Happy Hours

Happy Hours was my brain child. Well, the idea was mine, but the name was Yasmin’s genius. What kind of a twisted mind names a childcare facility Happy Hours?

This should have been warning enough.

Yasmin and I arrived in San Berman, California about 11 months ago. It’s a beautiful little county- a poor man’s Switzerland if you will. Rolling green hills, picture perfect clouds, cool crisp winds. The population is predominantly young Asian families spawned by the Silicon Valley nearby.

Perfect!

We rented a 2200 square foot ranch style house in an old neighborhood, near a first class elementary school. The realtor shook her head in sympathy as I exclaimed over the steep rent. But the house was so perfect! It had a beautiful stucco façade, graceful palms in the front and delicate pink roses in a sprawling backyard. The house was L-shaped with three bedrooms at the back, a double-car garage and two full bathrooms. The living and dining areas formed the front of the house, the shorter arm of the L.


We loved it that the bedrooms were set away from the street.

After six months of frenzied cleaning and unpacking, at last things looked ready for launch. I went online and put out an ad. It highlighted my status as a former pediatric RN. It also candidly acknowledged that Happy Hours did not have a license-as yet. However we begged parents to give us a chance. In return we offered personal one-on-one care, fresh home- cooked meals and snacks-at prices significantly lower than other daycares. We even waived the diaper-stocking fee and security deposits for the first few parents that signed up with Happy Hours. We advertised for babies between 6 months to about a year-and-a half old.

We did not have to wait too long. Within three days we got our first call from Mrs. Valgapalli. She turned out to be a pleasant young thing of twenty-five – who asked me to call her Sumeeta. Sumeeta’s daughter-Nisha- was 8 months old. She had wide black eyes, curly black hair and dimpled black skin. I almost drooled at the sight of her. So perfect! Perfect! Perfect!

Sumeeta had a thick Indian accent. Apparently she had arrived in California only a year ago. In fact, she was married only about 18 months ago! And now she had this baby in a strange land, with an almost equally strange husband. She was overwhelmed. Tired. She hadn’t slept well in days. Sumeeta’s husband worked in the Silicon Valley and could not fathom what his wife was supposed to do if the baby was in a daycare. He also failed to understand why he had to shell out enormous amounts of money for this luxury. To top it all, Sumeeta could not drive. How was she supposed to get to and from a daycare? So things looked quite bleak until Sumeeta chanced upon my ad. The location was close enough for her to walk over. But more importantly, the rates were perfect.

I hid my smile.

Sumeeta was a diligent mother. Why is the price so low, she wondered? I assured her it was a promotional stint. The fees would soon be raised to match other centers – but I promised to keep them lower for her as the first parent to sign-up. I could see Sumeeta’s eyes sparkle at the thought of bringing home a good deal to her husband.


Bulls eye !!! exclaimed Yasmin.

Sumeeta then spent an hour checking around the house. She checked the backyard. She requested the weekly menu and inspected the kitchen closely. She went into the bedrooms lined with clean little playpens and checked the linen and the ventilation. She was about to pronounce herself satisfied when she spotted the door at the end of the narrow hallway. She turned to me, clearly expecting to be shown that room too.

I was caught off guard. But Yasmin stepped in seamlessly.

It’s the door to our bedroom, gushed Yasmin. Would Sumeeta like to see it? I walked purposefully towards it, but Sumeeta backed away with a laugh. No need she waved. How could she broach my privacy? She pronounced herself satisfied and signed the papers. Nisha would be dropped off the coming Monday- three days from now. She was scheduled to come for three full days every week, 9-5PM.

Just as she was leaving I remembered. Sumeeta, I called, here take these. I thrust the slim green folder into her hand. This has a couple of letters of recommendations and my RN license number, I explained. Sumeeta smiled as she flipped through it while holding the baby awkwardly in one hand. Excellent, she said and thanked me.

I was uneasy about this. One attempted call and it would be all over. But Yasmin was elated. She's like that, my Yasmin. Such a thrill freak.

The next call was from Mrs. Cairns. She was calling to confirm if the price was really as low as advertised online. Did we have any openings? I took the call and informed her we had already reached our capacity. Yes, yes, we were already full! Mrs. Cairns hung up sounding disappointed.

Well done,said Yasmin.

That afternoon we got another visitor. Sudhir walked in unannounced with a whimpering six-month old boy. The boy had startlingly light eyes and silky brown hair. He was referred to us by Sumeeta. He came alone, clutching a messy diaper bag. Sudhir did not offer details about his wife but said he needed help for a couple of months till his parents arrived from India. The baby whimpered again. Sudhir shifted the baby uncomfortably from arm to arm and asked to see our license. It should be here soon, I assured him. He looked unconvinced. Clearly he was not used to picking daycares and the lack of a formal license was not a good start at all. I think he would have left, when by some stroke of luck, the boy started bawling and screaming in full earnest. Sudhir was completely flustered. I jumped into action. Within minutes I had Sudhir seated and the boy cuddling against me sipping warm milk from a freshly sterilized bottle. Slowly Sudhir relaxed and his face lit up with grateful relief. We chatted idly as the child quietened down. Sudhir was amazed how the child took to me and remarked perhaps he thought I was his mother. I looked so much like her with my long brown hair and wheat colored complexion. I smiled back at Sudhir with easy familiarity. Once the child was sleeping, Sudhir took the perfunctory tour, grabbed the slim green folder and quickly signed all necessary papers. Stuffing his copy of the agreement into the diaper bag he told me this had been the first of 5 centers he had planned to visit that day. But now he had the entire afternoon free to catch up on important office work. It was an omen of good things to come, he smiled.

Indeed chuckled Yasmin.

Don't forget to get the immunization records on Monday I called after him.

We did not get any more calls or visits over the weekend. We were wondering whether to move forward with the two children in hand ......

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is 7AM Monday morning. Our doorbell is ringing.

Confused, I open the door to find a big brown man blocking the doorway. Behind him there is a petite woman wrapped in a flowery saree. The woman is cradling a baby boy about six months old. The man-Mr. Karanidhara- is walking into the middle of our living room. Are the rates as advertised? He is fairly yelling his question at me. I find myself nodding. The woman looks embarrassed. She wants to tour the facility. She looks so dumb and harmless. I tell her to go ahead.

Do we really offer fresh meals and snacks at no extra cost, the man hollers again. I am beginning to get angry. Yasmin steps in. She nods. Can the child start right away? Again Yasmin nods. Am I really a pediatric nurse who can handle a medical emergency? Yasmin is nodding again politely. The man relaxes and smiles. Good! Good! He booms. Good fresh food is necessary for young brain to develop, he pronounces. And the rates! The rates of course! He laughs loudly.

The man owns a jewelery shop in the strip mall two streets down. He has fired his assistant just the night before. Going online to place an ad for a replacement, he chanced upon my ad. That gave him an idea. If we have an opening, his plan is to get his wife to help out for some time. Our location is perfect and the rates are an added advantage. Of course if he had been looking for something more permanent, he would have done a lot more searching and thinking, but hopefully the boy would be here for only a week or two. Would that be all right with us? Yasmin is getting impatient as well, but she nods.

Good! Good! he booms again. Then as as an afterthought he asks if we have any other Indian kids in the daycare. Yes, we have two other children, both Indian, I chime in. He looks delighted.

And so we remain talking in the hallway waiting for his wife.

Suddenly there is a slight disturbance behind us. The woman has crossed the hallway into my bedroom. Flushing with anger I rush after her, but she is already inside. I find her looking over the room with idle curiosity, her eyes only briefly resting on the framed photo and the newspaper clipping. I send her out and take deep breaths.

I come out of the bedroom to find the couple in whispered conference. The father turns around with an apologetic smile. I am sorry says he in his oily voice. Vibha,my wife here, wants to know who that baby is in that photo frame. He pauses delicately, but I stare back in silence. I am so sorry, so sorry he continues hastily. Not our business he says. He yells at Vibha in some foreign dialect. She looks suitably chastened and apologizes to me in turn. Now we are all shaking hands and I hand over the papers necessary to finalize daycare arrangements. Vibha promises to bring over the required medical records the next day.

And then, at last, it is time for them to leave.

Now I am ushering them outside. Their boy, Shankar, is in my arms.

We reach the front gate just in time to greet Sudhir and Sumeeta on their way in. I motion them to go in while I wave farewell to Mr. Karanidhara. There is a brief delay as he hunts for his keys and another 10 minutes pass before he is able to extract his car sandwiched behind Sudhir’s truck. But finally they are gone.

I turn around and am surprised to see Sumeeta and Sudhir are already coming back out. They have left the packed diaper bags on the dining table along with the immunizaton records and tucked the sleeping babies into their tiny sleeping cots. Both are running late for personal appointments and promise to call me in the afternoon.

As Sudhir’s car purrs out of sight, the street descends into utter silence.

I have locked the gates and am strolling back in now.

But before I go.... I am going to tell you.

The clipping’s headline proclaims “Shoot out at happy hour kills local barman and baby.” The article goes onto describe how a drunken Indian man opened fire during happy hour at a local bar in Indiana. He was apparently suffering from depression. Apparently a victim of the crashing automobile industry. As most patrons rushed out in panic, the man leaned over the counter and shot the barman trapped behind it. He also ignored the barman’s plea and first shot his baby.

The article does not describe the terror in the barman’s voice - but I know it. I heard it. I was there, hiding behind the old jukebox. It had been my idea to visit Sam on the way to Turan’s daycare. My hand clamped tight over my mouth as the first bullet entered my baby’s head. I think I fainted as the second one pierced my husband’s heart. Actually I am not very clear on what really happened. I know I made it out of that bar only because Yasmin took charge. At least that's what the psychiatrist says. Logical, he says, since she was the only one to stand by me when my parents got divorced.

Yasmin died 7 years ago in a car crash.

The article, of course, does not mention any of this. It does mention though, that the Indian pleaded temporary insanity and filed bankruptcy.

And the forty-three year old widower moved out of town.

Now go! I need to lock the front door. No you can't follow me in. Husshhhhhhh!! QUIET!!! ...Yasmin is singing...

"Three little babies lying on their bed, one fell down and now he's...."

THE END

Yanni

I like Yanni. There I admitted it out loud. Now what? How uncool am I?

3D sidewalk chalks and paints

Seriously????? 3D sidewalk chalks and paints??? The world is ending. In 3D.

Request

Dear God, I know this is you working through my kids - teaching me with innocence and love what my parents could not teach through discipline and rules. But can we go easy on the experiments?

May 1

Its May 1.

Advait reminded me.

I told him it is your birthday.

He said "But he is dead."

I have to agree. All evidence supports this conclusion. You are absent in form, spirit and even memory. When you are gone from memory-you are indeed dead.

I was shutting the door on you fast when Advait intercepted.

"How old would he have been today?"

"I don't know. Sixty or seventy something." I hazarded. I felt a sharp stab.


"Did you cry when he died?"

I nodded.

He looked intently at my face. Thats a perceptive child I tell you. At -6 my glasses are not easy to penetrate. But he did it. He saw my eyes.

"How did he die? Did he catch a cold?"

"No he fell sick and they took him to the hospital and he died." I said

"Did they try and try and try to save him? Like ET?" Effectively mixing ET and your dramatic death forever.

I nodded again.

"That's just like AShley's grandpa. He smoked. And he died. And she cried a lot."

I turned away "He smoked too" I said abruptly.

"But you are grown-ups. You know how to take care of yourself."

Boy! you would think so!!

"You are lucky! You still have you mom" he said.

Gosh! This child does not pull his punches.Can't he let me wallow for a while?

Advait came closer and hugged me. "What if Appa dies?"

"Don't worry he won't" I lied.

"Ok what if you die?" he persisted.

"Well what will you do then?"

"Don't worry mom. Appa will take care of me."

And thats that. That's all there is to it. Advaita - we are all one. No one indespensible.

But today for a tiny tiny moment, Papa, you felt indespensible.

Cheers!!!! may the best scotch reach you up there in heaven or down there in hell- wherever dads go without giving proper notice.

Riyaaz

She sang every afternoon. In the dry dusty heat of Delhi. She sang in a tan-colored room. Patterned curtains closed against the sun. Windows open in the hopes of a breeze. She sang to Bhairav and Bhairavi, she cuddled Yaman. She lingered over Khamaj and fancied the Bihaag. But most of all she sang to that shadow that stopped under her window. Every day at 3 PM. A figure right under her window that she could not see. That she spotted only as a shadow cast against the tarmac. That she noticed by chance when reaching for a sheet drying over the rails two weeks ago. That shadow appeared everyday. She would pause in the middle of her riyaaz and quietly tiptoe out to check and then tiptoe back. And resume singing. And when she stopped at 4PM the shadow would be gone. She did not wish to confront. But who can curb a young heart's fantasy? And soon her notes flew from her to that shadow - pure, golden notes carrying her youthful crush, resonant with hours of riyaaz. And now she sang of Krishna playing holi. She described the torment of unrequited love. She wove dreams into taranas. And all the while her heart bloomed. Her voice carrying a sweetness that no teacher could bequeath - that scorched her mother's heart. That scorned the hearts of dry dozing housewives. That burned into the minds of stern old men lounging in front of TVs. It burst through the sleep of slumbering toddlers and beckoned them with foreign urgency. It stirred passion in docile housemaids. It reminded the watchmen of their youthful dreams of glory.

And they all cried STOP! For the love of god STOP!


She was 19. Her name was ....Riyaaz.

Once upon a shower

As I showered today
In misty hot water
The sill of the window
Did cause me to totter
There lying quite still
In a tranquil heap
Was a tiny mosquito
In soundless sleep
I peered intently
So difficult to tell
Death from slumber
But I did it well
Why it is quite dead
Not asleep at all
I thought to myself
And made a wise call
I turned away softly
Letting it be
If thats what it wanted
What is it to me?

Tendrils

I stepped out of the rat race- into my house - to create a home. And ironically I detect a loss of my sanity within this peace. Without the experience of a struggle, the mind is fogged by peace, my heart is riddled with attachments. When I slow down to really view life, I realize how utterly beautiful she is. How gorgeous is every second spent alive.
So how do I love my children - and not fear death? How do I live with a loving husband - and not fear loss? What is this about life that every turn is full of conundrums? Little ironical twists that have me plunging my innards for rationality, equanimity, humor, courage. I am told to stand in the midst of this tempest- clothes billowing, hair streaming- but not blink!
A while ago I could have honestly say I did not fear death. That I did not dread my absence, I did not cringe at nights. Now I feel tendrils all around me curling, tightening, lulling my awareness, dulling my alertness. Fragrant tendrils of decieving sweetness.
Perhaps life is so full of care, because if you do stop and stare- the withering rose can break your heart.

Thinking idly.....

Was I tricked into life? By a charming cheating God?
Or was I bullied down by an enraged deity?
Or did I choose to arrive and someone waved fond farewell?
I wish I knew.
So I could move on with living.
Know its pointlessness or appreciate its significance.
All this mystery.
Do I own it or does it own me?
Perhaps it was conspired by the sky, so occassionally we stare up in wonder.
Or by the oceans, so we search their depths with keen eyes.
Or by babies, so we are full of wonder at their birth.
So in the end do we resign or get the pink slip?

Vedant-ism

Mommy! I only think in school! (in response to what are you thinking?)


That cloud is not happy (pointing to a black rain cloud)


No! My poo poo is inside my butt (when asked if he has had a poopy accident)

Pink sunrise

How wonderful, wonderfully peaceful are my days.
Brimming with contentment.
I am bursting to write.
Wax poetic, spurt effusive.
Alas! my words don't flow when my cup overflows.
I am smiling at this screen.
No torment to denote.
No conflict to resolve.
Just butterfly kisses and sunrise tickled pink.
How wonderful, wonderfully peaceful are my days.

Travel

I don't know where I am headed, but am sure as hell enjoying the ride

45 minutes

My Dear Friend

I spent 45 minutes with you today
Over the phone
We connected.
Our voices echoed
Entwining, recognizing
Laughing, empathizing
Just 45 minutes
To affirm my faith
Polish my viewpoints
To stop second-guessing
To stop spiralling with self-doubt.
Just 45 minutes on the phone with you
Is all it took.
How do you do it?
How do you say just the right things? In just the right words?
I don't need to know...
Just do what you do-
My dear, dear friend.

Its a small world

A little boy lived on the slopes of a rolling green hill.And all over were even more green hills. They swelled and dipped cheerfully all around his house.On sunny days white cotton clouds would saunter by the hills. The little boy would lie back on the thick green grass. The clouds made funny faces and made him laugh.
On stormy evenings, the wind would howl around his house and angry dark clouds would come knocking on the tight shut door. Rain would lash against the windows and pester its ways in.The little boy would stare out the window. The helpless clouds outside would make him laugh -and clutch tighter to his mother's hand.

Oblivion

The world is burning
Decapitated, truncated
Bloody, muddy, fearful
Shine down Lord
Shimmering rays of peace
Burst out from within
Our goodness, Narsimha
Through pillars of hate
I cradle my children
Shielding, praying
How long? For how long?
They tore me asunder
And fought out their way
For what? This hell?
I will not let go
You owe it, to me
Lull our hearts
Soothe our brows
Help us sleep
Gently, past the sun, the moon, the stars.....
Into deep, peaceful oblivion.

Cats

Yak! Yak! Yak! Yak!
Could I get some silent cats in this house instead?

A minute

Just a minute.
A minute of me.
Just me for myself.
Just me for myself
Kowing full well and strong
Just what I did right
And what I did wrong.

Its raining.....

Its raining disappointment.
Glass drops
Of liquid dreams
Slipping down windows
Dripping down roofs
Trickling down poles
Into dark dirty puddles
Left lying on the road.

Oh no........

Oh no! Just read Santa opened fire in an LA party. And killed 3. Kalyug is here! We are doomed!!!!! hmmm.....or naaah! its probably just LA.

I CAN see hope everywhere!!!! It REALLY MUST be Christmas:)

The weather outside is frightful......

I can't make up my mind about the weather today. Its raining, windy - the kind of day that makes you think (much more than) twice about stepping out. But then it also makes the blazing fireplace so much brighter, cozier. Imagine a bright sunny outlook - what price the blazing fire and the stockings above? Yes, yes- today I can see the good in everything. It MUST be Christmas.

Oh the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since no pain no gain,
Let It Rain! Let It Rain! Let It Rain!

Sri and I...

...are working on two songs.

One is a difficult Dhrupad that keeps veering into a naughty Tarana.

The other is a sunny Beatles melody.

No idea no idea
There is none here
Oh my deeeaaaah!

Take....

Out.

You

You pause - mid-stride- beseechingly
I beckon unconvincingly

In response to closing lines from Big B

I closed without ceremony
Despairing pain and agony
They honored my humanity
I’m laughing at the irony

Why children?

Today at 6:47PM, I felt I knew why I have children. At 7 PM I lost it with them big time - but in the space of those few minutes things seemed shining clear.

Children are the means by which every living creature is allowed to feel priviledged. Wanted, worthwhile, productive (pardon the pun). It is as simple as that. Everything else in life seems to be distributed unfairly. Some people are the 'haves' and others are 'have nots'. But when you care for a child and truly dedicate yourself to his/her nurturing (and that is my definition of a parent)- there is a part of you that becomes so selfless, so pure, so unconditional, so accepting. You are a miracle to yourself, for yourself. As you grow older and life's setbacks dim your pride in every decision you took, I think (and hope) these frustrating little creatures offer you self-esteem. It is greatness taken from the hands of the few and distributed freely for everyone to enjoy- like air, sunshine, water. This love is elemental. And will surely be the end of us all one day.

There is always

There is always an alternate life. That you can regret not having. Or that you are so thankful you have not led. Those are so easy to reconcile with. Its just so hard to live with what you DID choose. Sometimes its unbearable joy, which makes one fearful of losing it. Sometimes unbearable pain - need I say what one wants to do then?

Walking with Adi

I took a ten-minute walk with Adi last night
We saw a moon that some astronaut had cut in half
And wondered where he found the scissors
We danced on the road
To the crickets playing live in the thickets
We were stars at the Olympic
Gracefully balancing on the sidewalk edge
And we raced over the wet front lawn
Back into our home's comfort
Shouting out greetings like we left seven years ago.

My friend says....

"religious sentiments can be strong, after one becomes a mom."

WTF!

The Brilliant Night

"Ooof! Its a dark night!"

"Genius. Were you expecting a brilliant one?"

The argument was logical. Point 1 to me.

I marched along the wet, windy street. Thankful for the wilting street lamps.

Soon I would be there. I focused on it. I went right along.


It was in fact not until I had gone a good quarter of a mile that I heard the footfalls. Light, persistent and sure as hell coming towards me.

I picked up my pace.

"Coward."

"Oh yeah? You think I will stop?"

I slowed down. I stopped. Point 2 to myself.

I inched closer to a street lamp and turned.

"Oh Thank God! Thank you for stopping. So sorry to disturb you. But could you tell me how to get to here."

I was staring. Struck dumb.

"Quick! Say something. Say something."

"What? What- should I say?"No answer - this was a draw.

Her hair whipped around in confusion. Her lashes dripped anxiety. Her hands trembled under the weight of the paper.

I took it from her without breaking our gaze. She shivered. I shivered in response. I looked down at the paper. Then pointed silently at the ornate iron gate two houses down on the left.

She peered after my finger.

"That one? Next to that brick house?"

I nodded. Gulped. Then nodded again. It was safest to resort to basic universal gestures.

She smiled and the night turned brilliant.

Thanking me she hurried up to the house.

"Brilliant night eh?"

"Yes brilliant."

Grinning I turned into my red brick house.

K

Today is Adi's first day in K. He could not sleep last night- and woke up early today. How do I know?- I was the same:)
I surprised myself. It was hard leaving him in the daycare. He kept waving me off but I lingered- fussing over the sign-in, his snack pack, his pick-up locations. I worried. Will he make friends? Will he keep up? Will he excel? Stand out?Blend in? - Typical Indian parent? Or typical mom on first day of K??
And Vedant sensed it too. He was all quiet on the way in to his school. And snuggled against me and made me carry him in. He kept asking where is Adi- indeed where is he?

So life changes- my baby is in school. Big deal - say the seasoned parents. Yeah BIG DEAL- say I!!!!!!

Good Night

Night light
Fused hands
A lazy clock
And you

The Bargain.... (written as part of S&C's weekly theme)

I locked the door and strolled over to the window. My sister’s car was pulling out of the driveway. I waved as she reversed and with a quick wave back, she sped into the gathering dusk. I stayed and watched till her car’s twin red backlights dissolved from sight.

Then I turned back to survey our new home. It was beautiful. Gracious arches, smooth expanse of polished, tiled floors and elegant marble counters. The kind of house we used to look at enviously in glossy home décor magazines.

What luck to get it at such a bargain!

A stroke of luck for all of us- me, my sister Juraina and my precious baby Taria.

I wandered idly to the kitchen and was pondering over which box to unpack, when I heard it. The baby was wailing upstairs. “God! Taria is crying again.” Muttering under my breath I was halfway up the stairs before it struck me.

The baby wasn’t here!!!!

She was with my mother in her house three blocks away!!!!

Then who was crying upstairs?

I froze. The hair at the back of my neck pricked up in pert unison. My skin broke out in goose pimples.

The baby continued wailing. Sad. Insistent. Lonely.

And then as suddenly, it stopped.

There was deathly silence.

And there I was- alone in the huge silent house that got darker with each passing second. Three more minutes passed and I finally decided to move. Maybe it was a cat? Or some other animal lost upstairs?

“Mama.”

The soft sound came from the foot of the stairs. Heart thudding I spun around to find a small dark form standing down below. In the gloom I could not see any features but could have sworn it was a little boy. For a split second we faced each other before the figure walked to the arch leading into the kitchen and passed through the doorway.

I was shaking. Cold shivers ran up my spine. I would have screamed hysterically if not for my odd conviction that the house would not welcome such an intrusion. So biting my lips, I stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Until finally five minutes passed. I know- because I checked my watch every three seconds. Thank God for luminous dials.

I cautiously turned around again and decided to head up the stairs. Somehow I just did not want to enter that kitchen. I also avoided the master bedroom where I thought the baby had wailed.

Instead I rushed into my sister’s room and locked the door. I fumbled for the light switch.

“Mama”

I gasped and fell back on the door.

On the bed I could make out a the little figure again. And was that a bundle in its arms? Perhaps the baby?

This time I screamed. I opened the door and there outside was the little boy again.

“Mama.”

I moaned in fear. Where could I go? What should I do?

I looked back at the room- it was empty. I swirled to the landing – it was empty.

I ran out. Down the stairs. To the kitchen and put the lights on. I breathed in relief as the brilliance swept through the room. I was going to get out of this house now.

I picked up my bag and my car keys. I ran to the car in the garage and started the engine. I pushed the gas pedal hard and tore down the lane, into the street and stopped only when the light turned red at the crossing.
Panting, I rested my head on the wheel and felt the first slivers of relief flow into me. Then the light turned green and I was speeding again.

“Mama.”

I got a fleeting glimpse of a small figure in my rearview mirror before everything went pitch black.

----------------------------------------------------------
The house at the corner of our block stands empty. No one knows who owns it. No one has ever tried to buy it. They say some woman tried to move into it a few years ago. But the first night she moved in, her neighbors saw her drive out of the house in a frenzy. She died in a car crash. Her sister and her baby girl moved out of town.

People say all kinds of things. But I KNOW. I have seen her.

A woman holding a baby. And a little boy behind her saying “Mama.”

The Young Rose

A breezy summer wind one day
Blew in a handsome bee
“I seek a rose, a sweet, sweet rose
“But none so far I see.”

A gentle rose who hid behind
A slender willow tree
Shyly showed a soft young face
“I think I’m one, Mr. Bee.”

“Really? But you are so pale!
So deathly white to see
I want a rose that’s bold and red
That does appeal to me.”

The young rose thought then turned away
And held its breath to squeeze
A pale pink tear from stinging eyes
And stained itself to please.

“Hmm! Better! I do think so.
But you’re too short for me
I need someone like marigold
Who reaches up to me.”

The young rose thought then turned away
And stretched high up the tree
To give a petal, a pale pink petal
But could not reach the Bee.

“So you look tall, a bit red too
But you’re not sweet, you see
I need perhaps this jasmine here
Who softly perfumes me.”

The young rose thought then turned away
And reached into its heart
And drew up all its fragrant life
And let it all depart.

“Oh look at you, you look so strange
A red rose there I see
I want that rose, that sweet, red rose
You look too strange to me.”

The Large Pickle Jar

The Large Pickle Jar

Gauri gently bowed her head to the rising sun. She finished her pooja (prayers) before the sun’s rays could touch her pet jasmines. It was a routine she seldom broke.

And equally unfailing, next to her, was Sasumaa (mother-in-law) -in her beloved starched cotton saree. She too stood with hands folded, silently mouthing her daily litany.

Gauri knew what Sasuma was seeking. It wasn’t very different from her own entreaties. In fact, everyone in the house was praying to hear the wail of a newborn. Each in his/her own little way had been pleading with Fate for two years now. And their concern always mounted to some new ritual for Gauri. Just last week (widowed) Chachi Maa (Great Aunt) had requested her to stop wearing red. Apparently it absorbed too much heat and could result in miscarriages. Then yesterday Sasujee (father-in-law) had suddenly cautioned her against going near the banyan tree next to the village pond. He feared evil spirits would bestow misfortune on her. It was a harsh rule because most of the local bazaars and fairs were held around that tree. Women often sat out broiling afternoons under that generous canopy and much local gossip was traded in those shaded recesses.

However, Gauri bore it all without rancor. She understood their worry, respected their concern. Her only hope was that in time she would prove worthy of such love. Already, most people in the village had advised Sasumaa to get a second wife for her son.

Gauri could only wonder what bizarre sense of loyalty was stopping this family from abandoning her.

Prayers over, the two women cast somber looks at each other. Today was the big day. Three days ago, after months of gentle nagging, Sasumaa had finally convinced Sasujee that Gauri needed to visit the government family planning center near by. It was an hour away by foot.

Anxious to be punctual, Sasumaa and Gauri had actually managed to arrive half-hour before their appointment. For the next three hours they had sat in timid wonder observing the ‘lady doctor’ order around several male assistants. Finally, their turn had come.

After a thorough physical exam behind a grubby green curtain, the doctor had taken Gauri’s blood and urine samples. She had informed them she would have to send the samples to the city to be properly analyzed. So could Gauri return in three days for her results? How about next Monday at 10 AM?


And today, at last, it was Monday!

*******************************************************************
“There is nothing wrong with you Gauri.” The lady doctor was smiling assurance. “You can have as many children as you want!”

The two women cast delighted looks at each other. Thank God!

But the doctor was continuing, so they turned back to her.

“You say you have been trying for two years now. And Gauri is in perfect health. So I am wondering, would you like to bring your husband in for a check-up?”

Gauri felt her breath catch in her throat. Bring in Shankar? Why did Shankar have to be checked? The temerity of this brazen woman! She opened her mouth in hot refute but Sasumaa’s calm voice reigned her in.

“We will think about it.”

Gauri was completely stupefied. In all these days, nay months, of praying and crying and obeying and agonizing, it had never once occurred to her that she was not to blame.

And here was Shankar’s mother, refusing to rise to his defense. Considering the impossible. What was happening……?

Gauri’s mind was in turmoil but she bided her time with characteristic patience.

She finally trained her questioning gaze on Sasumaa only when they settled into their trudge back home.

But Sasumaa refused to meet her eyes. And Gauri could not find the courage to voice her confusion. So they marched on in silence until suddenly, Sasumaa began without preamble.

“You are so innocent. How do I tell you?” She paused.

“These men… they are not perfect, beti (daughter). Your mother knew it. My mother knew it. And yet no one told us. They all wait for us to find out or suffer in ignorance ….” She stopped again. Then continued, choosing her words carefully.


“So I am telling you now, when there is still time. I know Shankar is my son. And I love him. But I also know he is not God- he is not your God Gauri. He can make mistakes too. Sometimes he can be at fault too. The blame is not always yours to bear.”

Gauri was dumbstruck.

Sasumaa continued in gentler tones…..

“I brought you here because I wanted you to know the truth….the villagers, our family, even Sasujee are all after you. But I know the truth. And I wanted you to know it too.”

Seeing Gauri’s face, Sasumaa’s reserve finally exploded.

“Do you still not understand? I have had the same problems with Sasujee. Shankar is not our son. We adopted him.”

Gauri could not have been more stupefied if the ground had split open and swallowed her whole.

“But I should tell you things in detail now. Here, let us stand here under this shade for sometime.”

“We had the same problems, Gauri, when we got married. For three years we tried and tried. I went to every temple I could find. Observed every fast. Followed every ritual. Sasujee’s parents, our families and even the villagers made my life a living hell. Then one day I found out my in-laws were looking for a new bride. I finally became desperate enough to seek help. So I went to visit my friend in the neighboring village. Her husband was a doctor in the government clinic there. I wanted to find the problem and correct it. I wanted to be the perfect bride.”

“The doctor arranged for my tests and came back with the astounding news that I was normal. My head was reeling. And then the doctor suggested that we should check Sasujee. I almost fainted. But my life was at stake and I had to think fast. I knew that Sasujee would never allow a test. So I tricked him into it.”

Here Sasumaa paused delicately. How do you tell your daughter-in-law about tricking your husband into giving you a sperm sample? Thankfully, Gauri vaguely understood something and nodded for her to continue.

“So anyway, I still don’t understand the details, but the results showed that it would be very difficult for Sasujee to ever have kids. My husband was not God. He was as vulnerable as I was. I cried for a whole week in sheer relief. And then came endless nights of helpless rage. I could hardly bear Sasujee’s touch during those days.”

Sasumaa started walking again.

“ I took the results home and hid them under the large pickle jar in the kitchen. I knew now that I was not at fault. But how did that change anything? Years of brainwashing prevented me from saying anything against Sasujee. I could not bring myself to sully his name in public. I had to protect him. That was my duty as his wife. So I bore all the pressure and taunts in silence for almost another full year….. But then Sasujee broke the sacred bond between us. He went and saw a young girl and fixed a date for marriage. They hid the news from me and I chanced upon it only a week beforehand.”

“I remember clearly, I was at the well when some women passed by arguing the matter in loud, heated voices. They stopped when they spotted me, but I had heard enough. I dropped my urn right there and ran all the way back home. I knew the time had come to move that pickle jar.”

Gauri looked over Sasumaa’s portly figure and tried to imagine the scene. It almost brought a smile to her lips. Perhaps Sasumaa understood. She abruptly met Gauri’s amused look with a twinkle of her own.

“Yes, I could run like the wind in those days. So I rushed into my kitchen. And pulled out the test results. I could not read, but I had made the doctor circle the important parts in red.”

“Then I ran again—all the way to the mustard fields where Sasujee was overseeing the field hands. I beckoned to him urgently. He must have thought I got his lunch. The poor man.”

Sasumaa chuckled.

“I did not say anything. He could read and I just thrust the paper in his hand. To make a long story short, the results were a shock to him. I threatened to make it public. He threatened to beat me. I told him he could not touch me. The doctor in the city hospital would alert the police if I did not contact him regularly. It was a lie, but it worked. Now he resorted to pleading. He could not bear the thought of his father hearing of this. His family needed an heir. What was the way out? Finally, we settled on a pact. He would not look for a second bride. I would burn the test results. And we would adopt a child secretly.”

“We returned home together. It felt awkward – it was an unusual break in our routines. And that decision changed our lives forever. We entered the house to find Chachi Maa and Sasujee’s oldest brother ...mmm...together. It’s the most sinful act I have ever witnessed – and yet one that has given me the greatest joy in my life. There is no point in saying anything more about it….but Shankar is really their son. Sasujee’s brother died before Shankar was born- I think he died of shame. We took Chachi to the city under the pretext of a new job for Sasujee and came back once all adoption procedures where final.”

There was a tiny silence. And then Sasumaa concluded.

“So you see….I always suspected the truth about Shankar. It runs in the family. And in case you are wondering, what threat do you think finally convinced your Sasujee to let you come to this clinic?”

Tears were slipping down Gauri’s cheeks. A kind hand was twisting her kaleidoscope of beliefs….and this brilliant new pattern was terrifying yet liberating.

“Sasumaa, so what should I ….?”

“What should you do now? I don’t know my dear. I just wanted you to know the truth. What you make of it is up to you. Truth can give you great power if you decide to act on it. And it will give you great comfort when you feel wronged….But I will tell you one thing though. Sasujee will never allow Shankar to be tested. And Shankar is not about to come with you willingly….”

Sasumaa looked deep into Gauri’s eyes.

“I also want you to know I will never be in favor of a second bride…but if Sasujee makes up his mind, Shankar is bound to do as he asks. I will not be able to stop them. So now do what you must to protect yourself. Gauri, I did what I could. And I hope I did right by you. I am just sorry I waited this long.”

“Sasumaa, one last thing. Did you really burn those results?”

Sasumaa smiled “Of course dear. There is no marriage without trust. Remember that.”

No more could be said. They were home.

*****************************************************************
Gauri entered the kitchen slowly. It looked different. Brighter, cleaner, happier. That’s how she felt. She was not to blame!!! She hugged her secret closer. But there was so much more to absorb. So many spicy secrets, so many startling truths.

However, as Sasujee reminded her loudly, lunch was due in an hour’s time. She could not waste time idling. So she busied herself with the task at hand.

Then all at once, she got up and crossed over to the corner shelf. She assessed the stacked contents and her yes lit upon the biggest one at the bottom.

Bending, she lifted the pickle jar and wiped it clean. She looked at it thoughtfully for a long time, then slowly set it down again.

Deep inside her was rising a new-found self-respect…A dawning desire to be given her worth. If Shankar decided to marry again, she would not beg him or trick him into staying.


She would never rely on a tardy little secret hidden under a large pickle jar.

The Perfect Act

The doctor leans forward, his eyes spilling sympathy. "Do you understand what I just told you Mrs. Koreshi?" He speaks slowly. I watch his mouth form the words. What if I lean over and kiss him? Suppressing a smile I try to match Dr. Kakkar's gravity. I have just been informed I have ovarian cancer. Quite advanced. They also found some growth in my uterus that needs further testing. I suppose I should pay attention to all the details pouring forth from Dr. Kakkar. He is a nice man- and nice men are not to be taken for granted.

At least that’s what my mom believes. “Ananya you should thank god every day girl! Such a nice husband. What other man helps around the house like he does? He even makes your dinner on days you are tired- even with all his work! You lucky, lucky girl! God is kind to you.” I would smile but wonder at the inflection in her voice. Was it sadness for her lot or resignation at mine?

“Mrs. Koreshi, perhaps you need some time alone.” Dr. Kakkar is graceful in his retreat. He briefly lays a hand on my shoulder. I shudder softly. “You will be fine,” he says, misreading my reaction. Should I call him back and tell him it was a pleasure feeling his touch?


I look down at the white robe covering my length. I am naked underneath. The cold gooey lubricator is sliding down my thigh, making damp pools on the examination table. I pity the person cleaning up after me. Sliding off, I reach for my clothes. I catch sight of my reports lying on the side-table and suddenly I get it- I have cancer. Me, Ananya Koreshi, mother of two, wife of one, daughter of two, sister of none- has cancer – that may prove fatal.

God Willing- adds a small voice, startling me.

My fingers are deftly wrapping the sari around me. I am busy toying with the word ‘cancer.’ Very apt that it should have two ‘c’s in it. C is such a cold letter. Not like a sunny S or a pretty P. I get a mental picture of cancer written large in bold letters, flashing in the skies on a dark stormy sky or wavering at the precipice of a steep cliff. It comes with painful violins, a deluge of tears, a final attempt at a smile, a screeching crescendo and then --- silence. Limp hand resting still in the clasp of a loved one.

And yet, here I am - and not a single violin has sounded. Outside the doctor’s office hums with busy routines. I have to just pull open the door and they will envelope me as well. Next check-up to be scheduled, medicines to be prescribed, tests to be ordered- even death has a decorum to follow. You can’t just let go and ride to it for free.

It’s not time yet to step out. I sink back into Dr. Kakkar’s chair. What will I tell Sanjeev? When should I tell him? Nice, considerate, wonderful Sanjeev. Then why am I here alone?
Because you wanted it so –there’s that small voice again.

Sanjeev must be in office. Watching the clock. Waiting for my call. I feel irritation rising in me again. I can see his smoothly sculpted face, light handsome eyes- always kind, always expectant. How can anyone be this perfect? And why would that perfection choose to marry someone called Ananya Tallavi?

Ananya Tallavi grew up happy. An independent child- a bit lonely for want of siblings. But enjoying the undivided focus of loving, well-to-do parents. Secure in her talent of painting and acting. Proud of her slender beauty, expecting a fantastic future. Everyone in the colony agreed she was going to be ‘something.’ She was ‘going to make it big.’ And Ananya set about doing just that. She won every competition she entered, represented her school at state level and got admission to the top arts college in her city. She was well on her way to fame and adventure.

Her only shameful secret was her mother—her dull, suburban mother. With a world of good in her heart and worry in her eyes. Always a step behind Dada. Always a step ahead of Ananya. Ma with nothing to call her own- not even her husband who would often disappear for several nights, and re-appear looking smug. Ananya once caught Ma meditating at the kitchen window. It was difficult to tell if she was thanking God for her comfortable life or imagining the flight of free will. Ma had turned abruptly, before Ananya could hide the scorn on her face.

Ma was aware of Ananya’s silent contempt and accepted it. Ananya was aware of Ma’s acceptance and was doubly angered by the guilt it caused her. If there was one thing Ananya Tallavi was NOT going to be, it was her mother.

I laugh out loud at this thought. Twenty-three years later, with seventeen years of marriage behind me. Who am I? Mrs. Koreshi- the perfect wife to the perfect husband. The perfect mother to near-perfect children. In a perfect home, on the perfect street with a perfect black iron gate guarding my perfect lawn. No less a prisoner to routines and expectations than Ma had been. No more able to break free than my Ma.

It started on a sunny afternoon as I stood for an audition outside Zee TV’s corporate office. The slight heat made my hair curl and I was counting on this flushed appearance to get me the protagonist’s part. It was to be a 36 episode serial. My ticket to fame. Page 3 here I come! Lost in thought I was barely looking at my book until a brown hand gently turned it in my hands. I realized I had been holding it upside down and looked up with an embarrassed smile. My heart skipped a beat and my smile died on my lips. I saw the man’s expression mirror mine. It was the same shocked look of unexpected love.

This was Sanjeev Koreshi- assistant production manager for the show I was auditioning for.

That day I landed a part bigger than I imagined. It has lasted me a lifetime, severely tested my skills as an actress. How else can someone function day after day with bored resentment in their heart and no one come to know of it?

I have my expressions pat down. To share a few,

Surprised Delight – expressed with wide, slightly damp eyes and a slow spreading smile: to be used for birthday gifts, anniversary gifts, romantic dinners, romantic gifts …you get my drift.

Maternal Pride – expressed with a slight straightening of the back, direct eye contact, a bright supportive smile, arms stretched out to embrace and a line or two on ‘always having full faith.’

Dutiful Wife- a cup of tea in hand, softly lowered eyes, a gentle inviting half-smile. Used to lead to sex. Past few years it elicits a finely rendered ‘thank you.’ Apparently sex is outlawed once you get over the hill- I personally feel tumbling together down the other side could be fun. But Sanjeev has lost interest. Perhaps Mr. Kakkar……

I laugh out loud again. Then stop. Am I in shock? Is this how people react when they find out they have cancer? My mind is now busy trying to picture the best way to react.

That’s how I am. For every situation I flip through my dossier of responses and settle on the perfect one to display. Because people cannot survive my truth. What will happen if I tell Sanjeev how bored I am? How I hate the routine in our lives? How I resent the dependence of our children? How disappointed I am with my life? What will happen if I run away leaving all these people behind? With no note or explanation? Would anyone feel I was justified? Can I say “my life is too comfortable.” Does that count for a reason?

You could find out now- comes that small voice again. What is there to lose? You have cancer. Not many days to go. Have fun. Do what you want to do. To hell with rest.

Its tempting- but I know I won’t. I can’t. I could not bear being wrong in their eyes. NO! I stand up suddenly and knock the chair against the wall. Almost immediately Dr. Kakkar appears at the door. (Was he outside all this time? The dear man!) “Are you all right Mrs. Koreshi?

How do you feel?”How do I feel? Indeed, how do I feel? Should I tell him I feel relieved? Hopeful? For the first time in years there is an end in sight. A natural, dignified end to this life – with hopes of starting fresh again somewhere. Without fault or blame or bitterness. I will be free at last. God is kind- Ma was right.

A tear escapes me. My body is being racked by sobs. Dr. Kakkar’s arms are around me. Comforting me. He has misread me again. I turn my face up to meet his….
****************************************************************************There There is a knock on the door. My assistant pops her head in to say “Dr. Kakkar, Mr. Koreshi is waiting outside for his wife.”

Ananya straightens her sari. She turns to me and winks. I am confused by her shining eyes, her light-hearted smile.

Then she adjusts her dark glasses firmly on her nose. What’s the need I wonder. Without a backward glance she opens the door to the bustling corridor. I can see her husband’s silhouette. “Darling, how do you feel?” a concerned baritone.

I am startled to hear a teary voice answer “Oh Sweetheart! We must be brave. I am just devastated. What will you all do if something happens to me? What will I do without you? Oh Sanjeev why has God done this to us……”

The door closes shut. I am alone now – with Mrs. Koreshi’s cancer reports.
*******************************************************************

Think not twice

Here between us-
Sure as a slap
Softly disappointed
Sticky with compromise
Soggy with tears
Baking in frustration
Crusty with anger
Bemused by misperception
Abandoned with indifference
Wide-eyed on unslept bedsheets
Hicupping alone at the breakfast table-
Here between us
Lies our love
Shall we pick it up gently
And soothe its frantic heart
And kiss it into silence
And give it some water to drink?
Shall we let go of this mile
And rest for a while?
And think not twice before saying "I love you."

Different

In their search for individualism, America has created the blandest, most homogenic society possible. Its costs too much to be individualistic in this country. You don't believe me? Try any of the following:
1. customize the house you are building: nothing special: just try to change the color of the facade ...or just put in a window where others have none.
2. alter a pair of trousers to suit your length
3. get a doctor to visit you at home
4. get a personal trainer so you don't have to attend group classes
5. get dresses tailor-made for yourself
6. try to get a vegetable seller to come to personally deliver your favorite vegetables - fresh - to your doorstep
7. get window dressings an inch shorter and half an inch wider than the standard available

The list can go on. Be it economies of scale in a capitalist environment or the philosophical views of a communist dictator- the end results are the same: you cannot afford to be different. The price is too high.

Shows you life comes full circle. In the end, hate is nothing but love turned inside out.

Uplifting, rare, interesting: is that me? So strange to hear these words for little old me whirring around the day like a wound up cuckoo.

Kelpo

There’s Mrs. Dadar heading toward me. It’s Game Time.

Oh! But …have we met before? I thought not!

Hi, I’m Kelpo. I live with Mrs. Dadar. She has three boys. I think she has a husband ..or is it a paying guest?…I can’t really tell.

I came here few months ago. Since then life has been…well… it’s not easy living with Mrs. Dadar. The days are bad. But the nights are worse. In this lonely kitchen….worn out…..with the day’s abuse splattered all over my body.

I live quietly for the most part.

I thank my mother for helping me understand this is the way my life was meant to be. Otherwise it would be unbearable.

I am still learning to deal with The Game- when she inserts unspeakables into my core. I don’t understand why she does it. Perhaps she just likes to watch me? At first I tried to hide my pain- I simmered silently, hoping to please her with my acquiescence. But maliciously she would turn up the heat on me even more. The whole point of the game, you see, is to see me twist and writhe and beg for relief. So its smarter to let go and scream for mercy- she gets what she wants and I get off the hook faster.

I choose relief over dignity, is that bad?

So here comes Mrs. Dadar. Its ok if you want to walk away now. It really is.

I will surrender. I will scream. As the pressure builds you will turn away I know. It’s ok. I’m built of steel.

Don’t worry.

It’s all in a day’s work for a pressure cooker.

A promise

How time flies. And we flit behind. Like children after butterflies.
What if we caught up with a moment and flew with it instead. What if instead of digging our feet into solid ground we rose...light as a feather and flew up to the blue sky. Perhaps even into inky black space where hours swim with lazy strokes.
Would our minds burst with new thoughts? Would our hearts melt with happiness?
It can't be that difficult. Can I do it tomorrow morning? Could I wake up and just set my mind free? Weave stories as I scrub the baby's bottle, string a poem as I scramble eggs, type a rhythm as I answer office mail.
Worth a try. Definitely worth it. So if you see me ride by on a delicious, rainbow-colored moment, don't stop me. Don't reach out. Just let me fly.
I will find out how time flies. And come back to you. Thats a promise.

Kuch to Ho

Behte palon ka kinara to ho
Yaadon ka hi, kuch sahara to ho
Jo socha ki ab yun miloge nahi
Bhulane ka koi bahanaa to ho

Kaha tha kisine hamein bhi kabhi
Ki laa denge chanda or taare sabhi
Ab andheri raaton mein bhatke hue
Ek nanhi si lau ka nazaara to ho
Yaadon ka hi, kuch sahara to ho

Nahi kahte hum ki badhao yeh baat
Nahi kehte tumse chalo saath saath
Bas ek baar humko pukaara to ho
Kabhi pyaar se sir sawaara to ho
Yaadon ka hi, kuch sahara to ho
Jo socha ki ab yun miloge nahi
Bhulane ka koi bahanaa to ho

Haunted.Hunted.Hurting

Cold water, Poison and Other Problematic Issues

Yesterday I finally faced my nemesis and failed with flying colors.

Everyone has a secret dread - something they don't want to think about; the headliner in the list of things that Should Never Happen. Of course, I have one too- and as a Hindu I am forced to face it. (I am in favor of converting - next birth of course. Can't do it in this one without considerable structural damage.)

And so it is that our water heater broke down.

There is admittedly a certain breed of people who revel in cold pellets raining down from merciless showerheads. I know this for sure because I am married to one. Every morning the man willingly sets the shower lever to 'C' and goes in smiling. I am not sure what happens next but it culminates in lusty singing. And then he jumps out a minute later- triumphant and a bit blue at the extremities.

Similar spectacularly puzzling behavior is also exhibited by birthing women who refuse epidurals, athletes who run 10 miles every morning and cooks who spend hours chopping fresh green beans.

I completely do NOT belong to this species of mammals. My genetic code demands a different ritual.

Appropriate showering etiquette is to run hot water until doors and mirrors get fogged over. In this sauna-like environment the bather should take a leisurely shower- humming soft notes and blowing wispy bubbles. When you finally step out, the skin should be a pretty pink (also known as the ‘boiled lobster’ look if you happen to like those). A handy thermometer should indicate a body temperature of at least 101. One caution: do keep a glass of water ready in case you get dizzy. An added advantage: Bathers have been known to lose a pound or two on good days.

So with the water heater gone kaput, I avoided showering for two days. Finally I knew I had to take the plunge when my three-year old noticed a stink. You know its serious when a three-year old boy notices something stinks.

The next morning I bided my time till the sun shone hot and high in Arizona. Then I turned on the shower. My skin broke out in allergic reaction. I swayed weakly and took a steadying swig of Benadryl. A faint ringing besieged my ears and I distinctly remember putting a toe into the water. To be honest the next few minutes are garbled and somewhat non-existent in my memory. The next clear recall I have is of standing in front of my vanity with a bottle of Poison in my hand. For a moment I panicked then realized it was the perfume. Things had not reached breaking point yet. I doused myself liberally with this genius creation, slicked my hair back and applied an extra layer of make-up.

As I said, I faced my nemesis and failed with flying colors.

And in case you are wondering, yes there is a happy ending. The water heater is being replaced even as I type. I have requested an hour off from office this afternoon to inaugurate it. I hope to land myself in hot water soon.

Kites or Stones?

How we all hang
From these tender threads
Some bound by them
Some hanging at the ends
Some twirling in the breeze
Some solidly entwined
Just waiting for that snip
To cut through the bind
The question then is
Not why we hang around
But when snipped from the thread
Do we fly or dash aground?

Confounding

A yellow labrador named Blue

Pride

Watching my son run strong and free across the vast green expanse. Remembering he could hardly wobble across the room two years ago.

Adi-ism

This is our garbage truck (re: our shiny new Honda Odyssey)

Treat

Firemen playing soccer on golden afternoon....yummmm:)

Bursting

Can I burst? Burst into tears? Burst with love? Burst out of exhaustion? Burst out with anger? Burst away my frustration?

As the dial spins and the hands rotate I just play catch up. How easy for you to watch in contempt. How simple for you to turn away with dislike.

How many months have etched themselves under my eyes? How many tears are dampening my brow? How many fingers are tugging at my skirts? How many bones have I built through my flesh and blood? How many cheeks are rosy because of my plump hips? How many hands are growing because I swelled to hold them?

So easy for you to look in contempt. So simple for you to turn away in dislike.

How convenient to hold forth on things that could be.

The end is a must. The end is given. The purpose-obtruse. The means -a mystery. The time- a hope.

Did I?

Did I see?
Did I?
See a rhyme with a tear?
A word with deep despair?
Have you found me again?
My darkness, my pain?

Ruminating

Walls and spears.

Thats all there is.

Walls built with deaf bricks. Mute bricks. Uncaring. Sterile. Unable to melt. They can only crack. Or dislodge. And then fall on me. A quick blow and I am left to tend the wound.

Spears built long and sharpened to perfection. Loping across walls. Finding their mark. A quick stab and I am left bleeding. Leaning against my wall. Drawing strength from those hard red blocks. Frozen in anger.

I tried. I try. We all try. And yet-- all we come away with are walls and spears. And we run in circles..like the planets orbiting the sun. We orbit our blinding stupidities, our amazing ignorance, our astounding conciets. And we trip on the same stones, the same cracks, the same dry gravel. Yet we run...round and round with our walls and spears.

But for what?

How long can you last without a kind word? A caring glance? A loving embrace? How long can you stand in front of the mirror staring at your open wounds? How long can you bleed and still keep breathing? How long do you want to run? Till the energy of your soul is sucked away from you? Till word by word, breath by breath, blow by blow--you are nothing. Just fine, ground salt mixing into sand. A shadow of who you were. A memory of what you were going to be.

Its over.

All over.

And yet you are running....

With your walls and spears.

Redemption

Here I am. Redeeming myself. This is penitence for being 'absent' during peak rush hour at home. This is payment for being 'busy' at work all day. This is my fine for attending gym for an hour. Thats what it boils down to. Unspoken guilt. Unvoiced pressures. Implicit expectations. Spilling out of my kitchen's shelves, tumbling out of cupboards. Cannot be repressed. And only I hear them. Only I see them. I carefully gather them and place them back gently and shut the door firmly.

The strength of a liberated woman lies not in the act of independance, but in the forebearance of the consequences.

Reviewing my day, I am surprised I am still standing -- up at 5AM, worked non-stop till 4 PM, work out 4:30- 5:30 PM, shopping for formal clothes: til 7PM, cooking/serving dinner till 8PM, putting both kids to bed, running/folding 4 loads of laundry and now office work again.

And still...I am guilty. Judged. Condemned. What can I say? The blessing-- its not by Sri. The curse-- its mostly by me.

Two Blind Mice

Once upon a time, two mice were caught in a cage with a piece of cheesecake. Giddy with delight, they danced holding hands, sang songs, told tales of great laughter and smiled even when they slept. And so many days passed.

Then one morning, they woke up and stared at the cheesecake in confusion. So many days, so many nights, so many nibbles, so many bites—they could not believe it was still in sight.

That day they fought all day. They found plenty of cause -there wasn’t enough space in that cage, the cheesecake left crumbs all over, the smell of it was overpowering, it was going to give them a tummy ache—and so on and on they went till night fell.

Then they supped on a piece of cheesecake, bid each other goodnight and fell into sound sleep.
The next morning, one mouse woke up and decided the cheesecake was as good as ever and requested the other mouse for affirmation. The other mouse could not bear this broach of privacy and freedom and promptly vowed to hate it forever. Both threw themselves at the door and bemoaned their fate when it did not budge. And so they fought all that day and well into the night.

They stopped only to sup on a small piece of the cake and then fell into sound sleep.

The mice awoke with a start. The cage was full of sunlight. The sky was blue. The floor was freshly swept. The door lay open. The cheesecake was gone.

The mice rushed about in horror. Grief-stricken they ranted at each other. Furious and helpless they panicked all day.

At night they huddled together and could not sleep a wink…

And that,my friend,is marriage

Adi-sms

-Omachi is playing drums too loud (re:thunder)

-Look Amma! My pee pee is having a party in the pot (re:bubbles in the pot)

-Amma look...my toes are dancing (re: wiggling toes)

-Cars live on roads.

-Appa's not gone to Kalifurnia. Pinni ate him.

-I told me. (re: in response to who told you that?)

-The light has gone to sleep. (re: night time)

Blake's miracle

I saw the picture of a child today who died of leukemia. His name was Blake. He was 18 months old. The picture showed him poised at the edge of a small diving board—plump arms curved protectively. Feet angled inward in uncertain balance. Looking anxiously at the camera. Perhaps he was scared to take the jump. Such a little boy faced with such a mammoth task.

I suppose I should have asked the usual questions—Is life fair? Why him? What’s the point? Instead I could only think of the moment when he must have drawn his last breath. How do you watch an 18 month old draw his last breath? I hope I never find out. I could only think of his mom going from a ‘have’ to a ‘had’. How do you watch your child die in your arms? I hope I never ever find out. My mind could not stir beyond this point. I felt shafts of pain slice through me. Not once but over and over.

I want to draw some deep philosophical understanding of life and present it here with a grand flourish. Perhaps write an ode to man’s suffering? Perhaps a sonnet on a mother’s love? Perhaps even an essay on the inevitability of death. But all I can think of is that moment when the child died. That one second of transition. Where did Blake go?

Blake’s parents have poured their grief into a mammoth charity effort. They are selling T-shirts, holding marathons, conducting donation drives, selling raffle tickets….. They call it Blake’s miracle. People are applauding their spirit. Their courage... I only wonder how long will they keep it up? When will the fervor die down? When will the fury of their grief abate? Each new charity effort sounds like a helpless cry of sorrow to me. I pray they find peace. I await the day when finally there will be no more fliers announcing Blake’s miracle.

Letter From Chandler

Today the heat index touched 115. But I don’t think we noticed. After 110 it’s all the same. I was tempted to drop an egg on the sidewalk. Instead I let down all the blinds at 6AM and kept them there till the sun finally burned itself out at 7:35 PM. This was pretty much my day today, in Chandler.

This town has been my home for the past 5 years. Every scorching summer I swear it’s going to be my last and every winter I again fall in love with it’s pretty sunshine.

Chandler is located twenty minutes south of Phoenix. The remarkable thing about Chandler is that it’s totally unremarkable. It’s just a peaceful labyrinth of unhurried, perpendicular streets. Days gently roll over into weeks, which slowly turn over into months. Most things are located within 1 mile radius of my house: the grocery story, the hair salon, the gym, the dentist, the family doctor, the tae kwon do studio, the Chinese take-out, even the post-office. It’s almost a relief to drive 2 miles for my annual eye check-up.

In summer, we rely mostly on wildfires and ill-fated bar-be-cues for entertainment. Occasionally a stir is created by an unusually large piece of produce sighted at the local farmer’s market. Sometimes a friendly black widow in the garage or a baby scorpion on the patio can add a personal thrill to the day. But mostly we hibernate into dark, AC-clad homes. We minimize driving because by the time the car cools, we are already at our destination. We never leave children, pets or plants out in the backyard. We never dress below our knees and I cannot remember the last time I wore full sleeves. This poses a moral dilemma for traditional Indian ‘aunties’ in Chandler.

Indians in Chandler belong to three distinct communities: Intel-ites, Motorola-ites, Honeywell-ites. Lately a few Amex-ites have been spotted as well. And of course within these communities exist other sub-communities such as: Tamilians, Punjabis, Bengalis. And then there are the crossbreed types such as the Intel-ite Tamilian who is married to the Motorala-ite Punjabi both of whom are members of the Indo-American society. The mind boggles. I prefer to spend time with the Hispanic gardener, making frantic hand gestures to communicate.

This is not to say that Chandler does not have its fair share of blond, blue-eyed, white skinned all-Americans. There are plenty and they generally treat us (Asians/brown skins) with polite but bewildered respect. For most locals, Chandler has been the only home they know or the second home at the most. The latter take great pains to describe their adventurous, risk-fraught move from Mesa to Chandler. Just FYI, Mesa is the town next to Chandler, 4 miles from my house. We therefore represent an enigma to these people. To cross seven seas and leave behind all we know and love – what could possibly be worth it? Sometimes I wonder if instead of mocking their frog-in-the- well attitude, I should learn something from them…should I return to India?

But I digress now. I told you about the summer in Chandler. Now I want to tell you about the wonderful winters. After a few weeks of thunderous, blazing thunderstorms and a few squalls of rain (when the local TV induces mild hysteria by issuing flood warnings), the weather begins to cool. Crisp, clean breezes replace stolid, oppressive layers of heat. The sky becomes a pool of sparkling blue. Pure gold sunbeams drench everything in yellow warmth. Slowly, ACs wind down. Patio doors are pushed open, backyards become crowded with children, streets are dotted with young mothers pushing strollers and birds flock to grains scattered by kind old hands. Chandler comes alive. We gleefully switch on the news every evening just to see the rest of the country freezing under mounds of snow. We stand vindicated. Every weekend is a pocketful of treats: long walks, sunny hikes, cozy picnics, biking adventures.

And yet….yet that’s not really why I love Chandler. This is the town where I came as a new bride. Where my sons were born. Where my husband comes home early every evening – fresh because he has no long commute to battle. This town has treated us well. It gives us space to look up to open skies. Its offers us quiet restful nights to regain our sanity. Sometimes it pours time into our hands as if to say: spend time with each other, because life is fleeting, much like my winter sunshine.

Hmm…..Some day I will return to my big city roots. But for now, I am just waiting for the first splash of winter--here in Chandler.

The Mending ( A short story)

The problem with phones in not that they ring. But that they ring again after you hang up. Deb cursed under his breath. Sudeepta focused on parting her hair. The air was thick with ignored expectations.

“Na!” Sudeepta’s sharp command startled the lizard on the wall. Deb lowered his hand from the phone. Sudeepta drew a rich red line in her parting. A quick pranaam and she was ready to leave. Just before exiting, she cast a meaningful glare at Deb. Then the door shut and it was Deb by himself.

‘Deb by himself’ would have answered the phone. He had no bones to pick with his parents. They were a mildly annoying but irrefutable fact of life. But Deb with Sudeepta was a beast of a different nature. Within three months of marriage, as his wife washed off the alta from her pretty feet, untied keys knotted at the end of her sari and walked out of his parents’ house, Deb had decided his best interests lay in quietly following suit.

Now Baba was sick. At seventy, he was a senile mess. Maa faithfully blew the conch shell every evening, beseeching her Thakur’s mercy. She could not bear the burden of an ailing husband nor fathom the cruelty of an estranged son.

Deb felt restless. Pulling on his customary white kurta and brown trousers, he thrust his feet into an old pair of slippers and let himself out. It had been only two weeks since they moved into this new neighborhood and there were plenty of chores demanding his attention.

He walked fast. He would have walked faster but for his slipper that gave way with a moody snap. Deb stopped mid-stride. Now what? With habitual impatience he shook his foot free. Better to get rid of this old nuisance and get a new one. Fortunately he knew of a shoe shop very close by. He would have to walk barefoot, but not too far. Deb headed for the ditch across the road to throw away the useless slipper.

“Kyaa kar rahe ho baba? Hum abhi mare nahi.” (What are you doing son? I am not dead yet).

Deb was startled to find an old man standing by his side. Where had he come from? Did he know him? He racked his brains but no memory answered.

“Humein nahi pehechana shaayad. Hum yahan ke mochi hain.” (You did not recognize me perhaps. I am the neighborhood cobbler.)

“Lao yeh chappal humein de do.” (Come. Give me this slipper)

And before Deb could say yea, nay or hey, the old man had seized the slipper and scurried back to the dusty sidewalk where a mat was spread under the ponderous peepal tree.

There was no way to refuse without making a fuss. Deb did not fancy having an argument hopping on one leg. He trailed behind and sat down on an old aluminum trunk.

The old man studied the leather slipper minutely. He turned it over and over. He peered at it at eye level, then flexed it, then stretched the torn ligament and let it go with a snap. Deb could have sworn at one point he even talked to it under his breath.

Bored by the mochi’s antics, Deb leaned against the tree trunk. His thoughts drifted idly over the day’s work and inevitably to the ignored phone call. It was unlike Maa to call back a second time. Was there really some emergency? Heck at that age, every day was an emergency. How much longer were they going to be around?

“Boodhi ho gayee hai par abhi jaan hai” (She is old, but still has life left in her).

Deb jerked up straight. Had the mochi divined his thoughts?

But the old man was still absorbed by the silly slipper. He looked up with a delighted grin, displaying stained, broken teeth.

“Abhi jaan hai baba. Hum isko abhi theek kar dete hain” (It still has life son. Let me fix it right away). Even as Deb wondered at the man’s excitement, the mochi took out some rusty tools and ran on with his monologue. “Ab bacha lo to bhagwaan samjho. Phekne ka kaam to koi bhi kar sakta hai” (If you are able to preserve something, that’s close to God. Anyone can perform the act of destruction). “Bechari ne bade saal aapke saath guzara hai. Thodi si sewa karni padi to phek denge kyaa.” (This one has spent so many years serving you. Now when its time to tend to her a bit, will you throw her away).

Unbidden there came into Deb’s mind the day he had left his parent’s house. His mother had stood by the door quietly. Baba had helped them load their car with the same taciturn silence. For the first time Deb wondered: what did they do after we left? Who shut off the lights in the stairwell after they went to bed that night? Neither of his parents could walk up the stairs in the dark. And they had never installed another switch at the top because there was always going to be Deb.

Unsettled, Deb opened his mouth but the mochi was waiting for no one.

“Ab socho to ek din yeh bhi nai thi. Bade maje main isko pehena hoga. Bahut acchi lagti hogi na? Aur kitni jageh tumko leg gayee hogi. Purani dost hai baba.” (Now if you think of it, one day even she was brand new. You must have donned her with great pleasure. Must have looked really good. And she must have taken you to so many new places! She is an old friend son).

All at once Deb remembered the time when his mother had come with him to school because the seventh grade teacher had slapped Deb without reason. She had swept into his classroom looking almost regal with her black hair caught up in a jeweled bun. With scant regard to the giggling students or school protocols she had rebuked the poor teacher soundly. Deb still remembered the look of awe on his friends’ faces. No one messed with Mrs. Chatterjee’s son.

Deb’s mind became a whirlwind. Countless memories sprang alive: the bustle in the kitchen everyday at dawn since the school where she taught (for 13 years) required Maa to come in by 6:30 AM. The terrible day when Baba taught him his first trigonometry lesson. His parents clapping proudly at his first (and only) guitar recital in high school. His father consoling him when he did not pass the Civil exams. His mother adding that extra spoon of sugar is his evening tea that made it just perfect.

He even recalled the day his father retired as the head teller in the local bank. His father had come home early and Maa had prepared a special celebratory dinner. Deb cringed remembering his harsh refusal to dine with them despite repeated requests.

And then, finally, his marriage to Sudeepta. His parents had chosen her for him. A ‘beautiful Bengali girl’ they had called her. What did they think of her now? Did they ever look regretfully at the photo of the other girl they had rejected because she was ‘too dark’?

“Haan matlab nayee cheez zaroori hai. Par pair kaat thi hai babu. Isliye purani ko bhi paas rehene do….thoda araam miega.” ( I know that new things are also necessary. But new (slippers) are bound to bruise your feet. So let the old ones stay on. Use them to ease your feet).

“He could say that again!” Deb thought wryly. While he adored Sudeepta, his sometimes felt life could be more pleasant if she could be just a tad more laidback. She was a perfectionist and a staunch feminist. The result, Deb had to do his share of housework and do it right i.e. her way. And there was not much she let him get away with either. Just two days ago their water heater broke down. It meant nothing to Sudeepta who loved cold-water showers but to Deb it was a catastrophe. Hurrying to get dressed for his job interview, he had requested her to heat some water for him on the stove so he could at least bathe in lukewarm water. The response had been a curt “I am not Maa. Grow up.”

“Hum zyaada bol rahein hain kyaa?” Deb’s attention was caught by the change in the mochi’s voice.

Even as Deb tried to find words to explain the impression the old man was making on him, the mochi gave him a shy smile and said “Darasal hum itna bolte nahin hai. Par humare bete ne kal hamein bahut daanta. Keheta hai babuji, aajkal koi chappal theek karaane nahi jaata hai. Tumko thoda aur dum laga ke graahak ko bulana hoga. Kuch baat karo, graahak ko samjhaao purani chappal theek ho sakti hai.. thabhi tum kuch kamayee karoge. Bas hum wohi koshish kar rahe the. Warna humein kyaa hai babuji ki hum tumhe itni baatein sunaaye Lo ye theek ho gayee. Kaam ho gaya.” (Actually I don’t always talk so much. But yesterday my son scolded me a lot. He said no one is interested in getting their shoes mended nowadays. So I need to be more aggressive in soliciting clients. I should talk to them, entertain them. Convince them about the value of mending old shoes. Only then I will be able to earn some better money. So that’s all I was trying to do. Otherwise why would I rattle on lecturing you so. oh! Look the slipper is ready. You are all set.”)

Deb could only stare dumbfounded. So this had all been a sales pitch? This old man was good!! What a spiel he had spun! Deb did not know whether to thank him or wring his old neck. Then the humor of it struck him and he burst out laughing. He assured the old man he had enjoyed their chat, paid him generously and left chuckling to himself.

A few steps down the street Deb’s pace slowed down. He checked his watch and looked pensive. With sudden resolve he spun around and headed back home. There was just time enough to make a call to his parents before Sudeepta came home for lunch.


THE (M)END

My Faded Note

A note I found with flower press
Tucked inside my faded dress.

This wrinkled,crumpled, paper pink
With curves of blue in Chelpark ink.

Do gently lay it back to rest
I have no more such silly zest
My sari pleats with sultry sway
I'm all grown up an' wise they say.

Untitled Poem on Iraq

A cross by the street that is bleeding all day
A moon that is dulled by smokes of dismay
The lotus is dead in a still pond of grief
Murder, murder, fanatic belief.

Home with no dad, he lies at work dead
Life without ma, she wouldn’t drape head
Hungry he searches vain through the nights
His brimming eyes aided by flickering streetlights.

The end of the world is perhaps not yet near
But much of it drowned in his fallen tear.

The Work Out

THE WORK OUT


Biting back tears Ashwini turned to the cook-top and attacked her rotis. For a minute the expectant dining table and the toy-strewn floor disappeared as she imagined the dollop of dough to be Rajan’s head, which she deftly flattened with her rolling pin. She watched, fascinated, as the dough ballooned into a perfect circle—much like Rajan’s face, she noted. Then with a final smack Ashwini threw it onto the heated pan and let it brown in agony.

“Am I going to get one or is it all for Ash?” Rajan’s nasal sarcasm. Her tears overflowed. To a casual listener it was just a pet name but the nickname fell on the floor, gasping under the weight of their dead romance. Once Rajan had called her ‘Ash’ in molten whispers, proudly claiming she was the ‘real thing’ and the one on the screen was a mere namesake. Such was the beauty of his slender wife. Then Naina was born and the nickname turned into an acid spray, thrown at her face each time Rajan felt cheated. Her softly plump body and her milk-swelled breasts were not part of the nuptial promises exchanged in the heat of that night three years ago.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.” Rajan resumed his nagging monologue as Ashwini served dinner. “ Look at Aruna! She looks just the same as she was the day she got married! Why is it so difficult? Sach! I am more worried about your health than anything else.”

Ashwini sought refuge in her roti again, this time to hide her scorn. But she kept her silence. Three hard years in an alien country had helped tame her impetuous temper. There was nowhere to go, no one to turn to. The cold banks of snow outside stood stern guardians to her lonely life. She often tried to remember the madness that had made her drop her art career in Pune and move to Princeton to be with Rajan. Nowadays she could not think that far back.

“Hmmm….Aruna does look good doesn’t she?” Something in Rajan’s tone made her look up sharply. The urge to snap back and confront became unbearable. She opened the tap and let cold water run over her burning fingertips.

“Kailash is a lucky lucky man.” The wistful regret finally seared through Ashwini.

“ACCCHA! Aruna looks really good haan ??!!?? You know why? She has a maid who comes in thrice a week to clean her house. She has a personal trainer who gives her two-hour sessions twice a week! For God’s sake she has a nanny to watch her kid while she is doing all this… OF COURSE she looks good. Maybe if you brought in as much as Kailash, I WOULD LOOK AS GOOD AS ARUNA!!!! And just for my information, how good does Aruna look? Care to tell me what’s going on? Hey bhagwaan, I am sick of this life, sick of you, sick of this country…you are driving me CRAZY. You don’t like who I am? Then why stay married to me. Go marry Aruna. I’m DONE.” The flight and crash of a startled bowl punctuated her fury. Then a deafening silence seeped into the room, slowing down everything—even the seconds ticking away on the microwave’s dial.

A small whimper from the corner reminded her of the innocent witness. Ashwini threw down her apron and ran over to the baby cowering in the playpen. Cooing softly she picked up Naina and exited the room.

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

Rajan was stunned. What just happened? He sat frozen at the dinner table time, a half-eaten morsel sticking persistently to his fingers.

As the shock subsided, he was even more incredulous at his reaction. Was he actually feeling happy? Yes! That was a smile on his face. Even though he was taken aback by the force of her outlash, yet he felt a curious satisfaction in having finally provoked her out of silence. That annoying wall of calm had finally crashed. And it was delightful to think she was actually jealous…Ashwini jealous!!?!! The ice maiden of all times had melted and how! He got up chuckling, hugely buoyed by the thought.

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

The doorknob clicked softly behind her. “Here goes,” she thought. If backs could speak, Ashwini’s back was a piteous mixture of apprehension, defiance and vulnerability. For a minute Rajan was tempted to put his arms around her and make passionate love. Then his eyes fell on the small brown arm circling her waist, resting on the gentle bulge apparent under her shirt and the desire fled. Yet, in a moment where he would have normally reacted brutally, he was benevolent, mellowed by his triumph. He laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her around and was further gratified to see the relieved surprise in her eyes.
Keeping his voice low so as not to wake the baby he asked “What do you want Ashwini? Do you need some free time? A workout? Let me help you. Tell me what you need. Lets make this work. You know you can do it. I am here for you. Just tell me anything you need.”
Ashwini could only stare dumbly at her husband. What was this? What was this new ploy? She grappled with the unexpected and was hopelessly defeated. She continued to stare mutely at Rajan.
Irritation flared in Rajan’s face as he mistook her surprise was habitual silence. Desperate that she was going to shut him out again, anxious to see he still held power over her, hoping he was finally going to motivate her to some action, he tumbled into speech – hurried, tender and made promises he regretted when sanity returned.
But the upshot of it was that it was decided (mostly by Rajan) that Ashwini would get a membership at the local gym and work out three evenings. And for that, Rajan would forgo his evening with ‘the boys’ and instead be home with Naina. In fact, he even went so far as to venture he could consider cooking dinner.
Head spinning, Ashwini felt a warm glow spread over her. Perhaps he did genuinely care for her. Perhaps she was wrong to feel his love was conditional. Perhaps she should apologize for her outburst.
She turned to him and but was stopped in her tracks as Rajan continued “ Ah! Yes, no problem. I just want my Ash back. You don’t know how tough this past year has been. Your pregnancy and the birth and all that jhamela. But it will be ok now. God! I can’t wait to see the look on Kailash’s face when he sees you. You know what, one kid is enough! I don’t think I could deal with another…Hum Do Humara Ek …eh????” And winking lewdly at her, chuckling at his wit, Rajan went back to finish his dinner.

Ashwini smiled sadly. So nothing had changed. In a way this was simpler, easier. But now she had to go the gym and train like a prized poodle. Lying down on the bed next to Naina, she wondered how to get out of it. Drowsily she turned over plans. By the time her stomach rumbled a plea for dinner, she was deep in exhausted sleep.

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

“Bye sweetheart,” Ashwini sent a kiss flying straight to Naina and closed the door behind her. Too late she realized she had not said anything to Rajan. She hesitated but then turned and hurried down the stairs, half afraid of what she would find if she went back.

It was a beautiful Monday evening. Crisp air, watery sunshine fading slowly. Princeton was fresh, cold, beautiful. Striding along in her red jacket Ashwini felt more vibrant, alive. Old-fashioned street lamps were flickering on as darkness descended. Students spilled out of libraries and coffee shops and prepared to go home. She stopped to look into the wide, dimly lit window of an Italian restaurant. Watching diners forming graceful tableaus, their silver glittering against white table cloths, candle light teasing rosy glows into smiling cheeks. For the first time in a long time, Ashwini longed for her paint brush.

Sighing she headed on and finally found herself face to face with a tall brick building. Could this be the correct address? But something was wrong. There was a crowd around the front door and fire alarms were jangling. Someone informed her a fire drill was going on. Damn 9/11 he said and disappeared.

Ashwini waited patiently. With languid interest she observed as more people filed onto the street. Another woman in tight pink leotards informed her that the class would still be held, but would be delayed by an hour. Ashwini thanked her and looked around wondering what she could do meanwhile. Her eyes were drawn to a small bar under the level of the pavement. One could only make out half arcs for heads as people swirled around, underground. Something in the secrecy of the place appealed to Ashiwni. She decided to go in.

************************************************************************
“…And what would you like to drink this evening?” the waiter asked with amazing cheerfulness. Ashwini looked down confusedly at the menu in her hands and then felt irritated by her awkwardness. “A glass of the house red, please” she said, smoothly closing the book shut and giving it over to the waiting hand. “Oh and can I get a glass of water?” “Sure!” the young student prepared to move.
“Oh can I get some lemon in my water? If its not too much bother…..”
“Anything for a pretty lady like you,” the student disappeared into a mulling cloud of waiters, leaving behind a bemused Ashwini. Could it be possible he was actually flirting with her? The thought amused her and was more than a little appealing.

The next time he brought out her wine, she took an extra hard look at him, blushing when he caught her eye with a mocking smile. He was not a student she decided. The crow feet around his eyes belied his youthful looks. He is almost my age, she realized and then blushed again, even more violently, as he winked at her from across the room.

She sat for an hour in a quiet corner of the room, softening under the warmth of her wine and the smiling waiter. She did not speak a word, never once looked around the room. She was cocooned inside a crystal glass served with a mischievous look. There was some enchantment in that bar that she was not willing to analyze. As the clock chimed eight she steeled her senses again and knew it was time to leave. She looked around for her waiter but he was nowhere to be seen. Another waiter answered her wave and got her the check.
She opened the check-book and a grin spread through her face. A brochure of Princeton lay tucked into the black leather. Two words were scrawled against its face “For Tomorrow.” That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet it set every nerve in Ashiwni’s body tingling with anticipation. Whether it was an invitation or a directive, the brochure promised adventure. It tempted her to make friends with this foreign land. It reminded her she had made no attempt to explore her new home.
Paying by cash, she left behind no tip. Instead she wrote ‘thank you’ on a white scrap of napkin and tucked it where the brochure had been.

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

Rajan watched in satisfaction as Ashwini sashayed around the kitchen making rotis. She was humming lightly under her breath and even laughed out loud once at a wise crack from Jay Leno.
“Its all in the endorphins you know” he called after her as she went over to the fridge to get out the yoghurt.
“Huh?” Ashwini looked up confused.
“Its all the endorphins released by the exercise. Look at you. You look almost pretty. I am so glad you had your work out.”
Ashwini nodded docilely and reconciled her expression into obedient delight. She crossed over to him and planted a kiss on his cheek “Yes, I am glad I worked it out too. Thank you.” She went back to the cooking range. Rajan settled into a contented meal.
*********************************************************************
He was bound to figure it out some day. Soon he would realize she was not working out.
OR, she thought smiling devilishly as she added a huge dollop of ghee to his daal, or perhaps by then he could very well have something he would need to work out himself!

Silence

Words let loose, suspended crowd
A fog of words, clamoring loud
Jostling, jiving, inching pace
Pressing, pushing at my face.

Bind them tight and overboard
Spear them with a silent sword
Muffle them in soundless sign
Bury them in wordless line.

Silence, Silence, silver, light
Silence worn in gentle white
Silence lying on my skin
Silence...Silence....sigh....

Sri

It’s quite simple really. I am in love. In love with a man named Sri.

Perhaps I fell in love when he forgot my birthday and looked devastated at the realization. Or perhaps it was when he e-mailed me nonsensical rhymes in the middle of the night. Or was it the first time he surprised me with a home-cooked dinner of rassam and rice and sang ‘wish you were here’ completely off-key, on his guitar.
I cannot seem to be rid of him now. He has grown into me -- till I am unsure where I end and where he begins. I love him for not flinching at the sight of me rolling out of bed early in the morning hair standing on end, eyes puffy with sleep. I love the gentle drumming of his fingers on my ankles as I rest my feet on his lap watching TV. I love the look of delight in his eyes when I make him a cup of filter coffee. And what woman can withstand a man who voluntary fetches her a glass of cold water in the middle of a hot summer night?
And then I love him some more, because I respect him. I respect him for his integrity and his honesty. I respect him for the love and loyalty with which he cares for his parents. I respect him utterly for never disrespecting me, no matter how great the intimacy between us.
So I married him. He is my husband. I love him now just the teeniest bit extra just for that… for being my husband. Of course with kids underfoot I hardly get to spend much time with him. But we still hold hands when we go to sleep, over our slumbering children- and I love him then so deeply, for completing that circle of love.

The Quest

Dear Reader

For some time now I have been in search of a mysterious Observer. Time and again this discerning reporter has noted ordinary happenings of everyday life and relayed them with such inspired words that we will remember them for years. I am also much intrigued buy the fact that he has preserved his anonymity with remarkable humility.

Yet, his actions also beg some level of condemnation. Many a times was he not a passive participant when acts of atrocity were being committed? Was it not his duty to interfere when justice, life, liberty were at stake? This then raises the question, did this reporter remain anonymous simply to protect himself? Or even worse, could he have been involved in the perpetration of these crimes?

Perhaps my dear reader is now losing interest and wondering if the writer of this piece is talking through the proverbial hat. Let me then develop my case by using concrete examples.

I start with the case of The Three Blind Mice. Not many would find time to observe the hapless lives of this handicapped minority, let alone spend precious time describing their overtures to a farmer's wife. However, once things turned macabre with the unwilling wife brandishing a knife, should not this observer have intervened? At least a quick call to the farmer should have been made. Who knows what evil was wraught on the farmer once his aroused wife was done with the mice?

Similarly, this reporter displayed abominable behavior in the case of Bo Peep and the Lost Sheep. Once again, while not many reporters would have the courage to relay news on such non-political matters, what kind of an insensitive brute would tell Bo Peep to 'leave them alone' and that 'they would come home.' As a reader I was always left wondering what happened to Bo Peep? Why were these false assurances being fed to her?


And then of course there was the supreme tragedy of the atheist. When Goosey Gander was dragging him down the stairs, he must have looked expectantly at this reporter, hoping for a miraculous rescue. But we know the Goose wandered unhindered-- his extraordinary strength even escaped comment (steroids??). And so many questions left unanswered! Why the left leg? Why was the old man refusing to say his prayers? And what was he doing in a lady's chamber? I fear there has been cover-up of a sex scandal or a communal conflict.

And so I can go on. Citing case after case. The unfortunate duo going up the hill, the cat in the well (what was so ding-dong about it anyway?), the monkey brothers caught jumping on the bed etc. etc.

I hope I have provoked some thought in you by now. Preserve this missive. In case anything ever happens to me, do ensure it reaches appropriate authorities.

Time to stop lazing on this wall and spring into action

Humpty Dumpty

Invitation

I'm sorry I missed you
Dear guest oh so gay!
I was working you see
I was building all day


Do come by again
Dear guest oh so kind!
I'm done now with building
A better frame of mind.

Just 'Cause

I'm forgetting
I know
I know it's true
'Cause I sit here
Spent
Spent forgetting you.


I need you
No more
No, more I must be
‘Cause it never was
You
You were no more than me


Believe me
You will
You will it be true
‘Cause you need me
No more
No more to love you.

A Child's Sunrise

Good Morning, Good morning, Mr. Sun
I was asleep but now I'm done
You left the shore at six half past
So glad to see your shining mast
Wonder while I closed my eyes
What has come and passed me by?
Did my baby bird take flight?
That bug become a winged delight?
Ah! Look! A spider web
Must keep it safe from water’s ebb
It makes me laugh this windowsill
That lazy lizard lying still
Ready? Spying glass in hand
To look through every bit of sand
I have to gather splendid news
For a friendly poet’s muse.

Dinner is served...

Swollen air, full of thoughts
Zealous heat, boiling pot
Unkempt spices sigh and swoon
Fevered pan, sweating spoon
Wanton tiles, lying bare
Sticky touch, wounded pear
Served tonight, on white pristine
Dinner cooked with stifled dreams.

The Perfect Afternoon

Sunbeams dapple thru
Silken jade
Caught in pools of
Luminous shade
Filigree prints
That shift and sway
With brazen wind
In sensuous play
Cradled within
This magical nook
I dreamily read
A poetry book.

I spy you...Death

Unexpected voice
In a restful night
Faint on my ears
Almost unrecognized
Heralding news of the final breath
Drawn gasping upon a lonely tile
Shoulders sagging
Under a lifetime of guilt
Fingers unclenched
Letting go of all holds
Perhaps it was apt
That he should be naked

The smoking pyre
Blunting my memories
Blurring them
With soot-filled pain
The fire like warm rain
Soaking my face
I sit waiting
Waiting for him to rise
Waiting for this scene to end
Can we go to the next act please?

I spy you Death
Hiding under chairs
Lurking behind doors
Marring every inch
Of my peaceful home
You have hammered my heart
Chiseled my brain
Till I am sculpted proof
Of your unforgiving workmanship
I know once we are pulled
Into your embrace
We cannot step back
Cannot break free
Opiate in your stifling caress
We let go
Of all we were
Of all we could have become
We turn to stone
Silent statues in your home
Smiling photos in ours.

A mother's confession

There is no joy comparable to the pleasure of watching your children reach out to each other.

The past 5 months I have watched my two-year old grow from being the pampered baby of the house to a responsible anna who authoratatively tells me to feed the baby on time. It amazes me how much this little child learned in such a short time! How quickly he let go of his jealousy -- how easily it transformed into unconditional acceptance and affection. How large is his heart I wonder. If there is one thing I pray for fervently its that he retains this capacity to give -- or that I should not be alive to see him lose it. It would be more than I could bear.

And my younger one? He has eyes for no one other than his anna. He starts cooing and drools bubbles the minute anna comes from school. I have so often watched this baby smiling adoringly, just quietly watching as the older one chatters non-stop. And then, the most beautiful moment-- that rare second when the two calm down enough to connect. Anna gently holds up a toy for the baby to grab and the two laugh aloud in some secret joke.

In that moment I know they will be ok. When I am gone and I cannot watch over them, they will be there for each other. Each my half watching over the other half.

Where did they learn they are brothers? Did my womb teach them something even while I slept through the nights? The umblical cord that we threw away was an illusion. Its still there. Between these two. Holding them together, holding them safe. Advait and Vedant- brothers- my sons.

Good Morning Iraq

A miracle could happen
At the stroke of midnight
Just like it did
For my land
Guns could turn ito
Merry young flutes
With the touch of
A magic hand.

A miraculous dawn for Iraq
Will have come
A miraculous dawn at last!

Soldiers will smile
As they start their fire
At enemy lines
So worn.
Each volley of shots
Throwing music to winds
Waltzing away
In the morn.


A miraculous dawn for Iraq
Will have come
A miraculous dawn at last!

Oh can it not happen?
Is it just a dream?
Can no one bring peace
To that soil?
Perhaps if God signs
A pact with Allah
And dries up
All the oil.

A miraculous dawn for Iraq
Will have come
A miraculous dawn at last!

Hybrid

A weeping willow wed
A happy wisteria
And burst forth with blooms
Of purple hysteria.

Breaking News

Sudden cloudburst
Floods
Letter from home.

News

The stock market
Crumbling
On my breakfast table

Nostalgia

Diving head over heels
Into a pool of reflections

My family

Sri
A bowl full of promise
Waiting for me
In the spacious dawn of my kitchen sink

Yamu
An elusive reply
To my unspoken question

Advait
My breath caught by hands
Stirring liquid pots of mischief

Vedant
My smile in the morning
My sigh at mid-night

Mom
A perpendicular red
In a page full of horizontals

Personally Defined

Peace:
A naughty dollop
Of double chocolate dare
Peacefully melting
In my hot mouth.


Respite:
A moment of quiet
So I can think a full thought
Without you spilling milk all over it.


Planning:
Lets plan to talk
When we can hear each other.


Sin:
An afternoon hidden
Laden with two hours of stolen sleep.

Love:
Your small brown button mouth
Caked with forgotten yoghurt
Waiting for a kiss.


Holding Pattern:
A pattern on my handekerchief
I trace again and again
With my eyes.


Salad
A handful of definitions
Tossed and served with a slice of life.