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