Allsorts…

Was the original choice of name for my blog, because I had that perennial stocking toe stuffer in mind: the liquorice sweets we enjoyed as children – crunchy, multicolored thingummies which used to release a burst of invigorating flavour as one chewed happily on candy brought by a thoughtful Santa. The name, apparently, was already taken and so I settled for the present moniker. But the itch for my original title remains and so it heads my thoughts for the day and, given the randomness of this post, rather appropriately.

Here, in India, it’s already the 31^st, the last day of the year. A time to give thanks for the year gone by: we have experienced joy in the ‘ups’ and have, hopefully, been refined by the ‘downs’. Looking back on the bad times from today is like looking down the wrong end of a telescope: bad times are neither small nor insignificant but, because we have weathered them and because they are now in the past, we can view them with relief and let them go. The good times, on the other hand, stand out, magnified, bringing back the rush of elation of the original moment.

I didn’t win a lottery and my highs may seem insignificant to some, but as in the words of the song, ‘Little things mean a lot’.

For example, the lady who takes collection greets every member of the congregation with a wide smile and an unspoken ‘thank-you’. Such a small thing, but the corresponding smile is still on my face several hours later. Since collection is taken only on Sundays, this is a weekly gift. 52 uplifting smiles!

Then there is the local rag-picker. A not so elderly, solidly built woman, she settles down at the edge of the pavement to catch her breath after the exertion of rummaging through the garbage dump. She immediately attracts the local dogs and she lovingly strokes and murmurs to each one. They nudge and nuzzle her. The conversation may be a 'silent' one, but the shared affection is very apparent. We exchange smiles, hers contented, mine happy. A vignette to remember.

As I type this, I listen to the songs of Christmas in MP3 format compiled by a thoughtful niece. The music ranges from the nostalgic Jim Reeves to the foot tapping Country and Western to the traditional and classic rendered by various Church choirs. A little gesture but such a joy-filled gift. There is nothing like music to give you that special lift!

Then I remember friends who have been so supportive and encouraging. They range from those who have leant a listening ear, to those who have actively extended a helping hand, to those that have kept me occupied and out of the devil’s workshop. It feels good that I do not have to look very far for a good deed to be done or to earn my blessings!!

An item in today’s paper says that thinking young, doing young things, keeps you young. For the better part of the year, my students let me into their very happening lives and, for a while, I felt like sixty going on twenty: hopefully, the after effect will linger. A well developed sense of the ridiculous and also the inclination to mischief (of the nice kind) add spice to the everyday, the routine. The church cat and dog were mewing and woofing in unison, reminding anyone who was prepared to listen that supper was late. I added my bit with that old party favorite ‘How dry we are’ which almost certainly got the parlour boy’s attention. I will probably go down in local folklore as one of the parish eccentrics. Oh well, ‘fame’ at any price is still fame – don’t knock it!!

The time and the ability to read and a bountiful supply of books are also blessings for which I give thanks. The bonus? The library sent me two gift vouchers for a meal at McDonalds. One never knows where a book will take you, literally or figuratively!!

Little things, inconsequential things. But, added up, they are like the loaves and fishes multiplied.

To paraphrase the song that put my thoughts in motion:

Throw me a smile from across the room,
Say I look nice when I’m not;
Stop to chat when you cross my path
Little things mean a lot.

Give me your hand when I’ve lost the way,
Give me your shoulder to cry on;
Whether the day is sunny or gray,
Give me a heart to rely on.

Send me a mail, forwards will do

It’s not the deed, it’s the thought:
For now and forever, that's always and ever
Little things do mean a lot.

MAY YOU BE AS BLESSED IN 2011.
AND MAY ALL THE LOVELY LITTLE THINGS THAT HAPPEN TO YOU ADD UP TO ONE BIG FAT HAPPY MEMORY!!

A very precious gift

She is locked into an immobile world, unable to move or speak. But her mind is active, her eyes expressive. She understands all that is said and she feels, deeply, both joy and sorrow. Gently nursed and lovingly cared for, she can look forward to each day and even more to the evening.

At sundown, her neighbour comes across to spend an hour with her, to read the day’s news, pray the rosary and share the happenings of her own day. Having lived side by side for over forty years they have supported each other’s families through birth, marriages, illness and death. Life’s milestones. They each know the other as they would themselves. And the affection is mutual.

Sometimes, they are joined by a third and a fourth and then the conversation turns lively – a conversation kept as inclusive as possible so that she can participate as the listener. Sometimes mirth overflows and she can laugh with them too. Being included, being loved can do more than the best medicine; they may not cure but they make life worth the living.

Here is a home, here is one who is visited, here are wise friends who bring themselves and their very special gift: the gift of time. In today’s terms, priceless. Gold, frankincense and myrrh rolled into one.

Given the time of year, it is but natural that the Magi come to mind. As does O Henry’s story that has survived generations and still mists up the eyes; a story that reminds us that there is a special ‘wisdom’ in the simple act of giving with love. For, “… all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.”

And, she also gives who sits, listens, smiles and silently gives thanks in her heart.

And the sharing of this experience is also a gift: my gift to you. May it lift your spirit and gladden your heart. And may you, too, experience the joy of giving and receiving in the year ahead.

Star-blessed lovers

He has declared that he will take her as his wife. She has handed over her heart to him, with alacrity. But like every Romeo and Juliet before them, there are problems.

He is the youngest of four siblings and it is the custom for the daughter of the house to marry first and then the male line in sequence from eldest to youngest. He must not break the pattern. What would the extended family say? Once one breaks the ‘rules’ others will want to follow. One cannot dispense with tradition so lightly.

Then, there is the fact that he hails from the North and she from the West. The language of love requires no translation but the kith and kin can find no common ground in caste, community or tongue. And so, the respective families find spokes to put in the wheels already set in motion.

The young couple is exasperated. The lad says he will marry without consent – he is of age and financially independent. The lass says that she will ‘take poison’ if forced to consider any other suitor. I wonder if Shakespeare has been translated into Marathi and Haryanvi and whether any of our protagonists has read the script.

There is much protesting, pleading, threatening and finally conceding. The parents agree that they love their children and it is their happiness which should come first (Capulet and Montague take note). The wedding will take place on the weekend. There is no flurry of preparation. No invitations to be sent out. The dearly beloved present will comprise the parents from each side and the bride and groom. If there is to be a celebration, it will come later. Much later. Perhaps when the couple welcome their first child.

He is 24. She is 22. They will wed with the stardust still in their eyes.

Will they remain in love forever like those immortalized in fable?

Neither Friar nor Nurse but mere spectator, I am keeping my fingers crossed and wishing with all my might that they will. And may no one to the marriage of true hearts (and true minds) admit impediment!

A little man with a large heart

The world knows of Mother Teresa, but it is Fr. Fred Sopena who touched my life and I wouldn’t trade all the saints in heaven for that!

He is a dapper little man and has an artificial leg which no one knows about unless they know him. The first time I met him I was reminded of a schoolboy who has just played a prank on his teacher and is waiting to be found out – a delightful mix of mischievousness and lively anticipation. And he must have been all of 75 at the time. The artificial leg is mentioned because despite the trauma of losing a leg in an accident – a lorry knocked him off his bike on the highway – he just picked himself up and got on with doing what he does best – helping those in need. No obstacle too big.

We met because of a letter he wrote in our diocesan weekly, The Examiner. The letter asked for contribution of talent in terms of needlework, woodwork, electrical skills and so on. There was no appeal for any kind of financial donation. This was unusual. I was intrigued. I contacted the numbers given and offered my skills as a crocheter. I was visited, my work duly inspected and my offer accepted. Contributions were sold at Christmas and the resultant funds were used to lay the foundations of Fr. Fred Sopena’s latest project at that time.

A Spanish Jesuit, Fr. Fred’s heart is firmly and totally committed to India and the downtrodden, particularly children. Which is why he realised a dream when he set up a centre in Mahad for the children of Katkari tribals – landless, migrant labourers who have nothing except their skills and who depend on local farmers for their livelihood. The children of these tribals accompany their parents from place to place, which means that they can never attend school. An extra pair of hands to the plough, they would normally face as bleak a future as their parents. But then Fr. Fred crossed their path and life would never be the same. Like the star above the stable, enthusiasm shines from his visage and is so infectious that before you know it, you are caught up in his mission to do what you can – and more – for the least of the Lord’s brethren.

The band of followers has grown with missionary zeal from that one little seed planted in unlikely ground, so many years ago. There are those who know him better and not just from one chance encounter. They will no doubt be able to do a better job of eulogizing the person and his work which encompasses much more than the one project mentioned here.

I write about him because he is the living example of the Gospel message of the power of love and what better time to do so than the season of Christmas – the time when we are reminded of what it is to love and to give.

By lanes

Khotachiwadi, not just a place but a way of life, is in the news and for all the wrong reasons. Besieged by a futuristic world that views destruction of the old as progress and preservation a white elephant, the residents are standing shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to stem the encroaching marauder.

Khotachiwadi is firmly embedded in the fabric of my memories. While courting, I visited my husband and his family there; then, as a new bride, their home was my dwelling place for a year. And like homing pigeons, we returned for birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, christenings, First Communions, funerals, feast days, Christmas and for no reason at all other than a tug at the heartstrings.

A visit to Khotachiwadi with its cluster of interlinked winding lanes dotted with balconied, tiled homes, is an adventure. Once you step inside, you are in a different world, a different time and a different mood. As you wend your way through from entrance to destination, friendly faces smile, friendly hands wave and friendly voices call out a greeting and a query. Everyone knows everyone and for generations. People are known for their occupations and their talents from the doctor to the Bebique aunty (sadly no more – her Bebiques were legendary and the memory of the taste, though faint, still lingers). And directions always included a left/right from the kolsawalla, or the chip-shop, or Anand Ashram or someone’s house.

It is also a self-contained place, better than the best developed modern township – hospitals, schools, places of worship and shops are all within walking distance. No vehicle required. But if you should need to travel further afield, the location is well networked by bus and rail. Even better than the network of facilities, is the network of people. You may be alone but never lonely.

Big houses meant large families and warm hearts. I remember once telling a friend who questioned my lack of a ‘social life’ that I had no need to visit restaurants or jaunt around the town, the family birthdays and anniversaries kept me entertained and well fed!

But times change. And in the cause of ‘development’ there are those who scorn preservation for the few when viewed against the ‘needs’ of the many (though I think they really mean ‘money’!). A bungalow inhabited by one family could reinterpret itself as a high-rise for sixteen or even more. It would also mean a very healthy profit for the developer and all those who ‘assist’ in the development.

Divided between nostalgia and practicality, I know deep down that change is inevitable. But I do not want to dwell in memory in the here and now. I want to be able to see, hear and feel. I want to know that I can still find a living, breathing place which answers a favourite prayer: ‘Slow me down, Lord, still the frantic beating of my heart…’ A place which embodies the adjectives, homely, gracious, affable, vibrant, charming, heart-warming.

A place where time stands still long enough for batteries to be recharged. A little bit of soul in the middle of a hurried and harried city.

Wipe your feet!

Our homes, and most homes I have visited, always boasted a doormat. Fat rectangles or ovals of tufted coir, they sat firmly outside the front door bearing the word ‘Welcome’ stamped on them. They greeted the visitor and kept the outside dirt to a minimum, especially in the monsoons. Dogs and cats loved them, as did their fleas.

One would hardly think that something as mundane as a doormat would provide memories, but they do!

One Christmas season, while shopping at Cheap Jack’s (guaranteed to empty your purse!) I espied a pile of coir neatly cropped into that familiar rectangular. The topmost one was imprinted with a humongous paw print and the legend ‘Pawse and wipe!’ which caused me to squeal, ‘How cute!’ This was added to the already loaded bill. Browsing through the pile we found some more which would eventually find their way to stockings supposedly filled by Santa.

One bearing the legend, ‘Is this the time to come home?’ was ‘left’ at a sister-in-law’s front door (three teenage children prompted the purchase!). Another, ‘Beware of the wife’ was gifted to a neighbour. Funnily, the wife saw the humour while the husband was affronted. Our front door was graced by ‘All our visitors bring us pleasure, some by coming and some by going’. Our neighbours used to switch mats when we were out and we switched them back when we returned – a juvenile pastime, but a fun way to stay young. ‘Beware of the dog!’ did not apply – ours were too friendly.

Sadly, though coir lasts and lasts, the depredations suffered over time (lots of dirty shoes, the building sweeper and the dogs) required the mats to be replaced. This means that we are always on the lookout for something interesting and colourful.

Once, we opted for ever-lasting plastic ‘imitation’ grass. Fully washable. Around that time our neighbour’s son was a toddler who loved to play in the corridor. Reluctant to break play to visit the loo, he would water the mat. He could pee without leaving that telltale puddle. What he didn’t realise was that pee leaves a telltale pong! The mat was jettisoned without further ado.

Now, our doormat sits inside the front door (thanks to the building cat and its resident fauna) more ornamental than useful. Rubber backed, the carpet-like fabric bears a colourful design but no legend.

Come Christmas week it will be washed and put away to be replaced by one which says, ‘Merry Christmas’ – also acquired from (Not so) Cheap Jack’s and lovingly preserved over the years.

And, yes, this one definitely resides inside the front door with the injunction ‘please do not wipe your feet’!

Tying up the tongue!

In the time before Sunmica, Formica, melamine and modern laminates furniture was polished and the finish maintained with loving elbow grease, guaranteeing a patina that time could not dim. Further protection was offered by double tablecloths, trivets and of course, the ubiquitous coaster which ensured that the tell-tale circle of a wet glass did not mar(k) that which was lovingly maintained.

Beer companies (whose product was responsible to a large extent for those wet glasses) pushed their products just that little bit further by offering ‘branded’ coasters which soon turned into collectibles. Some relics survive to this day. One such coaster coached the user in the art of saying ‘Cheers’ in a variety of languages and my father was tickled pink when he found his little daughter twisting her tongue to impress the guests. The ‘trick’ soon graduated to saying ‘Good Morning’, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in as many languages as possible.

Knowing so little is a dangerous thing as I was to discover in later years.

My office colleagues decided to teach me Marathi through conversation. The first phrase was, ‘Mala mythinay’ (spelt phonetically) or ‘I don’t know’. After a little practice to get the pronunciation and intonation just right, I was advised to use my knowledge whenever applicable, in order to fix the words in my mind. On my route homeward, that day, I was accosted by a family who enquired, in Marathi, where they could find Majestic Cinema. I happily responded, ‘Mala mythinay!”. When they asked the next passer-by he indicated with his thumb that we were standing right in front of their desired destination! Did I feel like a moron?!!

But I didn’t learn my lesson.

Some years later I visited Rome and soon found out that telephone calls were answered with, ‘Pronto!’ Following that oft reiterated advice - ‘when in Rome…’ - I cheerily answered the call to my hostel room with a hearty ‘Pronto’ only to be presented with a flood of fast and furious Italian. Admitting defeat, I explained that I had not understood ending with, ‘English, please.’ Dead silence. It turned out that the receptionist knew only Italian while I understood only English. Luckily for me she had called because I had a visitor who was able to sort out the problem since she was articulate in both languages. After that experience, I employed mime and gesture with much better success. The Italians are very fluent with their hands too!

Now, I stick to the language I know best and keep ‘where is the loo?’ (in the appropriate local lingo) up my sleeve for emergencies. Tying up the tongue does not make for comfortable memories.

Just herself

The memory of our first meeting is as alive now as when it happened. She was a vision of orange frizzed hair, iridescent green eye-shadow and equally luminous nails. Always shy at first encounters, I was dumbstruck and before I could help myself, I blurted out, ‘I need a haircut, but I have very conservative tastes!’ She smiled, invited me in and sat me down in front of the mirror. After combing and wetting my hair she set to with grips and clips before she commenced cutting. All the while, she chatted to me and I responded distractedly. I was too busy praying about the outcome.

When hubby and I relocated to Thane, there was no hairdressing salon worth the mention. And as I mourned the distance between Thane and Bandra where my earlier hair dresser resided, one of my husband’s numerous relatives suggested that I go see Lolly – reputed to be good at her profession and reasonable in her price. The address was just a building away. So convenient. And so I went. That visit resulted in one of the best hair-dos I have ever sported and also in an enduring friendship. Lolly was always nothing but herself. Glad to be who she was, never judgmental, never angry at the predicaments that life threw at her, she was a free spirit particularly when it came to make up and dress. In a crowd, she was one of a kind. And she was true to her reputation – her skill with comb and scissors was supreme.

Both Lolly and I have long since quitted Thane and are no longer in touch. But if there is one thing that she taught me it is that it is sometimes correct to judge a book by its cover; to know the pleasure of an encounter with the original, zany, spontaneous, sometimes outrageous - a bright and shiny new spot among the fusty titles on a musty library shelf!

Homespun Philosophy

Our ward boy has reached his manly proportions without the benefit of mutton. Since he is a staunch vegetarian, I thought it would be politic to apprise him of the arrival of the goats and their imminent assassination.

He favoured me with a toothy grin and said, ‘What to do? It is a feast day and that is their fate. Hopefully their death will earn them something better in their next life.’

That halted me in my tracks. It made me realise that it is probably homespun philosophy such as this that has allowed some Hindus and Muslims to live side by side in harmony, in this very diverse country of ours.

What an idea!

Prelude to mutton

The goats have arrived – eight gorgeous, handsome, shaggy haired specimens. And they are busy exploring their new terrain. There are a few things you need to know about goats: they are incredibly inquisitive and will eat anything – God’s natural waste disposal. What goes in one end comes out as pelletized manure at the other! They may appear inscrutable - even icily aloof - but once you get to know them you can only appreciate the truly adorable creatures that they are. Yes, I love goats!

If you have ever held a kid (I refer to a baby of the goat kind) you will be surprised at how incredibly soft, warm and cuddly it is – just like hugging an overstuffed cushion! To paraphrase Charlie Schultz – happiness is a warm kid (yes, baby goat again). Unfortunately, one cannot keep a goat as a pet. For two reasons. One is that they grow rather large. The other is that, as mentioned before, they will eat anything. An untethered goat will clear ground faster than you can say, ‘MMmmaaaaa’!! Once, I did toy with the idea and spoke about it to my mali (gardener). He was appalled. Apparently folklore has it that if a goat looks at a sapling, it will positively refuse to grow. It was either the garden or the goat.

So, I contented myself by visiting goat breeders in the vicinity and making friends with their flock. Unfortunately, I often forgot their ‘will eat anything’ propensity and invariably came away missing the hem of my sari or skirt.

Watching the goats, today, brought back the memories. Goats nibbling pensively on leaves, on paper, on wires, on clothes left out to dry, on the juice man’s sugar cane, and even the herdsman’s lungi (he realised just in time!). The air is redolent with bleats, cuss words and the distinctive warm aroma of goat.

In earlier times, my husband’s family resided in their own two storied home which boasted a sizeable compound. The parents of a prospective bride to the family gifted them a pair of goats. According to hubby, the ram was the best ‘watchman’ they ever had. Every unknown person would be head-butted with ferocity and with all the kilos at its disposal. A daunting encounter. But they lived in the heart of the city and had to return the goat to its giver. It was a well-bred sire and hopefully spent a relatively pampered life.

Other goats are not so lucky. Most people know their goats as mutton. Which is why I will not make the acquaintance of the eight next door. Tomorrow, they will be the pièce de résistance on their owner’s dining table.

The Christmas Novena

When I tied the knot, I was introduced not only to a very large, friendly and well knit family, but also to the Christmas Novena. Come the First Sunday in Advent every year, my husband gets a certain gleam in his eye because the Novena begins on this day, and the anticipation for Christmas takes on a very special feeling.

This prayer, according to hubby, has been said in the family ever since he was a child, and one can just imagine the nine children – teens to toddlers – clustered around their parents on a winter’s night, household chores accomplished and dinner yet to come, all reciting this little prayer which transports one to ‘Bethlehem at midnight in the piercing cold’. Recited 15 times, at a stretch, each day from the First Sunday of Advent to Christmas Eve, it brings one closer to the reality of the birth of the Holy Babe. There is an empathy with the young Mother, who was little more than a child herself, and also with the manger scene as it happened 2000 years ago!

My family by marriage has now entered its fourth generation since I joined it, and children and grandchildren have moved to different parts of the world. The Christmas Novena is a family tradition that they have carried with them – a tradition which they will pass on to future generations and new found friends. Every year, at this time, it thrills us to know that all of us, wherever we find ourselves, will be united in this special bond in our collective countdown to Christmas.

It is surprising that not many people are aware of the beauty and effect of this little prayer and it always gives me a huge lift when I get to share it. Here are the words, so that you too may experience the extraordinary anticipation leading up to Christmas:

Hail and blessed be the hour and moment in which the son of God was born of the most pure Virgin Mary at midnight in Bethlehem in the piercing cold. In that hour, vouchsafe O my God to hear my prayer and grant my desires through the merits of our savior, Jesus Christ, and of his Blessed Mother. Amen.

(The First Sunday of Advent falls on November 28, this year)

Of a Crib, a Collie and cherished companions

As mentioned in other blogs, my husband loved to walk his collie. He also loved all things Christmas.

Mornings in December meant that he could visit the outdoor crib at the local convent school. He would pause in his perambulations to spend a moment with the Infant Jesus and fall in love with the Nativity Scene all over again. The collie would stand on her hind legs, place her front paws gently at the edge of the table and nudge Baby Jesus’ feet with her nose. That done, she would sit patiently till my husband moved on.

Mother Superior, possibly wary of itinerant trespassers and in the interest of her property, was not amused. This moved me to remind her that the original manger was ‘peopled’ by livestock and that legend has it that all animals kneel at midnight on Christmas Eve!

It puzzles me that those who are supposedly close to God do not see, feel or experience the whimsical side of our Maker’s personality. Nature demonstrates the glory of creation but it also throws up many and delightful comical aspects, as those who know so will readily testify.

A priest I had the privilege to know shared this sense of whimsy. He wrote a droll ‘post-card to a duck’ for my scrap-book. It goes:

Madam,

There is one blot on your fair name and one only! You have filled the cricket field with a word of dread. Why your egg, more than any other, should have been chosen to signify by its shape the most ignominious numeral in the multiplication table, I fail to comprehend.

A duck’s egg is no more round than the egg of a pigeon or of a hen – and indeed, it is far less round than that of a goose or of a turkey. Yet it was upon you that the wise humorist fastened; it was you who were set apart to humiliate those who failed to score.

For the rest, you are the friend of man. In life you waddle around with the most charming insouciance, and when the fatal moment arrives, your gift of blending melodiously with sage and onions is beyond compare.

Peas be with you!

Stern and seemingly unapproachable, Msgr. E had an unsuspected ‘soft’ side. And though I must remember him for his sterling advice and guidance, it is the ‘postcard’ which recalls him most gladly to mind.

A President Visits

"Pussy cat, pussy cat where have you been?"

"I’ve been to London to see the Queen!"

When Clinton came to Mumbai, he walked among the people, smiled and waved. He even visited a local hostelry. And even though he came with a tarnished image, everyone wanted a glimpse of this goriya phirang and his very pretty daughter and, what is more, they got it.

Hubby had taken Bonnie, our collie, for a walk and it so happened that Clinton was on the opposite side of the road. Hubby was thrilled. When he returned, he remarked, “Bonnie saw Clinton!” She got to woof at him too. Such was the time, such was the tenor.

This weekend, another American President visits. Sanitisation, unprecedented security and a whole lot of dos and don’ts. A cohort of 500, two truckloads of weapons and a 900 tonne armoured automobile. All this for just a few minutes at select venues over two days. The city is in a tizzy! This morning, I noticed that the manhole covers had all been taped over. Every monsoon, these manholes invariably lack covers and the swirling waters suck people into their murky depths. In all my sixty years I have never seen a taped manhole cover in Mumbai. We are, it seems, expendable.

The roads have been swept clean, the kerbs painted and the pavements barricaded. The hawkers have been spirited away and people are discouraged from the casual stroll or shop-front sightseeing – a very Colaba occupation. The visiting President will see a ghost town and not this bustling, busy, noisy, smelly, larger than life, in your face, sometimes hostile but mostly welcoming city of mine. Pity.

Once a cat could look at a Queen and a collie could woof at a President. But this is a different time, this is a different tenor. And we must be neither seen nor heard.

Encounters at the ATM (of the very terrestrial kind!)

I sauntered up to the local ATM and noted that the cabin was occupied but there was no queue. Good. I would be first in line. Before I could even register what was happening, I was shoved aside, gustily, by two men who could only be our MLAs – the clothes and the body language proclaimed them to be so. While one stood outside the door, the other barged into the cabin while the previous customer was still inside and demanded to be shown how the ATM should be used! The customer in question was obviously a gentleman; he courteously imparted instructions, counted his cash, collected his receipt and exited.

In the meantime, a queue had built up behind me and was getting restive. The newly instructed ‘client’ was fiddling around with the buttons and showing no inclination to complete his transaction. His companion requested the watchman to assist. The watchman obliged. The two finally walked away with their cash, but not after a few pointed and pungent remarks from ‘members of the public’!

My turn next. Business done, I walked out and past the queue, and headed back towards home. Suddenly, my attention was caught by the woman joining the line: beautifully attired in crimson blazer, black skirt and matching crimson stilettos, her attire was the perfect foil to her flawless ebony skin. Gazing in admiration (I’m a sucker for couture, not necessarily haute) I almost missed the child behind her. The tot could not have been a day older than three; wearing the neatest black and white checked dress, she trotted stoically behind the woman. Judging from their resemblance to each other, they must have been mother and child, but the woman did not glance behind; it was as if she knew that the child would follow. Obedience instilled. The little one even managed the steps to the ATM on her own, unafraid and doggedly determined. An Indian child of that age would have been hand-held if not carried by the mother, a relative or a maid. We take good care of our Bunties and Babloos, judging by the plump customers filling up on burgers and milkshake at the local MacD’s.

I am reminded of the topic I posed my Journalism students – ‘Does childhood exist today?’ Most of them mourned the ‘death’ of childhood, listing the various ills and woes that beset the child of our time. One savvy student begged to disagree: she argued that as long as there were children, there would be childhood though each generation would necessarily have to ‘break the mould’ as the world moves forward. Children, as only children can, would still possess ‘unbridled curiosity and potential for mischief’!!

One sighting of a self-possessed little child and I cannot dismiss the image from my mind. I wish I had seen her look around, laugh and chatter.

That Little Bit Extra

When I picked up my weekend treat – a brick of caramel ice-cream – from the vendor, I noticed that it was much larger than usual. Sure enough, a band across the width proclaimed 20% extra. Triple scoops instead of double – somebody up there must surely love me!

And the extras did not stop there: my toothpaste tube announced 20% more on its extended length, the carton of teabags stated emphatically that two additional bags had been included, the jar of Horlicks confirmed that 50 grams extra could be found inside, and the packet of cornflakes declared that I would find extra goodness along with, of course, 10% more of those nutritious, tasty, crispy, flakes. Every item had a little extra added on without the asking – joy indeed.

October has signed off and November has signed in and the preparations for Christmas will gather pace: cards to be bought, sweets to be made or ordered, cupboards to be turned out and not just of the home but also the heart – time to review the year’s clutter and to make some extra space for those that need it. This is the season which calls for extras: a little extra love tucked in to all that we do, a little extra time and attention to those that need it and to ourselves, a little extra in the envelopes for worthy causes. And so on.

Now, if only I could find that the 24-hour day has been granted a few hours more: with my to-do list also sporting several ‘extras’, a bonus hour or two would be the most welcome extra ever.

But, in the meantime and until that happens, I shall hie me off to tackle the tasks that await. A little extra exercise won’t come amiss and will help to accommodate the surplus ice-cream!

Love, the leitmotif

Two months, give or take a couple of days, to Christmas! How I love the season for all that it means.

Birthdays commemorate the day and celebrate the person as the infant grows into the child and the child grows into the teen and then the adult. We do not return, on the birthday, to the celebration of the newborn infant except at Christmas. Christmas is unique.

Across the globe, people of all ages, all nationalities, all cultures and all creeds are aware of this one day as no other. And it is not just because of the trappings - the tinsel, the tree, the gifts, the music, Santa Claus or even the spirit of giving - which permeate our lives; it is the gift of love embodied in the infant that was born in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago.

And this love is recalled to us so well in that evocative poem by Christina Rossetti:

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

And the love of Christmas shall be the leitmotif in the days to come.

A spider’s web

Living as we do, cheek by jowl with the main road, it is inevitable that our window sills are evenly and thickly coated with dust. With the usual sigh of resignation, I picked up my duster and wet rag and walked over to do the needful.

That’s when I spotted the brand new web. Woven between sill and window frame and tucked into a corner, it was revealed in all its fragile beauty by the reflection of the sunlight on its silken surface. It was the smallest and most delicate web I had ever seen. I paused and examined the pattern of the lace and the fineness of the thread – an avid crocheter, I am always ready to admire another lace-maker’s handiwork, even if the other has eight arms to my very human two! The web was so beautiful that I decided to let it be for a while and see what else spidey would do.

Throughout the day I stopped to check, but no spider! Perhaps it was a first attempt by a brand new home-maker, maybe it was not such a desirable residence after all, or maybe the location was not quite right. Or perhaps the predator became the prey – the resident lizard’s meal.

In the interest of tidiness and cleanliness, I finally swept up the cobweb and consigned it to the dustbin. And while I did so, I remembered other webs almost certainly woven by older and more experienced spiders. Those were inevitably lodged in the corners of ceilings and were thick and heavy. It also amused me to discover the dog’s fur firmly and neatly woven into the design – a fur-lined residence. Spider’s can be inventive too!

The Bonus Season

Come Deepawali (I do prefer the North Indian pronunciation) and it’s not just deepas (oil lamps) and mithai (Indian sweets) that come to mind. In the working world, the season is synonymous with the much looked forward to bonus. This was the time that we indulged in counting chickens even before the eggs were laid and all of us went on wild and wonderful mental shopping sprees well before bonus was declared.

The nine to five routine is long since behind me, but there are bonuses that still come my way, albeit of other kinds.

On a visit to our Catholic bookshop to pick up Mass Cards, I browsed among the greetings and religious objects – statues, medals, rosaries, holy pictures laid out in colourful profusion on the display counter. And then I espied this little brooch which proclaimed ‘I love Jesus’. Simple but attractive, it instantly transported me back to my Sunday School days.

Way before I encountered the Salesians and their largesse, I was fortunate to come into contact with the Canossians. Sunday school with these nuns meant that we were the very pleased recipients of attractively wrought brooches and pendants, all with a religious theme and bearing the stamp ‘made in Italy’. Little girls love jewellery and we sported our adornments on every possible occasion. The nuns were canny mortals – they knew that even if we were tempted into doing something naughty we would be brought up short and receive a timely reminder by that shiny little ‘jewel’. One could hardly commit a ‘sin’ while prominently sporting a picture of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin, a Saint or even a tiny cross!! We had to be kept virtuous for which a little bit of ‘bribery’ did not come amiss, and how we coveted those little trinkets.

Yes, I did pick up the ‘I love Jesus’ brooch in remembrance of happy times and the pleasure engendered by even the tiniest of bonuses. It is also a helpful nudge, reminding me of who I am and who I am committed to. Not all love is reciprocal, but Jesus is different – he loves me too and there is nothing quite like being accessorised with love!

Bonuses sometimes multiply: Andrea Bocelli’s gorgeous tenor is keeping me company while I write this piece. The recording is in the original Italian. Coincidence?

Delivered at the doorstep

The latest offering from Bandra Bugger (the blog!) reminded me of Indira. Indira was our fisherwoman. Sturdy of build and stentorian of voice, she brought the freshest fish at the highest prices direct to our doorstep.

My neighbour was an avid fish-eater and an excellent bargainer to boot. So, Indira would ring my doorbell (hoping to entice me with the first pick), I would ring the neighbour’s doorbell (in order to ensure a good bargain) and we would get down to business.

On one such occasion, I indulged in a medium sized Rawas (Indian Salmon) which I purchased intact – an intended treat for my husband. I placed the fish on the kitchen platform and went to fetch the required amount from my purse. I paid Indira, she kissed the notes (it was her boni or first customer’s blessing) and wished me good appetite; I shut the front door and returned to the kitchen, to clean the fish and consign it to the pot for lunch. I was stunned to find no fish. I am not absentminded and there was no doubt that I had placed the fish on the platform. Nevertheless, I checked the floor, the sink, and the stove-top. The Rawas was nowhere to be found.

It was then that I realised that our usually vocal collie, was unusually silent. Sure enough, she had hidden herself under our bed and was licking her lips over the last morsel. The raw salmon, scales and all, was now in her well sated belly – she had gulped down in a matter of minutes what would have been a substantial meal for two human adults! It was a rather expensive treat for the dog, but I was more anxious about the effect of the scales and fish bones on her health to be angry with her. Well, she never suffered any after effects; on the contrary, she was full of bounce and bonhomie. We, of course, had to make do with the previous day’s leftovers and were, consequently, not in the same good mood.

That Rawas must really have been first-rate, because Indira’s subsequent visits were always greeted with much tail wagging and body shaking, while I would get a sharp nip as a reminder to get on with it and buy the fish!

Happiness is a wide balcony

This morning brought with it a heavy shower of unseasonal rain. Eager to catch the refreshing spray, I stuck my nose out as far as it would go but I was brought up short by the restraining grille. How I wished I was back on the balcony of my old home.

A balcony is like a smile: a structure with balconies has a jovial personality, or so I would like to believe. So unlike the secretive, snooty, aloof, smooth faced façades of buildings without.

As a passer-by, you gaze upwards at these projections and note the furniture and furnishings, plants and other miscellanea and take a guess at the kind of people who live there. More often than not, there will be a washing line swaying in the breeze. Perhaps a tricycle parked in a corner and some cricket bats too. Some will have chairs and cheerful potted plants. And if the time is right, there will be the folks at home taking the air, calling out to a vendor, keeping an eye out for returning kids and office-goers or chatting to another balcony.

To the inhabitant, the balcony is a welcome and well used extension. It is a way of stepping outdoors while staying at home: somewhere to fly paper planes and kites from and, in later years, to sun old bones, somewhere to sit with a friend and sip on drinks – the prelude to dusk and dinner, somewhere to go when the walls close in on you.

And when the street theater visits the locality, ‘balcony seats’ take on a whole new meaning and they come free and front-row too!

The older houses always had balconies and the architects who designed them obviously had the would-be residents in mind: living, breathing, dreaming people. The newer constructions absorb the balconies, thanks to space constraints and rising prices, and shut the occupants inside uncompromising, anonymous grilles. The graciousness of a balconied room seems to be a thing of the past.

Oh Romeo, Romeo however would you woo Juliet today?

Our most precious asset

On Christmas Eve, after a month of cleaning and polishing and changing the furnishings, we eagerly unwrap the figures that make up the Nativity scene. It is most precious in our eyes and it is with the greatest reluctance that we confine it once more to its storage space after Epiphany.

Our first crib set, as a married couple, was a housewarming gift from a sister-in-law. Plaster of Paris is not the most durable of materials and though we were very careful, the crib soon wore battle scars – chips, nicks and peeling paint. And then baby Jesus lost his nose in a minor accident.

That was when we decided that we needed a new crib and it was the first item on our shopping list when we had the good fortune to visit Vienna.

We scoured every shop and paused at every window that carried a display and there were plenty of them even in the month of August. But the Nativity scenes on offer were either too expensive, too fragile or did not meet our idea of feature and colour. Just when disappointment seemed to be at its most crushing, a kindly nun directed us to a shop off an alley behind St. Stephen’s in the city. We decided to make one last foray and were rewarded beyond our wildest dreams.

The shop in question had on display the most exquisite hand carved wooden Nativity Scenes. The work of monks tucked away high in the Alps, each piece was finished right down to the tiniest detail. It was love at first sight. But when we heard the cost, our hearts sank: each individual piece carried a steep price tag and we needed several pieces to complete the picture that we had in mind.

The salesgirl must have been an extraordinary individual. She allowed us to handle each figure and take our time over it. Then, she suggested that we should pick out piece by piece the ones that we wanted and she would keep totting up the amount. And that is what we did. When our wallets had reached fraying point, we asked for the final total, counted out the Schillings (the Euro had not yet made its appearance) and hurried home with our precious package.

Back at the convent, where we were staying, we unpacked the figures, set them out on the dining table in the refectory and arranged them according to their appointed places. It was nearing dusk. A visitor picked up a lit candle in a little wooden stand and placed it near the crib. The parish priest brought out his guitar and we gathered around and sang Silent Night in its original German version – Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. The memory still gives me goose bumps: the joy and sharing of Christmas came to us early that year.

Most people invest in stocks and bonds and gold. We invested in love.

My nephew who blogs

Technically speaking he is my husband’s nephew since he is his sister’s son. In India, however, anyone who has the advantage of ten years or more becomes a complimentary uncle or aunt anyway. So there!

The blog which is now in print has made news and how. The language is strongly flavoured, redolent of the precinct and the patois – a sort of sorpotel/vindaloo meets prawn balchow meets custard pudding, all washed down with kokum sherbet. There is a pungency in the message and a sweetness in the memory which allows the encounter to linger satisfyingly – like a cordon bleu banquet - long after bidding the blog adieu. The analogy to food is deliberate – EIs excel in this department and the ability to provide a good meal is more often than not the yardstick for prowess!

There is no doubt that he is a denizen of Bandra, but that he has chosen that peculiarly AI epithet ‘bugger’ tickles me no end. Whatever his reason, this is one bugger that has done Bandra real proud. And to know so for yourself, do log on to: http://bandrabuggers.blogspot.com/

Bon Appetit!

A Shift in the Season

The heat is stifling and the sweat factor seems to indicate that summer is still at its height, but this is October and as the evening shadows lengthen, and the darkness of night lingers on into the early morning hours, we know that winter is on the horizon.

And the onset of winter is a reminder that Christmas is coming. Christmas, that most wonderful time of the year!

As I scanned the books on offer on the British Council website, one title leapt out at me – ‘Letters from Father Christmas’ by J.R.R. Tolkien. Promptly requested and as promptly delivered, I now have some delight-filled reading in the week ahead.

It was not just the seasonal title that attracted me; I, too, have corresponded with Santa.

And here’s how it came about: a magazine I was browsing through featured a story about how children the world over wrote to and received letters from Mr. Claus. And, fortunately, the article also provided the address. Here is the letter I sent:

Dear Father Christmas:

It is so good to know that you are still around. Some people say that, like Tinkerbelle, you will exist so long as someone believes in you - well we believe in you and hope you'll be there forever.

In this strife torn world, it is consoling to know that at least once a year people the world over pause to remember, even if just for a day, that all men are brothers. Hopefully, sometime, somehow, somewhere this small spark that is kindled once a year will burst into flame and then it will truly be Christmas everyday! Till then, we look to your presence, which symbolises the spirit of love and caring, to make sure the spark is kindled again and again on this very special day - Christmas.

I am too old for toys but I have one request - a small friend of ours would be thrilled to receive a letter from you, so please write to….

May peace and joy come to you and also to Mrs. Claus, the Elves, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, Blitzen and Rudolph!

Cordially yours,

And here is the reply that was received:

Dear…

I am writing this letter to you surrounded by snow and the Northern lights of the Finnish Lapland. This is my very own place which my gnomes and I call Korvatunturi. Did you know, by the way, why I have always lived in Korvatunturi? Let me tell you a small secret: Korvatunturi is the only place where I can hear the wishes of all people from all parts of the world. That’s why this place is called Korvatunturi – it’s Finnish and means ‘Ear Mountain’ – and if someday you come here as my guest, you’ll see with your own eyes that it’s like a giant’s ear.

You can’t imagine the hustle and bustle going on here right now. From morning till night I read children’s letters and wishes and give instructions to my gnomes who then make and wrap thousands and thousands of Christmas presents. Often we blow out the candles only when we can tell from the position of the Northern lights that it’s past midnight. Then we take a short nap, but at exactly five o’clock in the morning we are up again, spooning up the delicious porridge cooked by Ma Christmas, only to resume our busy work for the day.

This time I have really happy news to tell you. In the midst of the nightless summer night, a cute little reindeer baby was born here. My gnomes promptly named him Baby Rudolf, because his nose glows red like a fire engine. This Christmas, Baby Rudolf is still too dainty to join me on my trip to distribute Christmas gifts, but maybe already next year you can see two red nosed reindeer in front of my sleigh; Rudolf the daddy and Rudolf the baby.

Finally, I would like to remind you of an extremely important thing: please remember to be kind to all people and animals, and to protect nature. If you promise to be nice, I promise to do my best so we all can have a real Christmas feeling in our hearts.

Jaulupukki (which is Finnish for Father Christmas!)

In Germany, they want to abolish Santa Claus as we know him because they feel that he is a far cry from St. Nicholas, the original on which he was modeled. No doubt, the Santa in the stores and malls is all about publicity and sales, and Christmas has acquired commercial overtones that have no real connect with the reason for the season. But that is our fault, not Santa’s. Perhaps a better alternative would be for children to be re-taught that Santa will bring them something only if they are good and do not indulge in the constant, insatiable chant of “I want!!”

It would be a sad day indeed when the big fat man in the jolly red suit is cancelled from the Christmas itinerary. A little bit of fantasy that ‘gladdens the heart of childhood everywhere’ can surely not be so wrong?

And if Santa aka Father Christmas is good enough for Tolkien, he is good enough for me!

When something creaks at night…

As a child, I was wonder-struck by my mother’s tales of encounters with ghosts. Apparently, she had at one time or the other lived in a haunted house - one of the bedrooms in the rambling structure which housed my grandparents and family was witness to a suicide and the resultant restless spirit. My mother recounted the experience in a matter of fact manner which made it all the more plausible: every detail was noted and included atmosphere, sounds and scents, all of which came ‘alive’ at night. And she remained tenacious of the account even in the face of my father’s scoffing. He put it all down to an overactive imagination, indigestion, bad drains and the creaking that defines all old structures.

I did not possess my father’s phlegmatic attitude to the spirit world and, though nighttime brought its own terrors, I was thrilled to be once removed from an encounter with a real ghost!

That was until I had my own experience.

Our school in Bareilly was housed in an ancient structure which was once the summer residence of minor royalty. It had outlived its useful life and was ruled dangerous. A new school building was erected; we were duly shifted out, but the old structure was not demolished and we were sternly warned of dire consequences if we went anywhere near it. Well, we were playing hide and seek and my friend and I decided to duck into one of the disused classrooms – no one would dare to seek us out there! Suddenly, we saw Mother Superior bearing down on us threateningly and we fled. Seconds later the slab fell – we had missed certain death by a hair’s breadth. Under the impression that Mother had met a gruesome fate, we ran for help and straight into the very same Mother Superior; she had heard the sound and had come to investigate. Imagine our consternation! She was alive and we were in no doubt about it. It needs to be said that she was a very tall, very thin (even slightly cadaverous), Italian nun with a complexion that matched her bleached habit. She was the epitome of a ghostly presence, except for the fact that she had a lively and engaging nature.

So who or what did we see? Was it our imagination? Or the play of light and shade on the falling storm of dust? Or was it really our guardian angel?

Time passed, memory grew dim and there were no further personal encounters with the spirit world. And then they had to go and make Poltergeist !

Now, I lie awake with every creak at night hoping that it’s just the sign of a building showing its age. Blessed are those who have never known a ghost!

He had to change schools?

Tom Daley is 16 years old. He is also a gold medallist at the CWG 2010 in synchronized diving. He also had to change schools because he was bullied – other students chucked stuff at him, emptied his pencil case on the floor and threatened to break his legs!

Enough said.

Foolhardy, frivolous and fun?

Dare and double dare? Heard that one before?

My father told me about a dare which he once carried through (yes, he had an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes!). When he was a very junior officer in the army and stationed in Delhi, his batch mates dared him to drive his jeep into the Officers’ Mess. This entailed taking the jeep up a considerable flight of steps leading to the entrance and then into the dining hall. Not one to say he couldn’t do it, my father took on the dare and carried it through. This was corroborated by another officer who was party to the event, so I know that it really happened!

Dares were silly things: challenges between friends which could be ridiculous, hilarious, and hair-raising but very rarely downright dangerous. They may have entailed breaking the rules but never the law. They ranged from putting frogs in the teacher’s desk (been there, done that!) to hanging unmentionables on the Institute’s flagstaff. None of the dares we undertook had tragic consequences; they only earned mild censure (apart from adding to ‘hoary legend’). What is more, the challenge was undertaken willingly – even with a tinge of excitement - and without coercion. Invariably, the challenger and the challenged were partners in crime as well. Those were the times of naïve, even foolish, audacity and derring-do.

There were no fast cars (thanks to no money), no drugs, no alcohol, no guns. And some dares had happy outcomes too. My father was at one time a chain smoker. Then his batman (not the caped crusader but an attendant attached to an officer posted at camp) dared him to give up. It wasn’t easy (and he couldn’t cheat because the batman was virtually his left arm) but, as already stated, my father couldn’t resist a challenge and he gave up smoking for good. The batman lost but got his bottle of rum anyway. Two winners!

Challenges tested one’s mettle. Challenges could be remembered with a grin and sometimes a grimace (did I really do that?).

Where did things go wrong? When did challenges turn criminal? When was innocence lost?

I once read an article on ‘Why toy guns should be banished’ as it was felt that such toys were responsible for turning men into killing machines (published a generation ago, it did not ‘implicate’ girls). The author argued the point back and forth and concluded that even if toy guns were banned, all the child had to do was point two fingers and say, ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead!’. Boys will be boys.

Perhaps what we thought was innocent fun was not so innocent after all. Perhaps it was the precursor to more inventive and even more dangerous dares. Or was it?

Growing a Thinner Skin

Ragging – that initiation ‘ritual’ that triggers perverse imagination in the ragger and cold sweat in the victim. Why does it exist?

When I made the transition from schoolgirl to undergrad, my father made an appointment with one of the nuns at the college to tour the premises. It must have helped that her surname too was Grant. We were taken around the classrooms, the library, the dorms and I remember fish tanks with goldfish. All through the tour, my father gently probed and Mother Grant responded with a running commentary. Then my father asked about ragging. He had been a boarder - school and college – and had received his fair share. He did not want me to experience a similar fate.

What my father did not know was that I was no stranger to being ragged. A new school and a new girl in the class, I had to ‘prove’ that I fitted in. It started with little things – an exercise book extracted from the bag and ‘lost’, being locked in the toilet and made late for class, ink splashed on the uniform - and then graduated to being suspended over the parapet on the second floor above ground level. I was eleven years old. I sobbed my way through the year but I did not tell. Ratting was one degree worse than cowardice.

College was a romp. We were all new girls together and being day students, the seniors were not interested in us. The hostelites had a different story to tell. The sensitive ones suffered; the tougher ones laughed it off – it could not be cured so had to be endured.

Then came the working world. Once again, one was the new girl in a set environment and one had to run the gauntlet of the subtle and not so subtle ‘initiation rites’. You remained the outsider until the insiders decided to let you in. After I got over feeling sorry for myself, I decided to get on with the job and never realised that I had become an insider till I left the organization and my ‘worst enemies’ expressed regret! Did my earlier experience of being ragged come in handy? I think not. Every such encounter hurts in its own way.

The insider-outsider attitude is not new. It is generations old. The tribal world has some of the most cruel, life threatening initiation rites – the passage to adulthood is an act of survival. And the civilized world is no better. Scratch the surface and you’ll find out; public transport is a good place to start! Till you become an accepted ‘regular’ in the compartment, you will know the sharp elbow, the not so subtle insult and the very edge of the fourth seat!

But I digress. Ragging is deliberate, premeditated, planned and considered a privilege by its perpetrators. But is it a rite of passage? A time honoured tradition? Does it make or break character? And are the ragged entitled to wear a badge of honour?

I would have to state my answer as a resounding NO. It may be a tradition but there is certainly no honour and I do not think there is any merit in being a victim either. I cringe when I now remember the abject obsession to be an insider at school. Thankfully, the past is over and I have moved on.

No one should have to face humiliation for the sake of another’s amusement. And no decent human being should expect to be so amused.

Time and maturity bring us to the realisation that we are all included; no one is an outsider in God’s perfect plan for our great universe and we are ‘fitted in’ exactly where we are meant to be. By being inclusive we learn to be sensitive to the other; there should really be no need for a thicker skin. If only time did not take so long to teach us so. And if only those who rag could realise that they are really wasting their time.

99%

Blogging is hard work!

Sometimes you have an idea, but it doesn’t always pan out. When you sit at the keyboard, the words just refuse to flow. At other times, thoughts unbidden just pour forth and the fingers are hard-pressed to keep pace.

Take last Sunday, for instance. I had noticed an advertisement adjuring students to avoid ragging and to report incidents, if any, in order to nip the practice in the bud. I thought back to my own student days and remembrances of being ragged and decided to blog about it. But much though I had to say, the words remained locked inside.

And then, I found myself smiling to myself over the cat and mouse incident and humming to the CD playing a much loved track. Before I knew it, the words found themselves on the page and my blog was done.

Not all writing is that effortless. I often go through the piece and agonise over whether the readers will get the same picture that I have visualized in my mind’s eye and am trying to share - whether the words are apt, whether the piece is too long or too short, whether the language is too dated (though that is almost a given, given the years to my credit and my preferred reading!), whether I have been able to infuse a little bit of humour (the leaven in our daily loaf!) and whether the reader will be pleased to read.

This puts me in mind of a quotation from my collection : I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living; it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope…. and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities – Theodore Geisel

Ragging is one of life’s realities and, unfortunately, there is very little laughable about it. Hopefully, I will soon be able to share my thoughts and stir up some positive vibes.

In the meantime, my present thoughts are happy ones and so this is my offering for the day.

Why 99%? Because anything worth doing usually requires 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration though, in this October heat, it sometimes seems like one hundred percent sweat even when doing nothing!!

May I have your opinion?

Everyone likes to be popular and none more so than companies which have products on the market. They positively wallow in popularity. You will see ads plastered with the slogan ‘Voted the most popular by….’ And the products range from shampoos to car tyres to newspapers and sometimes even educational institutes!

Every now and then the credentials to popularity will be bolstered by a mention of the polling agency, the demographics of the people polled and the total number culled from a ‘random sampling’. This random sampling covers some remarkable people – opinionated certainly - but anonymous and faceless nonetheless.

So I asked my neighbours, “Have you been polled?” They shook their heads, “No!” I asked my friends: “Never!” they replied. I chatted up my fellow passengers in the train compartment – now there’s a more than average cross-section for you – and brought the topic round to opinion polls. Had anyone been polled? Some had been accosted by college students asking what brand of detergent they used and were proffered an unbranded powder to test. But had they been asked searching questions about shampoos, newspapers, tyres, et al? The general response was a definite negative.

So, who are these sapient people who get to tell us which is the best product for us to buy, which paper to read and which institute to study at, among other things? I have a sneaky feeling that they must be the ‘Great Indian Family’. After all, the pollsters must possess that uncle’s sister-in-law’s cousin brother’s son’s girlfriend’s mother who is quite capable of having her say!

As for the man or woman on the street, I cannot speak for them. I know that I have never been ‘opinion-polled’. Have you?

While Walking the Dogs

Our niece walked through her front door, face suffused with suppressed amusement laced with a tinge of indignation. “Wait till I see that Uncle Albert!” “What’s happened?” “I have lived on this street all my life and this is the first time that the mochi, the chanawala, the fruit man and the paanwala, and sundry other people have called out to me!!”

I guess I should start at the beginning. We had moved in temporarily with our niece; we meaning my husband, our two dogs and I. My husband was away for the day and the niece had volunteered to walk the dogs – something my husband enjoyed and indulged in three times a day. Since we did not join him in this pastime, we had a lot of learning to do! Our niece – a dog lover too – was happy to be led by the large collie and the little pom while following their usual route. What she did not expect was to hear herself being hailed every so often with the call, “Uncle kahan gaye? Hell-ow Bonnie, hell-ow Sweetie.” To say that she was taken aback would be an understatement. Apparently, my husband had made friends with everyone on the block in the space of just a few days.

I was to discover still more. I undertook the ‘night shift’ and last walk of the day. And I was duly greeted by every watchman at every gateway. Since my four-legged companions insisted on completion of the route before turning back toward home, I followed them gingerly through dimly lit alleyways. I did not have to worry about safety: the collie’s size and the pom’s bark were sufficient to the task of safeguarding their mistress. Also, the policeman on the beat had apparently made their acquaintance. Somewhere along the way, two scantily clad women heavily made up and leaving no one in doubt about their occupation swooped noisily on the dogs, cooing and fussing over them, calling to them by their names.

When hubby returned the next day, I was waiting for him. “I can understand the vendors and the watchmen. But the ladies of the night? Really!” “What can I do, they wanted to pet the dogs,” he replied with a sheepish grin, “they mean no harm.”

All future walks, whenever I stood in for my husband, were always eventful, with new ‘friends’ to greet: the elderly gentleman on his morning constitutional, the schoolchildren all vying with each other to shake a paw, the street urchins and other dog walkers. I began to look forward to these sociable encounters.

This was a side of my husband that I was happy to discover – the ability to ‘walk with crowds and keep his virtue or walk with kings and not lose the common touch’. Very few have the gift.

And it is a lovely feeling to know that I am watched by friendly smiles when I venture down the street, even though Bonnie and Sweetie are no longer around.