the annoying whir which accompanied the blue screen. I finally decided to take my ailing television to the local television repair guy who, I hoped against hopes, wasn't a quack. With a heavy heart I entrusted the TV repair guy with the 'light of my life' and dragged myself back home. The next two days were the most difficult as I kept thinking about how I had abandoned my faithful friend and how it was probably facing the solder gun right this minute. To cut a long story short, very soon I received a call from my - 'TV doctor' - who finally declared my TV alive and ready to brighten my life again. I cannot begin to describe my elation the day I brought my bundle of joy back home and plugged it in...Ohhh, the pleasure of experiencing the familiar sights and sounds again....!!!!!!!