When Three Ain’t a Crowd

“Three is old!” claimed P&P this morning. He looked all worked-up, his brow laced with sweat.

Apparently it seems, P&P is under the impression that he is now getting old. All very well to celebrate first birthdays and second ones, for that matter, but when you are three, life ceases being romantic. You are then burdened with expectations to perform – did you get hits for your latest post? How has your subscriber base been faring? Are visitors looking for relevant keywords? Blah and more blah. Whatever then happens to all the fresh-to-the-world glitz and benefit of doubt is a story that is conveniently hidden under the bed-sheets.

So, anyway, I have managed to convince P&P that three is not all that bad a number. I mean, going by his logic, I should already be extinct. Since I manage to wake up to the dust and grime of life every day, I gather that phase hasn’t yet arrived. In fact, the two of us manage to delight over a plate of bhindi and aloo. Mom would gasp if she knew how I have taken to the bhindi I would once loathe. But you see, we all get birthdays.

Looking back, I think, P&P has had quite an interesting last year. He moved to Pune again, settling down into his native place snugly. Though I have not been able to give him time proportionate to the mind-space I have for him, I know he understands. He blames deadlines, schedules and the mean ‘corporate’ life for all that and appreciates how I am still the sweet girl who christened him thus on a hungry afternoon.

 I turn to him whenever life brings up a highlight. Whenever there is a rainbow in the sky, an owl by the window or for that matter, a damp squib on the floor. Though only three, he is capable of being my agony aunt as well as my connoisseur of art. Though he beams when a visitor comes by and leaves good-things-to-say behind, he knows that if none else, I will always be by his side.

We got late for the party tonight. But the birthday flavor has by no means diminished. We plan to invest in a brand new costume for P&P, several tales to light up the days to come and a promise of many more fun-filled birthdays in store. Do drop by to say hello. We would love to have you.

Happy Third Birthday, ‘Of Paneer, Pulao and Pune’! 

*picture from www.cupcakebusinesscards.com

Packed Weekends in Pune

 

Pune is brimming with activities this January. As I sat and mulled over all that weekends could be used for, I counted a number of very interesting options.

For instance, you could sample some quality cinema at the Pune International Film Festival. It would be a welcome break from the several, not-so-inspiring films up for consumption at the city’s multiplexes. Or, if you are in the mood for diplomacy, you can go check out the Indo-German mela at the Deccan grounds. On till the 20^th of this month, it offers an interesting journey through urbanization over the ages. Note: Gorging on some traditional Indo-German food at the Beergarden is a wonderful way to appreciate the journey! And then, there’s also the Times Pune Festival which is certainly among the biggest in the city, with food, music and theatre rolled into one.

It helps when the first month of the year is all animated and chirpy. This is the time when New Year resolutions are still hale and hearty and the heart is brimming with good intentions for every soul it comes across. The first quarter’s results are still far away and economic indicators are but figures. In such times, appreciation for the fine arts come easier than it does on a cranky mid-year month when festivities are nowhere in sight. Anyhow, hush. It makes no sense to foresee bleak times ahead when Pune is going all out keeping this winter as warm as possible.

Where to, then? Well, after much deliberation and thought, we ended up flying kites at a friend’s place, with those wonderful events postponed to the next weekend. Home-made delicious food, newly-wedded hospitality from the couple and a taste of Pune’s scorching January sunshine. Quite a happy Sankranti, I’d say. 

Goodbye 2012!

It seems just yesterday that we had a conversation with 2011. Twelve months down the line, 2012 is in queue to disappear under velvet covers, never to emerge. Time, much like its mythical reputation, is ready once again to gallop away on its golden carriage. All that we will be left behind with is smoke. And memories.

“So you live in Delhi. How can you feel excited about going back to that fateful land?” But that’s where my home is! The onlookers sigh, even shake their head. All Delhi means to them is the nation’s rape-capital. The land infested with monsters ready to jump at you at every dark corner of the road. It saddens me, the reputation my city of fond remembrances has acquired. As a pigtailed, spectacled girl of seven, I remember collecting bottlebrushes every winter morning. Playing Badminton with Mom every summer evening and then dancing with the sparrows on the terrace. How can the city that has seen me grow up degrade into one that wishes ill onto every other denizen?

I remember how the year had started on a rainy note. Interpreted by many to signify a washing-away of old and debilitating ways of life. 365 days since then and I wonder if we have washed away way more than imagined. Have we not washed away our belief in the basic goodness of mankind? Have we not also washed away sensitivity towards the frail, the deprived or the ones who think differently from us? 2013, though you are still in the dark, all I want from you is sunshine. The kind of warmth that reaches to our hearts, unlike the cosmetic dazzle that laughter now seems to be about.

The year gone by introduced me to several new people – with several new ways of thinking. It took me to a multitude of new places with fantastic sights and sounds worthy of keeping away in cold storage. You know, for that winter when grandma will sit by the fireplace and tell a tale to a host of animated grandchildren. P&P too has had an exciting time, what with the constant travel, new readers and much-appreciated support from the ones who have stuck around since its inception. And then, of course, 2012 also took me back to Pune, back to R. I realized all too quickly that no matter how overcast the sky may be, those people in olden times had got it quite right. Love, in all avatars, indeed conquers all. It brightens up your world like nothing else can.

2013 opens with a challenge. I am sure it has many others to unveil as the months go by. The winds of Pune beckon even as I try my best to lap up as much of the Delhi sunshine as I can. Sometimes, this constant to and fro gets on my nerves – am I a pendulum? The packing, the unpacking, the goodbyes and the hellos – no less! I long to settle down into permanence but then, as R tells me, bliss takes its own sweet time to arrive.

I love how this season brims with expectations, promises and anticipation. Though not many of these materialize into what they promised, isn’t life all about hope, love and delight? As 2012 prepares to slip away from underneath the door, I hope the coming times will bring contentment and peace into the world. The sun is streaming in from the window as I write – in magical little rays. We never know. The good Lord may just wave about his sparkling wand… and all that is crooked in the world will be set straight.

Here’s wishing everyone a splendid New Year 2013!

Birthdays in a Flash

The thinkers often talk about the one moment when life will flash by in front of your eyes. They warn you to live well so you don’t regret the flashback. I have no clue if this is an omen of some sort but I get that flash every once in a while. It usually comes at important junctures and in moments when you need to look calm and composed. In fact, it can sometimes be quite a spoilsport.

At the airport yesterday, I saw a mental audio-visual of my growing up days. And I grew up really fast, or so I hear. Nani tells me I was born with a huge bunch of curly black hair. They had to make trips up and down the staircase when I learnt to hold things. Err, to collect all the stuff that I would drop from the balcony. Does anyone have insight on why children do that? I was very protective about my stuff otherwise and would ensure everything was in place when the other kids – the neighbours’, for instance – left. Mom would help me cut out the lions and elephants I would draw for my school holiday homework. She would sit by patiently as I painted them red and brown and yellow. All of the Delhi summer afternoon, until the evening breeze beckoned us to the balcony. And then, when Papa would arrive, Grandpa would fix all of us a glass of aam panna.

Sometimes, it is so hard to believe you are growing up. Especially when you gorge on the aloo ka parantha and bask in the sun just as you used to when you were small. The sun is warm and serene, the afternoon resplendent with memories. At other times, it is impossible not to acknowledge how time has flown. How tall you have grown, how friends are getting married, how you need to travel back to Pune the next day. At such times, I hold on to Mom in a super-tight hug and tell her how much I love her. I order a plateful of hot pakoras from nani’s kitchen. I sit with nanaji and Papa and talk about how the youngest cat has been learning to climb. Then, I get a semblance of peace. The moon comes out in the night-sky as I stand hand-in-hand with R. I gaze at the twinkling stars and I find the skies of Pune merging with the ones back where the rest of my world is.

When tomorrow dawns, the sun will rise to tell me it has been a year. One whole year since I acknowledged I am getting older. Since P&P refuses to go without the customary celebration, I grant him as much. 

So here goes – it’s a ‘Happy Birthday to Me’ from P&P! 

*picture from fragranceflora.com

An Ice-Cold Delhi

*picture from breathedreamgo.com

Winter is on its way. Or so it seems. Mornings are now foggier – or smoggier – and it gets dark before Dad gets to come from work. But more than these weather-symptoms, I get vibes of winter from more human sources. Quite interesting, if you know what I mean.

People are vacationing on Diwali. Going out of town to the beach and the hills with their house left behind in the dark. With no lamps or lights or glitter on the walls. Sometimes, with a housemate or so – often elderly-  left behind with the other darkness. And I used to think Diwali is about decorating your house together and gobbling down sweets with silver paper on them.

Televisions, mobile phones and cars are being bought. The newest varieties, the most happening brands. On the sly, houses are also being sold. The ones your parents had put together with a penny collected a day. All for a fancy flat in an uptown area, possibly with no accommodation for the former house owners.

Youngsters hang around in beer bars, discotheques and shopping malls. Lost to the world outside the glass bubble. They return home all “high” and mighty, lighter on all accounts – including the cash. The concerned parties are hushed up and asked to get inside quilts before the cold wave could come in through the window. But it already did.

Whatever happened to “happy family” moments that we grew up relishing? When they are missing, all I see is jazz. And for jazz, I never did acquire an ear. Festivals for me are still about family. Together, we light lamps, set up streamers, make a rangoli. We devour milk cakes and rasmalai, gaze at the firecrackers in the sky and I never gather the courage to light some of my own. We pray to Ganpati Bappa and wish for health, happiness and laughter.

Delhi is getting cold. This Diwali, I hope the lights warm up some of the hearts which have forgotten how special it is to love and be loved by their family.

P&P wishes everyone a very happy and prosperous Diwali!

Something in the Air

*picture from southernsavers.com

There are occasions when life puts on dazzling colours. Oranges, reds, blues. One look out the window now and I know just what made Van Gogh paint the sky with stars.

When the morning arrives, the sun will be golden. The birds fluttering their wings in exercise and the birdlings staring entranced at Mamma and Pappa and dreaming of their first flight. It is fascinating how life brings up new promises and new hopes at every juncture. You only need to look for them. Who would have thought, for instance, that my long-lost wood comb would be found in the abyss of an old bag I haven’t used since Noah brought his ark out? New hopes, you see. Now I have renewed vigour to look for other lost things which I refrain from listing.

So, the point being – what makes the day special?

Well, there is a young man under the blue Pune sky who goes about with a song on his lips. He rates me in importance right after good, spicy chicken and scribbles poetry on a dilapidated notebook despite being presented with a beautiful one this time last year. For this young man, the tricks to healing my mood swings are child-play. Intimidated he is not by the severity – psychological, if you please, of some of my tantrums. In short, he is quite the darling and when it is his special day, you know the heavens are up gorging on boondi ke laddoo.

Now that P&P has covered the special day for you young man, lets hear it for the one who owns this place. And, before we sign off, P&P extends warm wishes to you for a splendid year ahead.

Happy Birthday, R.

What a Wonderful World!

There are clothes on the chair, skydiving from both sides of it. They have been there for a while. Bedsheets, jeans, shirts, the works. Oh, they aren’t mine. They belong to the good people I share my room with. Personally I think, they add a lot of colour to the place. There is a bright orange towel, a grey dolphin, even a huge parrot-green laundry bag. Every time I see my own purple laundry bag, I am reminded of the tasks to be accomplished. No clothes have been washed in about a week; there are several to be laundered. The bed could do with a new pillow-cover. But anyhow, the point is: though there are thirty nine things I need to do about my den, I am beyond them now.

No, I haven’t achieved nirvana. In fact, *temptation alert* I look forward to a scrumptious dinner tomorrow. Loaded with all things I like, right from panipuri to ice-cream and jelly. I have earned them you see, much like a Bourneville bar. After all, I am the one who puts up with R’s tantrums day in and day out. But of course, I am also the one blessed to be the muse of his rhymes. If truth be told, I am the whining girl with an issue always up her sleeve, an elaborate description of which he has no choice but to listen to. His tantrums usually limit themselves to sane complaints like: “don’t you think we should not walk about in heavy rain?”

I beam when I see little children on a giant wheel. I also see the queue going all the way to the gate. I chuckle when the man whirls and twirls sugar candy and dishes it out to a young father and daughter. Irrespective of how he isn’t wearing gloves. I can spend an afternoon critiquing a bad movie or book. Even if we had originally planned to spend time reading. On his part, R buys me a ticket to that creaking giant wheel and a pair of sugar candies. He also lends active, if chuckling, punctuation support to my err, monologue.

The crux of my loud thinking is this: R, only I know what I often subject you to. Thank you for bearing with me, never (okay, infrequently) losing your patience when I go on harping about this and that and generally being my solace in this big, bad world. For all the cynicism the world sees in me, when I am with you, everything is as fine as the golden sun in the spring sky. I love you.

“I see trees of green, red roses too…
I see them bloom, for me and for you.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue, clouds of white, 
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

27.6.12 Happy Anniversary, R. 

*Title/Song Credit: Bob Thiele

For My Partner-in-Crime

She has always been good with organizing. The pencil-set and candy packages were neat. Off they went to the singing kids the next morning. The “Happy- birthday-to-you!” gang.

“Why do we give away these lovely things, Mom?”

“So we can spread smiles on your special day!”

Mom and I would colour animal pictures for my school-project. “What colour is a horse’s tail, Mom?” “Remember you rode one in Mussoorie?” “But there were so many.” “And so can there be colours for the tail!” Mom taught me to colour pencil-drawings. In effect, she coloured much more. She would put me to sleep with a “nanhi kali sone chali” and wake me with the sun.

“Why do we need to get up early, Mom?” “Because the school bus rises early too, baby.” Dad laughed. “That’s not it, Daddy.” Mom grinned. “We don’t want to miss the bluebird that comes visiting the garden. She is never late.” I listened to the rustling leaves, the whispering winds and the calling birds. The screeching on the road was a moot-point.

With time, Mom and I have learnt that together, nothing is a pain. We smirk at the neighbour who thinks she is the cat’s whiskers. We also get mithaai for the one who waves from under an umbrella. Sometimes, we chat for long nights, sipping coffee and ignoring Dad’s go-to-sleep. “What is so interesting?!” “Girl-talk. We can’t tell you.” He rolls his eyes; we giggle.

With Mom, I learn that it is alright to worry sometimes. What is important is getting on with life. Living without regrets and tucking into bed with a clear conscience. Together, we are capable of being high-school girls obsessing over the latest television-heartthrob. We are also confident women who have the courage to face the world.

Well, my world began with Mom. She continues to be right there at the centre. She is the one who loves me on my worst-hair day, in my worst mood and even when I have been really, really bad. I owe you one, Mom.

* a part of “Memories, Conversations and Incidents with my Mom” on Blogadda. Picture Courtesy: goodhousekeeping.com

Many Moons Ago

Picture from blog.travelpod.com

Back then, they would air Titanic every New Year’s Eve. Rose would kiss Jack in the jeep, the window fogging up to the world outside. The three of us would watch entranced as dolphins swam alongside the great ship, the sunrays lighting up the morning. It was only when Rose would decide to pose for a certain pencil-sketch that we would bury our heads in a pillow. Jack would have to finish alone.

My Mama and Mami were much sought after every holiday season. They brought along dozens of stories, fruits specially picked up from Dehradun and of course, my two cousins. Gautam Bhaiya and Raja. As soon as they would arrive, our dynamic trio would scamper away to the little room downstairs and jump like monkeys from one subject to the other.

“I told her she was an elephant. She immediately tore open a new packet of Uncle Chips.” “Raja lost the wrestling match the other day. I pushed him from atop the cupboard!” “Seen the Christmas tree yet? Mom and I made the decorations with cardboard.”

Mami would barge into the room at lunch time. “Poor deaf children. We will take you to the doctor this evening.”

“Why?!”

“We have been calling you up for the last one hour!”

Without further ado, we would fly up the stairs and set the nostrils to work. Tomato soup, chicken, pulao, aloo dum. Holiday food always tasted delicious. They didn’t make it like that for school tiffins.

On the last day of the year, when Titanic had sunk and our eyes drooped, the grownups would put us to bed. We would be snuggled under quilts and the lights would be dimmed. Then they would all settle down for music, hot coffee and snacks till midnight.

We were indignant. It was sheer injustice.

“Just because they are grown-ups, doesn’t mean we will be mum. I want coffee too!” “And I want some of those veg-chops they are having.” “Let’s go tell them what we think of their behaviour. Putting us to sleep!”

All energized, we marched into the TV room. Everyone stared. “Did you kids need something?”

“Yes. I want coffee!” “And I want veg-chops.” I looked around to find something that interested me. “I want aloo bhujiya.”

So determined did we sound, that even to our surprise, the grownups complied. We sat around on mattresses, munching and chomping and guzzling.

“Don’t you think it’s time to sleep now?” Mom said after a while. “You don’t want to be late getting up the first day of the year.”

Gautam Bhaiya was looking earnestly at something outside the window. Fireworks, in all colours of the palette! He winked at us. “Can the three of us sleep up in the terrace room tonight?”

From the corner of my eyes, I saw Raja smuggle some of the aloo bhujiya in his pyjama pocket. “Please Mamma. We promise to fall asleep fast.”

Permission was granted and at midnight, the beds were rearranged. The terrace room had a sliding window overlooking the road outside. Up above was Delhi’s dusty sky, speckled here and there by a rare star. The best part was: while in the room, you had a terrific view of doggies being taken for a late walk, the kids of the laundry wallah engaged in a scuffle and that night, the fireworks set off by the young Punjabi couple who had newly moved into the flat across the street.

“The kids are sure to oversleep tomorrow. Will probably be up at noon.” We heard Mama say. “Oh I assure you they’ll rise at the crack of dawn.” Dad remarked.

We gazed at the fireworks in awe. They lit up the December sky gloriously. Munching the smuggled loot, we didn’t realize when Lady Sleep arrived on tiptoe and carried us away to her land of slumber.

I remember I was dreaming about waterfalls. They were in all colours, much like the New Year fireworks. The water gurgled and gushed melodiously, before it started buzzing. What water buzzed? The noise went up, up, up till I could stand it no more.

I jerked out of sleep. A giant housefly jerked with me, almost pouting at being disturbed. Gautam Bhaiya and Raja were already up, scratching their ears. A whole procession of giant houseflies seemed to have taken over the terrace room. In the blink of an eyelid, we escaped and landed in the living room downstairs. Not everyone seemed to be up. Dada and Dadi were sipping tea.

A sleepy Dad grinned at Mama, sitting up in the makeshift bed on the floor. “What did I tell you?”

The clock on the mantlepiece struck six.

*

* This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Puja in the House

There are times when you need to turn watchman. This morning, for instance. There was a puja (Asan Bibi) at home, the kind in which only married women can take part. So I was up and about early in the morning, err, earlier than usual, and all set to receive people at the door. A whole battalion of ladies came along. In thick, summer defying saris, with packets of sweets and agarbattis in their hands. “How are you beta?” “Very well aunty.” I nodded at them all, showing them to the puja room where preparations were on. 

Now, the rules for this puja are interesting. You cannot speak or move from your place, but only make sounds in your throat if you need something. When I was younger, these aunties would make all kinds of gurgling noises and exhibit their expertise with gestures. Such was the expertise that I could hardly ever decipher what they wanted. Titters would follow and several “arey beta….”(s) would go off in succession after the puja was completed. By now, I have a protocol. If at all you need something, there is a writing pad and a pen. No gestures please.

After prayers, it is time for tea and snacks. Packets and packets of wafers and namkeen were bought yesterday, a few of which I smuggled in secret containers. “Who is going to eat all that?” I demanded, as Dad brought some fresh maal in the evening. But I found out as the day went by. Stocking up is always wise, come rain or women-brigade. The packets vamoosed over gossip. “Our maid’s daughter ran away with the milk wallah, can you imagine?” “Seems to me our maid has joined your maid’s daughter. She hasn’t been to work for over a week.” “Then how do you manage to go to office with all the housework pending?” “Oh I have put my husband to it. He does a neat job of cleaning up the dishes.” Munch, munch. Giggle, giggle.

“So when are you getting married beta?” “There’s time aunty.” “Don’t be too long, you know. As is, few men have your kind of height.” Tell me something I don’t know. This is what you have been repeating since I was in prep school. Wait till she measures R with her ruler and finds out he is a few centimetres shorter than me. “Oh hardly an issue, didi.” Mom puts in. “We will have her man in heels on the wedding.” Really, sometimes there’s no way you cannot love my Mom.

There will be a time when I will also be part of such a puja. I will put on a traditional sari and line my feet with alta. There will be fasting in the morning, feasting after noon. When I am the hostess, I will need to cook an elaborate lunch menu for everyone. Complete with dessert and chutney. R will have to help me if he wishes to retain people. With my cooking, they may very well politely say “we can do without the lunch D…the tea was very filling.”

No matter what, when the house is fragrant with sandalwood agarbatti and oil lamps are aglow, I cannot help but smile. When people get together to pray to the Goddess, it becomes elementary to believe that there indeed is a healer of woes, soother of pains. As Mom goes about placing the puja flowers among my books, I walk outside to the balcony and look up at the blue, summer sky. There are patches of white clouds here and there, fluffy and playful. Even as I look on, a slender ray of the evening sun falls on the tulsi plant, lighting up the green leaves in a twilight glory.