A Weekend To Remember

When the drone of the clicking keyboard becomes unbearable, when my overworked body fails to raise itself from bed one morning, when my mind refuses to think about the obvious, when my heart aches to cast away into oblivion, I decide to go absconding somewhere deep in the jungle. To splash some green over my blues. And so, I head for Panshet, a largely unexplored tourist destination near Mumbai.

As I drive across the city, the Maximum City, the only view it offers me is stacks and stacks of matchbox apartments, in all shapes and sizes. The billboards and hoardings add an occasional splash of color, and announce yet another upcoming housing project, yet another ‘city within a city’. Ironically, all of them claim to be in the midst of some ‘green’, with a waterfall and some unknown migratory bird looming large in the foreground. Well, so much so for the urban slums. I speed away, the dullness in my heart suddenly unbearable.

It takes a good two hours’ drive to spot the first blooms of green. Not the dry, rusty shade that my mind had grown accustomed to. But the fresh, full and vibrant shade which would hit any city dweller right on the face, which makes me squint at the suddenness, as I get down and breathe deep, filling my lungs with pure, unpolluted air.

With my navigator as the only aid for direction, I lose my way. Strangely, I do not panic. My mind tells me, I have no office to reach on time. No client emails to respond to. I have all the liberty to get lost for a while, and enjoy the watercourse running parallel to the road. All I need to do is call up the resort where I have booked my stay, and I will get directions alright. But is this not what I exactly wanted to do? To break free from the routine and surrender myself to an uncertainty?

Not for long, though. A navigator coupled with well-placed sign boards at every turning, I reach my destination before noon. A beautiful resort, I must say. An air of laziness all around. No holidaying tourists nudging and shoving and pushing and jostling. It seemed like I had the whole resort to myself, complete with wild shrubs, most of them blooming. After checking in, and having some refreshments, I decide to explore the boundaries. Stone steps are aplenty here, dividing and uniting this huge mansion at the same time. Reminds me of my childhood summer vacations at my grandfather's place, days when I would smell adventure at every possible rooftop, feel spooky spirits at every old staircase, and imagine a secret treasure in anything that was locked, be it a wooden chest or a cellar full of old utensils. Mission accomplished, I come back to my room, too carried away by the powerful whiff of nostalgia that hit me. Tired, I order a cup of 'masala chai' as I slide open the balcony door and step out. Into the blinding beauty of the afternoon sun. And I am left dumbfounded! My mind had prepared itself for some balmy wind and, maybe, overlooking into a garden with a rusty, creaking swing. But not a breathtaking view of a clear sky reflecting itself in the sparkling waters of a vast lake, with undulating mountains dotting its outer edges at some places, while at some places the lake just expanded into the horizon, so that the water and the sky took the same shade of blue. In contrast, the mountains had different hues of green, and matching patches of pale yellow and earthy brown, covering their surface. A frame straight out of a child's drawing book.

I come down in the garden and take the steps leading to the lake,formed by placing together some big-sized pebbles, and dip my feet in the cool, clear water. I can easily spot the flora and fauna underneath, and the occasional small carp who probably strayed from its group to visit the excited feet wading in its homeland. I fancy myself peeking into a water kingdom, where deep down, a king must be living peacefully in his huge palace, made up of small stones and decorated with algae, a beautiful queen in tow, mermaids hovering everywhere to serve him. Maybe, these polished pebbles covered with green moss, below my feet, are the sentry check-posts, to keep an eye on all the curious intruders who might want to enter their kingdom? I splash some water on my face.

As the day comes to a slow end and the yellow sun wears an orange costume, I experience a sunset in this sleepy little hamlet where even darkness unravels itself slowly, yawning and stretching. Here, the sun is a  true lover of the earth. It spreads all its hues on the grand canopy, adding a Midas touch to everything visible, waltzing with trees, kissing the ripples in the water, mating with the mountains. Before bidding adieu for the day. Before promising to come back again.

Night sets in to reveal a canopy of stars studded across the smooth veil of the universe. A chilly breeze reminds us that winter is about to set in. The resort is now a desolate island, the stairs an unexplored alleyway. A cold mist hangs in the air. Dim lights filtering through the lattices, on to the gardens, throwing haphazard shadows all over, gives me an eerie sensation of being in a haunted castle. Beauty of the forbidden, majesty of the unknown.

 

Next morning, I decide to visit the local temple nearby. What I gather from the local guide at the resort is that it will be quite a climb up the steep mountains. Armed with an adequate supply of drinking water, I hitch hike my way to the temple top. On the way I come across a group of local women, daily wage laborers probably, who are amused at the sight of a huffing and puffing stranger on their homeland, to whom climbing up the rocks is a daily affair. When the temple finally comes in sight, the artificiality surrounding it is stark and unreal. A place of worship which is not easily accessible is supposed to be either so pious that it attracts devotees from across the globe, or so historic and of archaeological significance that it crumbles to touch. This temple of 'Nilkantheshwar' is neither of them. A huge brick-lain complex scattered with simple figurines made of clay, painted with colors so bright that they almost dazzle with their fluorescence. But as I go nearer, I am mesmerized by the stories they depict. Someone here wants me to know about  the 'Puranas', wants me to recall the stories I read in my 'Amar Chitra Katha' and my 'Panchatantra'. Everything that I behold in front of me is suddenly significant. Ancient tales retold, not with the sophistication of the artisans of Ellora, but with the simplicity of a common man, who wanted to enact on his canvas every story that he had learned. A structure does not have to be tattered and old to be splendid. It does not need to have a mention in the textbooks to be historic. A piece of art is a piece of art nonetheless. A temple which does not claim to be built by the Mauryan dynasty, where the deity does not claim to be a 'Svayambhu', a temple which is just a place of worship. Here devotees do not stand in a long queue to get a glimpse of the god, but here god exists nonetheless. Here shopkeepers do not follow you everywhere to make sure you buy offerings for the God, but where you have a humble lime water vendor who knows people will be thirsty and exhausted from the climb, and will need a refreshment before they meet the deity himself.

After offering my prayers to the Lord, as I drive back to the city, I cross a cremation ground, with nothing to mark its identity except for a sudden patch of land which is devoid of grass and a few spots of gray ash here and there. Even inside the heart of the jungle, resides the inevitable truth. The great leveler of mankind. 

Next comes the biggest surprise of the journey. As I leave the forest behind, the shrubs on one side of the road start thinning out and a sudden patch of open sea appears on the roadside, spreading out its arms in welcome. I halt, and run for the shore, only to realise that we have been following each other on our tracks for quite sometime. I had failed to look beyond the tall grass, and the rolled-up windows did not let in the roar of the waves. I feel the wind in my hair, under my armpits, behind my legs. Am I flying? No, but I am free. A strange feeling of happiness creeps in, childlike. I giggle to myself, for no apparent reason. Suddenly, I am an innocent soul.

After I had gazed at the vastness to my heart's content, and gulped in as much air as my lungs would allow, I look around to see the mankind spilled all around the coastline. Cheerful couples with bawling babies, flustered mothers trying to manage kids running into water, cozy lovers, noisy families of every constitution, all bite into a piece of happiness. Gleefully flash their teeth for cameras. Flaunt their moment of pleasure. Such is the effect of the sea. Water being splashed everywhere. Into faces, on clothes, on people, in the air. In refreshment, as a play sport, as a solitary amusement. Sea, the magic potion for our nerves.

Slowly, with reluctant steps, I get back into the car and drive towards the city. The invisible artisan slowly paints a shade of dull gray, one coat at a time, over the landscape. With every stroke, the green underneath fades away, till at one time any such color seems like a faraway spec in the horizon, a remote possibility and wishful thinking of what could have been. Barren lands, highways, flyovers. Honking horns and smoke emissions. Impatient people and Sunday crowd. A rude welcome back. To a life where green is the backdrop of a photograph framed on the mantle, but a rare sight in the daily routine.

Ganpati Bappa Morya!!

This Ganesh Chaturthi, as we welcome the Lord into our homes, bleat drums, make Modaks, light lamps and sing hymns, I look up towards the pink hued, calm and enduring deity, the familiarity of the face as striking as the personal connect I feel with Him. He is with me all throughout my days and nights, in mu curses when things go wrong, in my thanksgivings when things are right, in my bribes when I expect Him to turn things my way, in my pain when I am sick, in my joy when I am joyful.

I grew up with Him in my coloring books, my first memory of Him clad in a red Dhoti and golden crown still vividly etched in my mind. He was the logo on the mustard oil tins which Ma would use, and I hated discarding Him away after the oil was used up. In my drawing classes, He was the easiest being I could draw and sketch with my pencil, always eager to give his belly that extra bulge, and his ears the fanning shape. He is still the most lovable part of my Durga Pujo memories at Dadabhai’s place, where, the moment we set our foot in the house, we cousins would rush to Durgamondir get a glimpse of which color costume He is wearing. A favorite amongst us, we would love to hear his stories over and over again, how He took a full circle around His Mother and declared that He has traversed the whole universe, how He came to have an elephant’s head, how He has ‘Kola Bou’ as a wife.

As I moved into adulthood, He accompanied me, a constant companion. Any kind of trouble, it does not last forever. Days go by and aches heal themselves. But I love to think He is out there somewhere, holding that invisible thread for me, so that I tip over so low that I smell the earth, yet suddenly I bounce back, steady on my feet again. With Him, I am confident that no matter what comes, He will pull me out and I will sail through. Now a mother, He is the best bedtime story I tell my daughter. To her, He is ‘Gampta Papa’, the hero on Cartoon Network who can kill ‘Rakshasas’ with a single blow, his mouse equally important with its red jacket and golden trims.

As I pray to Him, a part of this huge crowd of worshipers and devotees, in a Sarvajanik Puja Mandap, not even for once do I feel that I share Him with others. My Ganpati Bappa is so distinctly individual to me, to my world. I seek his blessings and turn to leave, when I notice the other fellow worshipers standing in the queue. The same gleam in their eyes, the same emotion in their folded hands, the same respect in their demeanor. I realize, to each one of us, Lord Ganesha is our own, the very lovable companion who knows exactly what we are going through. Each one of us look up to him, and He assures us, our troubles will pass away.

This Ganesh Chaturthi, I bow my head to this divine being who is mine and our at the same time. Ganpati Bappa Morya!!

Drifting Apart

‘Drifted apart’ conjures in my mind the vision of a vast stretch of blue. A wobbly white dot nearer to the horizon. Moving farther away every single moment. A passerby has stopped to take a look. Suddenly his eyes are downcast with  sorrow. He wills to stop the sailing blob. But does not enter the blue. And so, it sails on. And away. The speck of white takes the shape of a girl. I see eyes moist with tears. Broken dreams written large on them. This picture grows vivid and I feel nauseated. A sudden seizure grasps me. Does the passerby resemble you? Are we drifting apart?

There is no hatred between us. Love still exists, but loneliness has crept in. Professionally sound, we lead our own lives. We have our own friends. We relax every weekend. Not together but in our own individual way. We respect each other’s privacy, and fiercely guard our personal space. In all these years, ‘us’ has somewhere drowned in ‘my own space’.  We keep others’ secrets but never look back to notice whether the other wants to share something. Whether she wants him to share his friend’s secret. Whether he wants to tell her his own secret. We are so engrossed in ‘My Friend’ that we forget that there are no secrets between a man and wife. Anything the man knows, his woman knows as well.  Our friend in trouble calls us up at any time of the day or night. Eager to hear him out, to resolve his issues, we receive the call. But when one calls up the other, there is a certain lethargy, a preconceived boredom that creeps in. “Again! She will either nag or ask me to buy her something!” Unknowingly, we have prioritized our relationships. But we will never admit it, even to ourselves. While we try to guide others out of their trouble, what we do not realize is that we need some advice ourselves. When in the presence of friends, we crack jokes and share a hearty laugh. Evenings are merry. However, the moment we are alone in the company of each other, we fumble for words. When one returns from the office, tired and exhausted after a day’s work, we forget to smile. Instead, we are grumpy and ill-tempered with the other. When a friend comes to visit, we take extra pains to drive him around the city, excited and chirpy, pointing out places and describing historical significances. But on weekends when we are alone, we never bother to go out. Suddenly, driving seems tedious and all places seem ‘seen a million times’. Dining out is fun when in the company of others. With the spouse, eating a meal at home or in an expensive restaurant feels the same. Dull and colorless. We text and chat with our special ones all through the day and night. We know everything going on in their lives. But we never pause to look aside at the sleeping spouse, to ask him how he spent the day. To others, we make promises to meet again. But with each other, we never even hold hands every day.

As we grow distant from each other, we become better friends and ‘Man Fridays’ to others. We lose our companionship but nurture our friendships. We do not want to let the other go. Our heart aches to see the relation slowly turning dead. Brick by brick, we laid its foundation. Brick by brick we are dismantling it, with our own very hands. But we cannot compromise on our friendships either. They are important to us. After all, our friends are a part of our personal space. Letting ourselves change, our ideologies change, because of an individual suddenly seems so wrong. It is an encroachment of personal rights. A violation of our basic needs.

We can compromise and change our ways. We can shed tears, have useless confrontations, and choose to let things be the way they are, while we put up a happy facade to the world . Or we begin to drift apart. Somewhat by choice, somewhat unknowingly. Whether we let the other reach the horizon or whether we enter the forbidden blue and pull him back is what defines ‘Us’. Our ‘bond’. Our ‘companionship’. Whether we were meant to be together. Whether our match was really made in heaven!

Bon Apetit

Cooking is therapeutic, they said. Well, a lazy Sunday afternoon I decided to give it a try. And I realized, they are right. It actually does de-stress you. It did not cure my stomach ulcers, or smoothen those wrinkles around my eyes, but it gave me an immense sense of satisfaction. A joy of creation.

As I deftly stir-fried those baby potatoes, and measured the ‘exact amount of pink hue’ my chopped onions should take, I lost myself to this surreal world of food fantasy. Every coat of masala on the boneless chicken pieces took me a step farther from my mundane worries. The water in the pot bubbled. As I soaked in the air laden with the aroma of freshly ground spices, I was no longer the attorney dealing with tough clients and suspicious employees. I was beholding the artist in me, alive, anxious, to give shape to my imagination.  

After I was through with the cooking, came the most refreshing part. Garnishing. I fanatically looked around in my kitchen cabinets, trying to locate that white bowl with two red cherries painted on it- the only piece on earth which would perfectly hold that exquisite recipe of mine, still brimming hot on the oven. And, as I pour out my delicacy, I can hardly control my excitement. Chopped cilantro or fresh mint? A single leaf at the corner of the bowl or a bunch at the center? A vast canvas, a riot of colors. An imagination running wild.  My masterpiece. Me, the master.  In full glory.

Food was served. One final look at the dinner table gave me a high probably no opium can match. “Ah, lovely!”, came my muttered breath. Others joined me at the table. A sudden pang of over-confidence. “This should be a fine dish”, I told myself, “I have cooked it to precision.” An equally sudden pang of anxiety. “Did I add too much salt to it”, I wondered.

As they delved into that luscious pot of chicken curry, or dipped their rotis into the still-so-hot Dal-Fry, I was almost biting my fingers anticipating their comments. In return, I saw sheer pleasure. Their taste buds tingled, senses all aroused, they were too busy licking their fingers to even notice me! Relief. Followed by jubilation. Yes, I achieved all that I had hoped for that afternoon. Maybe more. What can be more de-stressing than this feeling of achievement? Spas? Oil massage? Maybe. When I have the time and energy, I will try it out. Right now, I am  judgmental in my opinion. Cooking heals.

The Eternal Cycle

Daughter starts her school today. I drop her off at the gate, the proud mother basking in the glory of her kid’s progress. My toddler is now a school-goer. Surprisingly, I feel this lump at my throat. My eyelids burn. I sense a sudden heaviness, a dull ache gnawing at my heart. As my child grows the first feather in her wings, I realise the inevitable truth- she will fly away one day! She will soar new heights, see a new world. Me, the Mother Bird, will teach her how to fly. To fly away from me. In search of a sky brighter than mine. To build a nest prettier than mine. In a greener patch of earth.

I am tensed. Will she do well? Will she listen to her new teacher? I fret over her tiffin. What to pack for lunch? Then, suddenly I am struck by the uniformity, the evenness in the pattern of it all. Mother spent her whole life tending to me, poring over my school books, inventing meals so that I do not repeat my tiffin, trying to give me a good upbringing, teaching me the worldly morals, the wrongs and the rights, encouraging me to excel in whatever  do. I grew up and she grew old. I learned how to walk. I got my ABCs right. I found a place for myself under this sun. I left her behind, to tend to an empty home, to talk relentlessly about me and my exaggerated achievements to every kith, kin and stranger who comes in her vicinity. I call her up every day, and she patiently  listens to me ranting off about how S  got her first molars, how she bruised her knee while jumping, how frustrated I am with her not finishing her meals. She tells me small incidents from my own childhood, how I reacted to particular situations, how S eats her pudding exactly in the same manner that I did. But never ever does she tell me about this great universal cycle- the Kal Chakra which runs it all. She leaves it up to me to realise when time comes.

Some thirty odd years down the line, when S has her own babies, when I have replaced my anti-wrinkle creams with Boroline, my bedside table is lined with pills and tonics, and S calls me up from a faraway land to tell me about my grandchild, I will tell her about you, Mother. The ecstasy of creating a life, the joy of motherhood, the pride in shaping up the child’s future, and the bitter-sweet agony of letting  go it all. Sweet because I have succeeded. My child has a sparkling new world. Bitter because my own world is rusty now, crumpling at the slightest touch. I have finished and she has just begun. A strong feeling wells up inside me. Pure, unfathomable. Satisfaction? Resignation? Or simply an enlightenment about the inevitable?