Sharma jee Sharam Karo!

Duniya ne hahakaar machaai
Auraton ki kari badhaai
Chid rahi ik nayee ladayee
Par....
Sharma jee ko sharam na aaii

Draupadi shastra utha kar aaii
Sita ne bhi kamar kasaai
Gandhaari ki bhi aankh khul aaii
Par....
Sharma jee ko sharam na aaii

Bhayaanak maut naachti aaii
Kaanp rahe sab, raam duhaii
Duniya ne hahakaar machaai
Par....
Sharma jee ko sharam na aaii

In response to the lawyer's comments on the Delhi rape case: http://www.smh.com.au/world/victims-in-delhi-rape-case-are-to-blame-defendants-lawyer-says-20130110-2ch95.html#ixzz2HVvyjFe5

An Affair to Remeber

Let's have a quiet affair they said
Some prayers, a candle, a march and a vigil
Come, have a quiet affair they said
An evening of mourning, a night of remembrance
A quiet, quiet affair they said....

 WELL! Yes!
I'm up for an affair!
A raucous, romping affair instead
An affair with freedom, a reckless affair for my rights
A blistering affair with a smoldering revolution

 And oh!
I have some affairs
 Some affairs I must settle with people
Small, secret people with small, secret thoughts
I have some affairs to settle with mothers
Who chain me at home and stifle my sigh
I have some affairs to settle with fathers
Who touch me at night and stifle my cry
I have some affairs to settle with brothers
Who hack off my head with a righteous knife
I have some affairs to settle with sisters
 Who pluck off my wings before I take flight
I have some affairs to settle with husbands
Who draw me a line and tell me stay safe inside
I have some affairs to settle with wives
Who tell me I'm no more than the children I bear
And yet some affairs to settle with the passer bys
Who bless my destruction and applaud my submission
A few to settle with the leaders of the land
With blinders on of archaic tradition

 Oh yes! I say!
 Let's have an affair!
A roaring, romping, raucous affair
 I quite like having 'em affairs you see
'Cause they just won't get started but for ME.

My Bittersweet Tri-Color

September 7th 2011, Paramount Theater. 9:15AM. My husband and I sit quietly in the cool, dark auditorium. A woman brushes past us. Congratulations! She mouths. I give a wry smile and wave back weakly. A man comes out onstage and takes his place behind the microphone. The ceremony begins.
It’s time to get our American citizenship.
My heart is sinking.
I glance at my iPhone; a missed call from my mother. I hesitate to call her back.
My family has a long and passionate love affair with India. My grandmother, aunts, grandfather all fought in the freedom struggle under Gandhi. Just a month back my aunt appeared in the media, supporting Anna Hazaare, denouncing corruption, recalling her memories at the Gandhi Ashram. One uncle was the Foreign Secretary, another uncle served in the Air Force, my mother is a Commissioner in the Information Commission. To be Indian and serve India has been the constant chant in my ears growing up. And yet—here I am. At the Paramount theatre, ready to be re-baptized.
My head hangs lower.
The presenter is now making light jokes, eliciting nervous giggles. He introduces another colleague. A lady from the electoral office. She informs us about the importance of voting. A few more pleasantries and then we are asked to stand up and sing the Star Spangled Banner. My eyes are welling up and my voice chokes. The hall is ringing with melody; but I am thinking Sujalaam Suphalaam Malayaja Sheetalam Shasya Shyaamala Maataram….Vande Maataram. I sink back into my chair. I cannot go through this. I feel claustrophobic.
I suddenly desperately wish my children were there. I know it’s impossible… after all they’re in school — but lo! at their thought my restlessness disappears. Instead a reel starts spinning. I think back to their birth – the nurses helping me lovingly; their school - teachers aiding them on patiently. In my mind’s eye I see the parks we play in, the roads we travel on, the policeman who patrols our neighborhood at night, my colleagues back at the office waiting to hear from me, the restaurants we eat in, the roses in my backyard, my favorite printed quilt on my CalKing bed– what has this new motherland not given me? For 13 years she has fed me, petted me, nurtured my dreams, my children - and yet, today I hanker after another mother I left behind. Funnily, suddenly, I think of Sri Krishna. Born of one mother, reared by another. True to both. Yet belonging to none. Known for himself, yet known as theirs too!
So the question is, can we be like that? Can we belong to all and yet to none at all?
Of course I can’t find an answer in the middle of Paramount Theatre, but I am much steadied.
Now a lady is reading out an alphabetized list of countries and applicants from each country are standing up. I like that. I am yearning to hear India’s name, acknowledge one last time I am an Indian. India! I hear it at last and spring up. I think about the people who designed this ceremony - what an incredibly sensitive thing to do. I love standing up for India this one last time, as an Indian!
The presenter beams down at us. She is acknowledging that each of us brings something special from our motherland. Yes! I nod emotionally. I see many people doing the same. But now – she continues- today we will all come together as one. We are what we are but we are also now fellow Americans.
Is that the true meaning of being American, I wonder. Am I being re-born a global citizen?
Not really. The oath dispels my illusions.
We stand up to take the oath. This time my voice is steady. I pledge allegiance to America. I renounce my fidelity to any other sovereign nation. I promise to bear arms for America. It takes all my strength to say the words aloud - yet I do it. I know some people fall silent or pacify themselves knowing they ‘don’t really mean it.’ But I repeat each word clearly. There’s no waffling mid-stream.
And so I have embarked on a new journey –from my Janmabhoomi to my Karmabhoomi. Many have crossed this chasm, so I hope it can be done. For now I am poised at the precipice. I am patiently weaving a tri-colored net. Orange, green, white. Red, white, blue. White… the white is comforting… White… Peace to me. Peace to my motherlands. Peace to my bittersweet tri-colors...

Who moved by Vitamin D?

This morning I wanted to call the pundits to my house. Light the holy flames, fill my house with Vedic chants and dissolve my grief like golden ghee melting blissfully on wooden chips.

On most days the puja room in my house is a locked door. I trip past it happily on my way to work, trudge past it groggily on my way to bed. Ignore it most weekends through the clinks of wine glasses. But today is different. I am coping with the death of a 6 year old; I am grieving the loss of a twenty year old. I am dreading a surgery on my dearest friend. Illness, death, loss- a mirror to my mortality. A message that my clichéd haven of two children, a loving husband and a big, warm house are tenuous- oh so very temporary. So very transitory.

I have looked in this mirror before. I have faced losses before. One parent, uncles, grandmother...many painful losses seemingly washed away by exuberant youthful memories. My first beer, my first kiss, the first ride on my Honda, my first paycheck, my firstborn... And yet, yet- when I sat down to meditate this morning, the tears that rolled were not for my friend. They were for me. For all the people I have lost, for all the connections I have had to severe because death gives you no choice. When I closed my eyes and chanted the Mahamrityunjaya I prayed most desperately for myself above all else. As I sat in silence looking at the peaceful smile on Buddha's face, I begged for my sanity above anything else.

And perhaps, that's what God ultimately is all about. That's what praying is all about. It’s about a rock that you sit tight on when the seas start churning. No matter how far out you have swum, when that perfect storm whips up, you are going to swim right back to it. Land is far away. The sea bed is miles below. Your choice is to climb aboard that rock or sink with complete abandon.

I was fascinated when I read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. The book raises many questions on the existence of a supreme external being, especially when revered through orthodox channels of prayer and religion. It spurred many a discussions in our living room too. We extrapolated at length. What is God? Who is God? Should we believe in God? Is the act of praying important? Is a physical manifestation of our spirituality necessary? Should I teach my children all the little customs and religious practices we often watch our parents perform and join in condescendingly only after a little disbelieving shake of our heads? Ultimately, should I ask my children to pray every morning?

Spurred by doubt, aided by lethargy, blinded by the bustle of daily chores it was just easier to let go. To drop the evening meditations taught by my grandmother. To spurn the morning salutations suggested by my mother-in-law. To start believing in my invincibility. Did I let go of something important? Did I lose something precious?

This morning, in this searing moment of pain, I realize the answer is a crystal clear YES. (Displaying my oh-so-deep Bollywood roots) I am reminded of a scene in Abhimaan. The hero (Amitabh)asks the leading lady (Jaya) if she believes in religious practices and God. I recall her simple answer "Babuji kehete hain behes mein kuch nahi rakhaa.Vishwaas hi sab kuch hai." (My father says there is nothing to be found in arguments. Faith is everything) While I certainly don't endorse superstition or close-minded fanaticism, there is truth to these words. And it comes shining through in moments when we lose our ability to argue or be logical!

We are wired to look for God when we land in trouble. It’s an instinct as primal as a child hiding behind its mother for protection. But very few of us are evolved enough to find this comfort and strength from abstract spirituality alone. We understand life through our five senses. And that exactly is how we should also understand Death and seek comfort in our conflicted moments. To simply be good and spiritual in daily actions is not enough when the mind is reeling. We need to breathe in the fragrance of an incense stick, we need to hear the chime of the arati bell, we need to see the regal countenance of a merciful God looking back at us with a gentle gaze, we need to feel the stickiness of prasaad on our fingers, we need to taste the cooling assurance of tulasi water...and then, slowly our senses soak in some perspective, some slivers of hope. It’s a sense of sharing and community; Human sympathy and superhuman love reach us in ways we can finally understand. The simplest analogy I can draw is that Vitamin D is needed to absorb Calcium, so is the act of praying for us to absorb God.

So just as I teach my children table manners and find them piano teachers, I must also teach them how to find their faith and keep it. And just as I take myself to the gym and enroll in professional courses, so must I practice my faith daily, even when mortality does not stare me down with stony eyes. In the famous words of Kabir "Dukh me sumiran sab kare, sukh me kare na koi, Jo sukh me sumiran kare, dukh kahe ko hoi." (We all remember God when we are beset by grief, none of us remember Him in our good times. Had we remembered Him in our good times, why should the days of grief have come!')

So I end now my epistle now. The sun is bright outside my study. I am going to open the windows wide and find my Vitamin D.

Waiting Room

I am sitting in the waiting room. Funny thing- Mama on his ICU bed is no different. Attimber on the ICU floor, Akka in the ICU chair, Deepa pouring the ICU tea- no one is any different. We are all in our private little waiting rooms. Thinking…. I see you. I see you death, I see you life- I see my hand rest on your weathered, kind face. I see your eyes rest on my troubled, weary face. ICU. Guilt and regret are fogging the windows. Love and longing making the room stuffy. Just open that window a crack, slide open that glass door- watch the clean, crisp air fly in and sweep you out. Sweep him out. Release, release, release—blessed relief. From needles that pin you to that narrow bed of pain, from our groping, needy desires dragging you down time and again. Go now, go Mama. Shake loose from this torpid afternoon nap. Its time for a brisk walk home, to steaming cup of heavenly coffee.

For Whom The Drum Rolls

It’s Friday. It’s Astami. I finish my morning coffee watching the dhak players on YouTube. Their drum rolls make me home sick. The clock beeps the six a.m. and the day begins. A quick warm shower, my favorite lavender lotion. Its dress down Friday at office. I move to pick up my usual jeans and cowl neck, but my gaze is arrested by a gorgeous pink cotton churidaar. Almost unthinkingly, I start pulling it on instead. Suddenly I am on a roll. I open my hair and brush it out straight from the usual ponytail. I reach for my kohl and outline my eyes. I find my pretty Rajasthani stone earrings and on they go. And finally, slowly, I reach for my bindi and stick it gently in place. I wonder what the boys are going to think.
I run down to the kitchen. My husband and sons look at me in mild confusion. “Are you going to the temple?” asks my seven-year old. I shake my head. My kids continue to stare at me. “Then why are you dressed like that?” persists my son. Good question. I run through my list and settle for the simplest reason. The truest. “Because I like it” I say. My son looks me over curiously once more and then digs into his waffle. My younger one quips “Amma I think you look beautiful.” My husband nods in agreement and sends me a wink. I feel good. I forget to check the mirror to see if my curves (Ok, all right, my fat tires) are an obvious eye sore.
I park in front of my office. The polished elevator doors reflect the bronze bells strung at the end of my duppatta. I ride up in silence. I am now at the office front door. Suddenly my heart is beating faster. Ten years of working, I have never done this. I am the only Indian at work. We are a small market research firm of thirty odd people- not exactly your usual desi adda. But no time to waste. I have a client call in five minutes.
Drum rolls in my head. I open the door and plunge in.
The pretty young girl at the reception looks up chewing gum. She waves and sinks back to her computer screen. I respond weakly and go into my cube. I drop my laptop bag, pull out my notes and rush into the conference room. The three Sales executives sitting there swivel towards me. One looks at me with polite curiosity. One smiles in frank appreciation. The other has already turned back to the WebEx screen. And that’s that. The day starts rolling by. I receive a compliment or two from a couple of co-workers. One colleague ventures to ask me about the churidaar during lunch and seems genuinely interested in learning how it’s worn. I happily share pictures from Face Book and get a hug for being home sick. But other than that, life is too busy for my pink churidaar.
Day ends. My CEO strolls by. We chat easily about this and that, winding the week down. Suddenly it spurts from my mouth “Is it ok I wore my Indian dress today? You don’t mind?” I am super embarrassed. Can’t believe I asked that. My boss leans back on the window sill. The evening rays turn his ash blond hair into a brilliant halo . “I am glad you did” is his simple reply. I grin back. I can hardly wait for next Friday.
Some drums herald auspicious beginnings; others are just noise in your head.

---

Possessed by loneliness. A peculiar sadness. Pungent melancholy. Dread this night. This fiery red wine. Sears right through me...I am pushing it down. Pushing you down. Pushing me down. Doesn't work. It never works. No rest. No salvation till I given in...swirling down. Tumbling down. ....tonight

Letters to myself

A bit of a dry spell
The writing on the wall fading.....

Best Friends

I can't believe I saw my tears
Reflected in your eyes today
No one has cried with me, for me...
Just listening to what I had to say

You...

So many people
Around me
But not...
You...

And yet all I am
Or ...no....
Not all
But a good part of me....
My laughter, my kisses
My forgiveness, my courage
My children, my songs
Yes...
All the good parts are
You...

Not my dreams
For
They're but my own
But their languor
Their pulse
Their heated glow
What else is it...
But you...
Yes
All the good parts are
You...


Not my life
For
It is
But my own
But its breath, its breadth
Its rhythm
Its rhyme
Where else is it
But in you...

You...

And yet all there is
In this room
Is me
With all the good parts...
For you...

I saw you crying....

I saw you crying
Into your tiny arms
Looped around your father's neck
You did not like the shoes you said
But I heard something else instead
Don't leave me behind
Don't leave me today
Let me stay with you today
And forever
If you leave now
I won't see you till sunset
An eternity will pass
I will be older
How will you know me?
How will you find me?
Love me now
Let's go back home
Lets cuddle in bed
Or sleep instead
I am tired of leaving you
Just keep me with you
I'm only here awhile
A few blinks and
Poof! I will be gone
Soaring out into the wide wide world

And you will wonder
When did he grow up?

And I will say father,
In those busy moments
When you left me behind.

My darling Ma (published in Savadati)

Ma always takes a long time to fall asleep. She tosses and turns and fidgets forever.

Baba of course falls asleep at once. But I am not waiting for him. I want my Ma….

I have to be very careful. If I tiptoe in too soon she will chase me away. So I stand outside her door and wait patiently every night.

Tonight I have timed it right. I slide in right between them -onto the hard protruding edge where their wooden beds meet. It’s uncomfortable, but this is my usual spot.

I bury my face in ma’s breasts. I breathe in her cinnamon-spiced sweat. I press into her chest. She frowns and twists in her sleep.

I wriggle down to her stomach. It’s a band of warm chocolate brown above her saree. I press into it. I know I am pushing too hard. I know I am hurting her. But I press on.

And now Amma is crying. Baba shakes her awake. He is angry and tired.

Ma is trying to stifle her sobs. Baba is impatient and sleepy.

I slink out through the window into the moonlit night. I will wait again outside ma’s door tomorrow night. I am crying too.

I was your darling baby girl ma. How could you let them kill me?

Love Story

Nandini sits hunched over the wrought iron table. Her short brown hair is glowing softly under the late evening sun. You could get mesmerized by the rainbows in each strand if you stared too long. Its beginning to get chilly. But Nandini is oblivious. She is scribbling furiously, stopping only occasionally to wipe her sweaty hands on the hem of her denim shorts. Her smooth brown back is breaking out in goose bumps, barely covered by her spaghetti strap shirt.

Suddenly she pauses and reads through the paper with an intense scowl. By the time she reaches the end she is shaking her head in exasperation. With one swift move she tears up the paper and sits back with a groan.

“Love story. …. Love story……” she mutters, drumming her long fingers impatiently on the table top. “Where can I get one?”

Scraping back her chair, she saunters over to the edge of the balcony. Leaning over the iron rail she contemplates the world with a preoccupied air. The view from her townhouse is reasonably decent. She can see the gentle rolling hills of Palo Alto, covered with lush green grass, freckled with outcrops of strangely slanted trees growing out of hillsides. Snaking between them are the busy roads. Students….teachers…. lovers….. going to and fro from Stanford. Surely there must be a love story somewhere in there!

Absorbed as she is in her reverie, she doesn’t hear the click of keys at the front door as Ankit lets himself in. It’s been a long day at his start-up. He is glad to be home. She also misses the smile that breaks out in his eyes at the sight of her. Dropping his laptop bag at the door he tiptoes across the living room and then lithely crosses the balcony to plant a kiss on her tense neck.

“Aaaaeeeeeee!………Oh my God! Ankit!” gasps Nandini swiveling around. “You scared me! Don’t sneak up on me like that ever again” she reproaches him, even as she plants a swift answer back onto his cheek; blissfully unaware of the contradiction presented by her grinning lips.

Ankit grins back unrepentantly.

“So ….how was your day?” he asks walking back towards the table littered with pens and papers, his eyes ruefully taking in the littered floor.

“Not good. I need to write a love story for my writer’s club. Where the hell do I get one?”

Ankit shrugs laconically.

Irritated by his lack of response, Nandini resumes her scowl and sits back down again. She drops her head into her hands, trying to refocus her concentration. Ankit eyes her slim stooped figure.

If Nandini looked up now, her heart would skip a beat at the tenderness in his expression. But all Ankit asks is “Why don’t you get a laptop like the rest of the world?”

Nandini throws him a withering look. “I need to THINK. If you can’t help, can you at least go away?”

Chuckling loudly, Ankit makes to go back into the house. At the door he throws out another question “Hey Nan, what should I make for dinner?”

“Oh just toss up some salad and maybe pasta?” she returns absent mindedly.

“OK” he waves over the back of his head, disappearing into the house.
Soon the kitchen is alive with sounds of cooking. Running water, clanging pots, clinking lids, pasta poured into a vessel, pasta spilling on the floor, the local radio channel blaring through it all. Exasperated Nandini gives up her efforts and leans back in her chair. She can see glimpses of Ankit moving around in the kitchen. It does feel good to have him around, she admits. Ankit fills the house in a way she never can. After spending the whole day in almost complete silence, her senses are slowly awakening- enticed by roasted garlic, wooed by golden nubile spaghetti.

“I am sorry I didn’t have it ready” she suddenly calls out.

“Hey! After five years I think I know what to expect!” he calls back, laughter distorting his voice.

“Yea! Yea!” she mocks. Then sobers down.

“Ankit?”

He appears at once, sensing the change in her mood.

“Ankit I got an interview call this morning. They have a temporary vacancy at a private clinic. It’s a group practice. They are looking for a pediatrician who can come in three times a week to fill in for someone who is …….”Nandini takes a deep breath “ …on maternity leave.”

Ankit’s expression is dead pan. “And…” he encourages her softly. “What did you decide?”

“I don’t know…..I don’t know Ankit. How can I?” Nandini’s voice is an anguished whisper. Their eyes are drawn simultaneously to the dusty blue teddy bear sitting in the potted tomato plant near the balcony’s rail. With synchronized movements, they both look back at each other again. And then Nandini is moving towards him, her eyes welling with tears. And Ankit’s arms are ready for her. For the next few moments the only sounds are Nandini’s soft sobs and Ankit’s gentle caresses.
The teddy bear is silent. Laden with a year’s worth of grief – and guilt- and dust. He sits quietly in the exact spot where Akshay dropped him a year ago, riddled with a coughing fit.

“How could I Ankit. How could I? I thought it was just a cold….just a cold….”

“Hush….I know jaan. I know….it’s over now. Let it go” croons Ankit.

Yes, it’s been a year. A year since Akshay fell fatally ill with a rare case of bacterial meningitis. A year since Nandini failed to diagnose it immediately. A year since they rushed their baby to the ER, burning with sudden fever. A year since they returned home with an empty car seat, to stare in dull shock at the blue teddy bear.

With visible effort Nandini pulls herself together- and away from Ankit’s arms.

“I know” she sniffs “I’m trying. I am. …..But…And this god damn story! Why the hell did I join this club??!!???”

Ankit is prepared for this mood swing. They both know why Nandini needs the distraction of a writing club. But he plays along. “Yes god damn writing club” he exclaims in mock fury. “Taking my wife away from me.”

He pulls her back into his embrace. He is a full head taller than her and has to stoop to kiss her lips. Eyes closed, lips locked, they sway in gentle rhythm until suddenly something tightens between them. Their touch is harder, rougher. There is a rush to their breath. He swings her up completely into his arms.

“Ankit, you are totally ruining my muse. Stop distracting me like this," she complains; but her eyes are heavy with desire.

His breath is labored too but he throws her a wink, smiling wickedly.“To hell with your muse,” he growls.

Then he is striding into the living room, laying her gently on the couch. And then striding back to draw the blinds.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I won’t follow them in. After all he just damned me to hell. But I can’t help smiling too. She will find me soon. I am not that far away……

MJ

Porus says there was nothing like him. Porus knows best.

My Distant Grace

In June 1998, I moved from New Delhi, India to America -irrevocably separating myself from my mother, uncles, aunts, friends and cousins. Since then, life has been a finely balanced act of blending the present with the distant. I discovered fairly quickly it’s easy as a customary weekly phone call – and yet as painful as an awkwardly silent phone line. It’s about realizing that a loved one’s life can and does move on without you, but it’s beautiful and important to be an audience to that change. It’s about sharing the responsibility of communication and not retreating into wounded silence if someone forgets your birthday. It’s about believing you are missed - even without the certainty of a physical hug or the reassurance of a loving look.

So, armed as I was with these brilliant insights and experience, you would think being away from my then-boyfriend and now- husband - would have been a breeze. Hah!

We met as graduate students in University of Florida, in 1999. A year-long separation occurred when he got a job in Chandler, Arizona and I got one in Princeton, New Jersey. Our time apart was fraught with tensions and tears. While I cannot recall any specific incident that rocked our relationship to the core, that year remains a not-so -pleasant blur of nagging arguments, unspoken fears and gut-wrenching farewells. A missed or delayed phone call would whip me into cold fury; a terse tone was interpreted as indifference; any sign of pre-occupation was attributed to fading interest; waving goodbye at the end of a stolen weekend would reduce me to weeping hysteria……the list can go on. You get the picture. Thankfully, the ordeal ended soon enough. We got married and I moved to Arizona. And lo! And behold! I was transformed!

But I often wonder. What was so different about this relationship that I could not nurture it from a distance like I do so many others? How is it that we remain peacefully in love with our parents, siblings, children and friends even after years of separation- but flounder hopelessly within days of separating from our husbands, boyfriends or partners? Is it that this manifestation of love is deeply grounded in physical intimacy? Or is it that the distance demands loyalty and morality beyond human endurance? Or is it simply that boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and wives are far more easily replaced than sisters, mothers, fathers or sons? If the last is true, then was it fear that spurred my actions? Did I fear rejection? Did I dread being left behind as his life raced on? I don’t know… I don’t have answers…. just quick silver questions stoking my conscience.

But I do have hope. I hope that after all these ruminations, if I am ever tested again, I will finally accord this relationship the same faith and grace I have offered to all other long distance relationships in my life. I hope so for me- and you.

Do I?

Lazy, exacting, judgemental, cloying, unpleasant, unforgiving.
Do I like you?
Hell - NO!!!!!!!!

When...

When a child cries
Its important to know why

Vaidehi (published in Savadati)

I enter our apartment and toss my keys down on the elephant-shaped side table. I have just dropped off Vaidehi at the San Francisco International airport. I pour my customary glass of scotch and let myself out onto the front deck. The apartment is unbearable.

Vaidehi and I met twenty-two years ago. It was a chance meeting in a coffee shop. I was reading Virgina Woolf, she stopped to comment on it - and stayed chatting for three hours. She was a first-year undergrad in Berkely, California. I was a Doctoral student. She was so utterly beautiful! Her eyes alight with smiles. Her long dark brown hair silkier than sweating coffee beans. It was all I could do to not stare hungrily. Suddenly, half-rising, she had kissed me full on my lips. I was shocked. Certainly not what I had expected from an undergrad clad in a demure salwar kameez, with a pink bindi to boot! She had smiled back at me with wicked delight. And that was the start of our relationship. The first of many instances when Vaidehi would gracefully flex my perceptions.

We became inseparable - an official couple on campus. Born and brought up in Berkeley, I was completely at home. But she hailed from Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh, India. An only child of fairly well-to-do parents, she had been entrusted to a family friend (also a senior in her department) and sent abroad for higher studies. Needless to say, by now she was not on speaking terms with that friend - or with most of her Indian friends for that matter. She must have suffered countless jokes and jeers. I say ‘must have’ because I never heard about them. She flicked them all off with a toss of her long hair.

Informing our parents was solely Vaidehi’s idea. I did not see the need.

She first sent a letter to her mother and father. It sank wordlessly into the enormous void separating them. She then tried calling repeatedly; repeatedly they left her calls unanswered. Finally, her father sent an e-mail - she must leave me and Berkeley, return home and marry her uncle’s son in Hyderabad; otherwise she would be ostracized. That is the only time I ever saw her falter. It was as fast as two rapid blinks of her moist brown eyes and then she resolved things with typical passionate logic. Had he only asked her to leave me, she could have forgiven him that. But his remaining conditions were beyond forbearance.

Next we tried my parents. They lived in Palo Alto. Both were professors of modern literature at Stanford. She was delighted when in answer to our e-mail, they invited us over to dinner.

But I was filled with dread.

We dined with them on a crisp Saturday evening in October. I dressed in my usual black jeans and shirt. But Vaidehi chose a light green chiffon saree. Her hair lay open, swaying lithely when she walked. She added a slim gold chain, small gold studs and one gold bangle. She looked impossibly delicious.

As soon as we entered my house, she touched my parents’ feet. She smiled at my father and thanked him for having us over. Then with unflappable calm she linked arms with my mother and sashayed off to the kitchen. Soon we could hear gentle giggles assaying from within. My father and I stared at the floor in awkward silence. My parents had not known what to make of me for a long time. For my part, I had spent considerable energy snubbing them into silence. Yet there we were, watching my girlfriend woo my mother. Seeking approval…even acceptance. The evening climaxed when Vaidehi acknowledged that understandably our relationship must have been a shock, but we hoped they would accept us and let us be one family. Mr. and Mrs. Chakraborty, my distinguished parents, positively beamed us out of the room with their smiles. I drove home furious. “You gave in! You showed me down!” I kept shouting at her over and over again. “No” she said, serenely confident. “Sometimes it’s ok to give in.”

And so the years passed. I earned my Doctoral degree in Child Psychology and was offered a teaching post at a community college. Vaidehi also completed her Bachelors then Masters in Information Management and Systems. We settled into jobs and life was replete with everyday cares.

It was around this time that Vaidehi started chatting with a young Indian woman, Shivani, who had moved into the apartment below us. Shivani was a Journalism student by day and a waitress by night. It took us two months to realize Shivani was pregnant. And another two months to realize she was painfully alone.

I watched with silent anxiety as Vaidehi became increasingly attached to Shivani. We were childless. A fact that Vaidehi and I had accepted. But now I worried Vaidehi was pouring her expectations into Shivani’s womb. Sure enough, Shivani offered us her baby the minute he was born. I was aghast. But a look of utter understanding passed between Shivani and Vaidehi. Neither was doing any favors. Shivani had no means of supporting the baby. (She had separated from an abusive boyfriend). Vaidehi was only too delighted to accept the baby. However, none of us wanted to go through the red tape of an actual adoption. So we worked out an informal arrangement by which Shivani stayed around to sign off on official documents etc. But the baby, Kedar, lived with us. Vaidehi devoted herself to being a mother. At first I mocked her, and then humbled, I allowed myself to be sucked in as well. Soon the three of us were family.

One day, about six months later, out of the blue, Vaidehi got it in her head that if she could just get her parents to see Kedar, things would fall in place. I felt motherhood had softened her. Hmph! I scoffed. But then I remembered sometimes it’s ok to give in.

So we flew to Hyderabad; all four of us- Shivani, me, Kedar and Vaidehi. Of course we were greeted by a silent, locked door. We sat in front of that door the whole day. Finally Vaidehi shuffled to her feet. I wanted to tear down that door and shoot them all.

And that’s when we realized Kedar had fever.

Stifling our guilt, we rushed to the R___ L___ hospital. At the entrance I grabbed a registration form and started filling it out. I was brought up short at the second line itself. It asked for the father’s name. Point blank. There was no option for “mother” or “guardian”. I crossed out ‘father’, wrote in ‘mother’ and after a slight pause filled in Shivani’s name. I quickly filled out the rest of the form and handed it in. A red pen ran down the form and made a big circle around Shivani’s name. We don’t need mother’s name here, said a masculine voice. We need father’s name. But he does not live with us, he does not even know the baby, I explained. Never mind, came the retort in impatient tones. The baby has a father right? Give me his name…..and the pen hovered over the form. Did I imagine the mockery in the voice? I opened my mouth to argue, when someone intercepted. It was Vaidehi. “Sir” she clipped, “this baby needs help. Get him help now. His father does not care if he lives or dies, and you want his name over his mother’s who carried him for 9 months? How about we put in your name- how about that?”

I stepped aside and watched the fireworks. Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned! The poor man stood no chance. He retreated and fetched his manager – who was also lambasted by Vaidehi. The manager now rushed to get his senior manager. Oh boy! We really raised a stink that day! It was the four of us ranged against a veritable army of pot-bellied, pompous old men. Finally a senior doctor suggested we could write the father’s name and the mother’s name. His suggestion was greeted with a great roar of approval - clearly everyone was impressed by his brilliance. We finally gave up.

But I remember a nurse who smiled and stuck her thumb up at me, signaling victory. I also remember my sadness at her gesture.

In the end, it turned out Kedar only had a minor heat stroke. Much relieved, we cut our trip short and returned home.

My world has turned many times since. Memories cartwheel around my head like tumbleweeds……

Vaidehi cheering at Shivani’s graduation, Vaidehi puzzling over Kedar’s assignments, Vaidehi beaming at an unexpected promotion, Vaidehi laughing at my first (and only) attempt at wearing a saree, Vaidehi marching to protest the Iraq war, Vaidehi buying a hand fan to celebrate my first hot flash, Vaidehi accepting Shivani’s move to Boston, Vaidehi quietly acquiescing when Kedar followed suit.

And more recently- Vaidehi stunned to receive a call from her newly widowed mother… Vaidehi disappointed by my cold silences…Vaidehi sobbing quietly in bed last night……

And finally, Vaidehi departing for India today.... without a backward glance.....

Draining my glass, I come back in and start my laptop. I pull up the screen for Singapore Airlines and click on the tab ‘flights and fares’.

Departure city: San Francisco. Destination city: Hyderabad.

It’s time to let my world turn again. Sometimes it’s ok to give in.

Krishna

Krishna Nee Begane Baro

Krishna......Krishna.......
I never tire of singing your name
Tasting it over and over again
I sit drenched and drunk
Your name spilling over my unsteady lips....

Sing to me, play to me, play on me Krishna
With soft golden notes splay open my soul
Absorb me, cherish me, nourish me Krishna
There's not much left here for me to behold

Deceptions

An outright lie is a welcome deception.
Beware instead of secret dreams, of a sidelong glance, of a sudden double-take, of a whispered name.
Silvery, slippery veils of deception. Baring both - the deciever and the decieved.