A Blessed Christmas Season and a Happy New Year

To all who visit: may this wonder-filled Season’s graces be with you and may the Blessed Babe of Bethlehem remain in your hearts throughout 2012. May joy, peace, love and hope be born again for you each and every day.

All Souls

This day is dedicated to all those who have gone before us. Today, our graveyards will see throngs that gather once a year outside of funerals and personal anniversaries. Gravestones will be decorated, candles will be lighted, prayers will be said. There is an air, almost, of festivity. And after sunset the gates will close, leaving the stones to their watchful vigil.

When it comes to graves, gravestones and graveyards, I am an iconoclast. I prefer living memorials to those cast in marble or granite. I prefer to dwell daily with the memories rather than the once a year visit to stand at a stone with engraved names and dedications. The passing of years makes no difference, nor does the picture ever fade.

Every day, as I enter the kitchen, my husband’s Mother is with me. As I chop, mix, stir, fry and check, I hear her guiding voice reminding me of those special ingredients that she never failed to add to every meal she prepared – patience and love. She also taught me how to retrieve from disaster those absentminded errors to which I am still prone. How could I forget her? She loved life and lived it to the fullest. A grave could never contain her.

I remember my husband’s sister who, in happier times, displayed a sometimes startling penchant for the adventurous. Outwardly staid, strict and reserved, she had unexpected reserves of humour which transformed her. She was also unswerving in her loyalties. She could drive me demented, but she also taught me how to be resourceful. I remember crossing railway tracks and jumping platforms, a shared load of mangoes between us, and catching the train in the nick of time. I am still gasping from that experience.

I remember my husband’s brother who called everyone ‘sweetheart’ – his wife, his daughter, me and our dog! If we were all in the vicinity, all of us answered!! He was generous to a fault and hospitable with a capital H. Virtues his children follow till this day. A living memorial of the best kind.

I remember my grandmothers (both grandfathers passed away within a year of my birth and so I never met them, but I do know them through anecdotes passed down by their children). My Father’s Mother used to babysit me through holidays spent with her. She stitched and knitted clothes for my dolls and even threw a tea party for them complete with cake and chocolate pudding. Friends were invited and we had a blast. She made sure that childhood holidays were happy ones. My Mother’s Mother was built so small, it was hard to believe that she had produced ten strapping children. By the time I caught up with her, she was quite frail but still retained her sense of humour. She must have needed it while managing a family of twelve humans, two cats, a parrot, ducks, geese, pigeons and a monkey. We used to correspond by proxy – I would write to her and my cousin would reply on her behalf. I am told that she was an expert crocheter and I like to think that her talent has been passed down to me. I love my daily sessions with hook and yarn.

I remember my Father as being always resourceful. He was insatiably curious and this had its drawbacks. If I took up something that he had no knowledge of, he would ask questions and he wanted answers, whether it was dressmaking or microbiology! I had to make sure I knew my stuff. I, too, by virtue of his genes carry an abundance of curiosity and a love of learning. Punctuality and thoroughness were instilled at an early age and, today, if I ever skimp on either I experience an uncomfortable tweak of conscience. He was an engineer and his one indulgence was his love of reading. He had a personal technical library that could rival the best. Whenever we transferred residence, our books – his and mine – were the heaviest load. His books have been passed on to others. But the load on my bookshelves grows incrementally every year.

I remember indulgent aunts and uncles, other relatives and friends, not just today but in every moment, occasion, incident and memory that brings them back to me. They are and always will be a part of my life.

And I remember my husband, his quirky sense of humour, his unfailing friendliness, his practical nature which kept the dreamer in me grounded. He dreamed dreams too and together we made them reality. Marriage joins and death can never really part.

This why ‘Memories’ is my favourite eulogy of all time, one that I would like to hear when I too am gone from this world:

We do not stand at your grave and weep.

You are not there; you do not sleep.

You are the thousand winds that blow.

You are the diamond glint on snow.

You are the sunlight on ripened grain.

You are the gentle autumn rain.

When we awake in the morning’s hush,

You are the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

You are the bright star that shines at night.

We do not stand at your grave and cry

You are not there, you are alive!

Victoriana?

The Victorians were particular about the unmentionable remaining unmentioned. Like their beloved queen, they were ‘not amused’ by explicit descriptions of body functions, sex or the printed uttering of cuss words. Authors used euphemism and innuendo and skirted with ‘bold’ description to titillate the imagination. And they succeeded!

Today’s authors prefer to be more explicit. They let it all hang out, leaving nothing whatsoever to the imagination and relying more on the gut reaction. For me, the journey in literature has been from the classic coy to the current crass. For crass I find it to be. I hear people tell me not to be a prude, that there is honesty and openness in such writing, that I should understand the need to scratch the itch. Surely, most of what I read has been a part of personal experience? Yes, it is. But I do not need such experiences to be highlighted in fluorescent technicolour. There is nothing cathartic in knowing about another’s similar embarrassments or urges. It seems derisively voyeuristic.

This brings us to the age old debate about creative liberty and integrity. What seemed outré a hundred years ago, is today pathetically innocuous. My prohibited ‘damn’ (go wash your mouth with soap!) has been replaced with the ubiquitous F word (get with it man, everyone uses it). Art should feel no boundaries. I agree. Let every artist, writer, composer do what he loves best: what moves him and what inspires him will also inspire others with like vision and taste. My criterion for inclusion or exclusion of explicit content is simply this: Is it necessary? If not, then why?

As for my personal taste, I prefer the finely tuned description, the well crafted plot, the lilt of the language, the glorious use of tint and hue, light and shade and, most of all, the opportunity to let my imagination do its own thing and go wild.

P.S. To make a point, 'hornswoggle' is so much more evocative than 'load of c--p'. Thanks, Capt. Craddock (or is it Haddock?)

Falling in love again…

At first glance he seemed large and lugubrious. Even a bit ungainly. But there was something about him that captivated me and I asked for an introduction. He was very polite and stepped forward to take my hand, but his response was disinterested, almost dismissive. I was piqued. I am usually well received and most are happy to make my acquaintance. I may not be outgoing but neither am I unfriendly. And, in this case, I put on my best smile and offered an enthusiastic ‘hello, so pleased to meet you.’

I volunteered some small talk, but there was none forthcoming in return – just a glance to concede his awareness of my presence and my voice. He is young; not yet old enough for the taciturnity he projects. So how could I make him notice me, pay me more attention?

I began to look out for him so as to make it seem as if I had bumped into him just by chance. At every opportunity, I offered a warm smile and an even warmer ‘hello’. All I received was a perfunctory glance in return. Sometimes, there seemed to be a glimmer of something more. Perhaps an attempt to take the conversation beyond the initial overtures, but that was all it was. He would shuffle a little closer, rearrange his features, give the impression that he was clearing his throat and then, nothing. He would relapse into a personal reverie.

What were his interests? How did he pass his time? Perhaps if I could get a handle on these, I would be able to excite his attention. He was definitely not shy. One time I touched him, letting my hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary and he did not withdraw. But neither did he react. Indifference? To me? Surely not!

It has been a very long time since I lost my heart so thoroughly and I am not one to give up easily. A visit to his home might constitute an invasion of privacy, so I dropped in at the workplace instead. Once again, he was very polite and rose to receive me, but it was his colleagues who were happy to converse with me while he returned to his seat and an inner world. Contemplation seems to be his forte.

His colleagues love him too. They do not find him as remote as I do, and prefer to term him placid and easy-going. They are made happy just by his presence. I am not so easily satisfied. I find out what he likes best and take my leave. On my next visit, I bring him a gift. He accepts it willingly, takes it to his place where he examines it more thoroughly, giving it all his attention. He follows this up by a thoughtful glance in my direction. Hopefully, I have found a chink in his armour and the next time he will be a little more welcoming, a little more interactive. With time, I will be able to make him like me at least a little. I will have to be satisfied with only 'a little', for I know that he belongs to another and I could never make him completely mine.

A two-year old Golden Labrador should not be all that difficult to woo!

Snip, snip, snip!

The Greeks have been advised to give their debt a haircut. It’s all over the news! When talks began about austerity measures, trimming the debt and cutting back, it was inevitable, given the flexibility and adaptability of the English language, that ‘one word covers all’ would be used – so, haircut it is.

My own overgrown tresses occasioned some sharp reminders that mop-head suited me better than matronly and ‘When are you getting that haircut?’ became a frequent interjection in conversations. When the news, too, was peppered with the ‘H’ word, I took it to heart and decided it was now or never. With both trepidation and misgiving, I did a quick tic-tac-toe and opted for a local salon, a stone’s throw from my home.

There is a history behind my hair cuts and a reason for the reluctance. My earliest memories are of a pudding bowl. The ayah would place a large pudding bowl over my head – large enough to just cover the ears – and then trim around the edge, cutting off any hair that was visible. The final touch would be the fringe which was trimmed to just above the eyebrows. Simple, effective and neat if somewhat unimaginative.

An army lifestyle usually meant far flung outposts and no hairdressing salons worth the mention. We were serviced by the travelling barber who knew the date and the time without benefit of cell-phone, I-pod or electronic reminder. On the appointed day and time, he would turn up on our doorstep, kit in hand, and we would take our turns in the ‘chair’. Father first, I next and Mother last. Those were the days of the ‘bob’ and he managed to make us look quite presentable! Occasional visits to Bombay included a trip to Madame Jacques at the Hotel Taj Mahal. Coiffeuse to the elite, she always greeted all customers with a smile and exquisite courtesy. My turn in the chair required ‘just a trim’ (trims were cheaper than a full hair cut), but Madame J was a true professional and she would put in that little bit extra with scissors and comb to give me the perfect ‘look’.

When her eponymous salon closed down, we shifted loyalties to Rocco. He was a short, dapper, voluble, jovial Italian who flirted outrageously with his clients, age notwithstanding, and a visit to his salon was a treat. Here, too, was perfection. You could shut your eyes, enjoy the teasing banter and walk out with your crowning glory exactly that. He eventually shut shop and returned to his native Italy.

Marriage took me away from the locality and I made friends, in turn, with Sarah, Lolly and Eula who worked from home and kept my tresses in trim. Then, we returned to Colaba. The years in-between had seen many changes. Now, there was a plethora of boutique salons with intimidating protocol and even more intimidating prices. I opted for the easy way out. Hubby and I would visit his barber, in tandem, and sit beside each other for a ‘his and hers’. Safely escorted, it was always a happy experience.

This time, I needed to pluck up courage and venture out on my own. So, a ladies' salon it had to be. The girl assigned to me looked at my rueful expression and asked the reason. I told her that a ‘first time’ hair cut and a visit to the dentist were on par. She smiled, judged the height from the top of my head and pumped the chair so that it rose some four inches – more memories of the dentist! Well, I am happy to say that I have survived the experience; my head and my purse are considerably lighter and it will, hopefully, be at least six months before I have to work up my courage again.

There are many things that are better for being short and sweet and that goes for my hairstyle too!

October is here…

Brother crow was strutting in the Sanctuary, while sister sparrow twittered from the lectern. Brother dog woofed sister cat out of her slumber. She scampered to the safety of the pews, her colouring a perfect camouflage against the trellised woodwork. (I am not being chauvinistic – the genders are accurately assigned. I know. I am on speaking terms with the local fauna*.) Today is the first of October and we shall soon celebrate the feast of St. Francis of Assisi – the man who embraced all of creation in brotherhood (and sisterhood!). Perhaps it is fitting that our church was graced by the presence of his friends. Brother crow, for once, did not annoy by cawing his way through Mass. He must have realised that speech is golden only when it is timely and wise!

I love October for other reasons too. Though this is one of the hottest months in Mumbai, it still signals the countdown to the end of the year, winter and that most beloved occasion in the Christian calendar – Christmas. Christmas will be different this year because many of our own will not be there with us to share and celebrate, and yet there is a stirring in the heart, remembered joy, the anticipation of peace and healing, and the faith that it will happen.

I am reminded of a quote from my collection which goes something like this: ‘People say autumn is a sad season. I do not think so. Nature is not dying; she is merely sleeping and judging from her colours, her dreams are beautiful in anticipation of spring.’

Spring and life renewed. A life that we continue to live for those we love, because we love. Because, those we love are part of us and we are part of them. Because, through us their memory lives on.

And this brings me back to St. Francis. St. Francis lived the message of love – his heart was open to all things, all persons, all seasons, all situations. To read his life is to experience a tug of the heartstrings. And for those who walk with the animals and talk with the animals, this tug is very strong indeed!

(*I’ll let you into the secret: hubby taught me to distinguish between the birds – males are flashy and large, females are more sober and small; the cat has had more than one litter of kittens; the dog belongs to one of our priests and I’ll take his word for it that it’s a boy!)

Ticking Boxes

My mental age is 40; my heart’s age is 80. That averages out at 60 which is my chronological age – thank goodness!! 60 is a lovely time of life: still young enough to push the boundaries and old enough to get away with it.

How did I come by the quoted stats? The online quiz, of course. Friends pass on the links and, being a sucker for the questionnaire, I keep clicking away till I am presented with the result. In the days BI (Before Internet), I would pounce on the various Q&As in the glossies and tick away avidly, collecting the associated alphabets (a, b, c or d) and then totaling them up to find the score. Check Your Compatibility (hubby and I were a perfect match – I knew that, but it is lovely to be told so by an ‘intelligent’ medium); What Shape Are You? (That would be telling!); Are You Antisocial? (Very – I prefer curling up with a book to attending a shindig); Are You Eating Healthy? (Of course not – I’m not yet ready to forgo ice creams and cheesecake); What Does Your Personality Rating Say About You? (Plenty!!); Do You Spend Too Much Time on the Internet? (Probably. But then, I have a lot of catching up to do.) Curious and adventurous, that’s me!

Sometimes the questionnaires come with a bonus. Fill up and post and you may get a lucky gift: I have received T-Shirts, key chains, a scarf, and sundry other items over the years.

I wonder about the people who come up with the questions and answers (some of which are impossible to identify with, even though you are urged to tick the ‘closest answer’). How accurate are the assessments? Having gone through my fair share of psychological tests (college admissions, job interviews), I often queried the reliability. I am affronted by the thought that someone can tell exactly who and what kind of person I am by merely scanning a cold and impersonal interrogation. I have been assured that there are checks and balances built in to ensure veracity and that the method is tried and tested. So, now I enjoy entering wild and wacky choices when forced to take an assessment test. One questionnaire asked if I would like to ‘kill my parents’ (!) I checked the ‘yes’ box. I made it to the interview and beyond!! (Perhaps they were really looking for someone with murderous tendencies.)

Well so much for the questionnaire. I have now to return to that recurring quiz: Are you ready to face the day? I check ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ – Yes, because the day holds out some promises; no, because there are unavoidable routine chores. Does that make me an optimistic pessimist or should that be the other way around?

On Reading – II

Do you believe in coincidences? The next title I picked up gave me a feeling of déjà vu. Once again I travelled the corridors of corruption in our country’s capital. (When I was very little, I always stated with aplomb that I was born ‘in the Capital of India’ – it sounded so much more important than, ‘I was born in New Delhi’!)

I was told by a friend, whose opinion I respect, that I would find Aravind Adiga’s ‘White Tiger’ very readable. And indeed it was. This was a re-acquaintance with all that is familiar; I was enticed by the first person narrative that was so authentic in language, setting and context that I found myself reading way into the night, only to pick up as early as possible the next day. A day spent in the life of India’s teeming underbelly. This book is not for those who prefer fairy tales. It is, however, an excellent read for those who are inured to reality as represented by the daily news.

A fresh scan of the bookshelf showed me the ‘heavier’ reading which was on my ‘when I have the time and inclination’ list. My head was a little clearer, so I hefted the tomes and decided that a few pages at a time should do no harm. Umberto Eco had stimulated interest in the medieval, and the historical Church has always held its own special fascination, so I picked up the intriguingly titled ‘Holy Bones, Holy Dust’ - a scholarly work on how relics shaped medieval Europe. A few pages at a time? Perish the thought. As each chapter concluded, I would venture a few pages further. Here was history unfolding: a link to the past, and a slice of my own heritage reaching right back to the time of Christ. There was also irony, suspended belief and humour – all ingredients for an excellent read. Now, why wasn’t history taught this way when we were in school? To think that I avoided this fascinating subject for so many years all because of tutoring with tunnel vision! Even when done, I turned back to chapters that held some appealing tidbit or the other, just so that I could savour them again.

More history. Elizabeth I belongs to everyone, even though she was England’s queen. Her life holds a unique fascination not least because of her parentage but also because of her authoritative reign. For me, the definitive Elizabeth is the one described by Jean Plaidy. ‘Legacy’ by Susan Kay was leant to me by a friend; it came to me strongly recommended, but I was skeptical of what it could offer. But offer it did. Fact was fleshed out by description and conversation, attitudes and actions which could only have been imagined and yet sounded unquestionably sincere. Walls can hear but not speak. Perhaps the author gleaned something from the ghosts of London’s bloodied Tower? It certainly seemed as if she had been there on the spot. Another ‘unputdownable’ (my word for it!) read.

After this, there was one more treat in store: Orhan Pamuk’s ‘Other Colours’. I had read bits and pieces in other places, and I was hooked. This was an author whose deeper acquaintance I looked forward to. And I was delighted when I eventually got the chance. The books is a collection of essays: Pamuk has written about his beloved Turkey, his youth, his family, his daughter, his thoughts and aspirations, his writing and in every piece, he has invested himself so completely that the sincerity in the writing lends it a rare integrity. There are books which once read are read; there are others which you are loath to let go. This book belongs to the latter category - a book that will be a cherished companion.

Several titles down the line, I am, as you can see, firmly back in my favourite groove – the world of the printed page. It is a world that I had to leave for a while, and I am really glad to have found my way back.

On Reading - I

I am grateful to a mosquito. Bizarre but true! I was the perfect host, providing my uninvited guest with that nourishing drop of blood and, in return, it deposited in my veins the larvae and the consequent malarial fever which all of us try so hard to avoid. Mosquitoes are persistent little buggers* and despite all the precautions, there was I feverish, cross and confined to bed.

Doubters would wonder how I could possibly find the silver lining. Chills and sweats and bitter quinine are hardly the harbingers of halcyon skies. But there is one thing one can do very comfortably while lying in bed – read. I looked at all the titles on my bookshelf (some borrowed, some owned) waiting for that opportune breathing space. Was this to be it? Why not?

I picked up a light and frothy whodunit by an unfamiliar author (recommended by the library) which took care of day one. I found myself mulling over the kind of reader who could gush over such appalling triviality, a sketchy plot, oodles of amazingly wondrous settings and much too much gratuitous sex. And the blurbs on the dust jacket were ecstatic to say the least! Who was that who said, ‘Never judge a book by its cover’? I turned with alacrity to the familiar and well thumbed Agatha Christies and shed much of my irritation. On to PD James who bids fair to oust Christie from her ‘favourite’ position. James’ language and descriptive sketches – not least of the personalities that walk through her novels – are so wondrously absorbing. The reader actually meets the person and appears to live in the setting. And the prose is impeccable.

Lulled into a false sense of comfort, I became a little more adventurous and decided to sample another new author. Once again, the blurbs used adjectives in the superlative. Once again, I was left wondering about integrity in the world of publishing. Reviewers are supposed to be objective; though it is hard not to bring personal tastes to bear, surely if the work is not up to scratch it should not be foisted onto the unsuspecting reader? Peer reviews, which are a common trend, tend to put the reviewer in an invidious position and are therefore, in my very considered opinion, compromised!!

The book, which brought all this on, was nothing more than a collection of newspaper columns reporting various crimes. Since each successive report of the same crime was included, there was so much repetition, and the phrases ‘he said’, ‘he opined’, ‘he reiterated’ ‘he indicated’ concluded every sentence. Surely, the reports could have been collated and rewritten in more readable prose without negating the ‘true crime’ element? If this is what is required to write a ‘bestseller’, then all one has to do is accumulate clippings from the local newspaper and collate them into a single volume.

Perversely, I tried yet another new author. This time I laughed my way from cover to cover. No literary pretentions here. Another whodunit set in New Delhi, the narrative evoked the sights, sounds, smells and personalities of the locality so colourfully that it was impossible not to enjoy. Good ‘time pass’ to use a local phrase. I may not seek out this author (Tarquin Hall), but if another of his works comes my way, I will not turn up my nose. The review (in a magazine) was honest and reality met expectation.

I love to read and will continue to dip and delve and explore. Reading is like life – you have to take the bad with the good. Forget the first and savour the latter.

*One of the recent reference texts that came my way was titled ‘Teaching the Buggers to Write’, so I guess that’s one bit of slang that is now mainstream and I have taken the liberty of using it!

I am a Catholic

Raised in a Catholic family, I was educated in Catholic institutions and, since our Parish Church provided us with a Youth Club, I spent my leisure in a very Catholic social environment too.

We wore our Catholicism like a badge. This had its positives and its negatives. One appalling negative was the ‘holier than thou’ attitude which, thankfully, has now been shed. But the positive is what I would like to dwell on here.

If we were truly Catholic, we had to be perfect. Now, don’t get me wrong. We were not superhuman or even supernatural; it was just that we were expected to put in our very best effort and take pride in all that we did. Let me illustrate: employers and prospective spouses always wanted the ‘Convent trained’ because this meant that the best possible education had been provided. Catholic teachers, nurses, secretaries were always in demand because they could be expected to deliver and deliver quality. To say, “I am a Catholic’ was as good a certificate as any. If someone needed a repairman or wished to make a purchase from a particular vendor, you would recommend the person with the postscript, ‘Go to so and so. The work is excellent, you won’t be cheated and he(or she) is a Catholic.’ Yes, we had a very good name.

I once numbered among my acquaintances a Catholic carpenter who rejoiced in the name of Romeo. He was so much in demand that you had to plan at least a year in advance, book him for the work and issue interim reminders lest he forgot. He never did, but I was a nervous customer. His work was first class and he always followed up on the job. He made sure that the customer was fully satisfied. I still look on his work with pleasure, some 30 years on. Considering the demand, he could have overcharged, but he never did. Then there was Robert the contractor. He started out as a simple stonemason but went on to be a builder in his rural community. He was a byword and no job was too small to merit his personal supervision. I once queried a wall that he had constructed for me. His reply? ‘This is built by Robert. It will stand for a hundred years!’ I will certainly not live to see that, but a quarter century on, that wall is still robust and it stands tall against the elements.

When did we start to fall by the wayside?

The decline has been insidious. I first noticed it when some years ago I entered into a contract for renovation with a ‘Catholic’ contractor. The work seemed good. Once the final payment was made, however, things started coming apart. That was when I discovered that the fervently promised guarantees were nothing but dust in my eye (pun intended). I put it down to individual aberration.

Now, several years down the line, I have clocked many more such incidents and I am deeply saddened. It is a blot on our collective escutcheon.

It has happened and we cannot turn back the clock. But we can remedy the situation. Perhaps we need to make it known that this is ‘not Catholic’. Perhaps we need to go out and reaffirm our faith and values. Perhaps we need to remind ourselves that, in the words of a much loved mentor, ‘We must shine for Christ!’

Where should the line be drawn?

The newspapers are suddenly full of it. People are full of it. The very air is full of it! Corruption, that is a way of life, is under verbal assault. Will words give way to action? I am by nature a pessimist. That way, if good results, I can be pleasantly surprised!

One newspaper announced, “If you have never paid a bribe, influenced a decision, paid black money towards purchase of a flat … write to us about your experience.” I thought back to my one experience of holding out in order to obtain a ‘bribe free’ ration card – my right as a domiciled national. That one incident cured me of expectation. That is how bad it is.

My father, a stern individual who tolerated no grey between right and wrong, also learnt this lesson the hard way. A pensioner of the Indian Army, he would walk the half hour distance to the Pay& Accounts office only be told by the peon that the necessary forms were not available. Father would diligently walk to and fro each day, only to be given the same reply. When he found out that others had obtained the forms by the simple expedient of greasing the peon’s palm, he was furious. He rebuked the organization but to no avail. Lethargy and corruption are two sides of the same coin. Father needed his pension to survive. Reluctantly he succumbed. But not without a sarcastic comment about ‘chai pani’ to the peon, who smirked in response. Considering the number of government pensioners at any given time, that peon must have raked in the moolah. This was thirty-five years ago.

Yes, I have paid a bribe for an out of turn gas cylinder (six months of cooking on a kerosene stove cured me of holding out), I have paid a bribe for an out of turn telephone connection (that was in the time before mobile phones and considering that all my neighbours treated my home as a public call booth, I more than paid for that ‘crime’) and yes, I paid a cash component towards the purchase of a flat – I needed a roof over my head and no builder, then, ever sold a flat on ‘cheque only’ payments. The tax component made the final price prohibitive. And that tax component was actually ‘fixed’ by the dealing officer who deliberately set a higher penalty in order to receive something under the table for a considerable reduction. You learnt to subvert the law in order to avoid a bribe! When I spoke to an officer of the Income Tax about it, he replied. “Madam, even I have paid cash for my flat. I cannot say so openly but everyone knows.”

Even when all is in order, the powers that be hold out and harass till they get what they want. So deep-rooted is corruption that one is suspicious of anything that comes without a price.

And as long as there is need, as long as there is greed, as long as there are those who can sniff opportunity and exploit it, there will always be those who take from givers willing and reluctant, able and unable.

Only those who have nothing or want nothing could ever be free from corruption. Given our vulnerability to need, would that ever be possible?

Wir bitten um das Gebet für unseren vestorbenen Mitbruder…

This is the concluding line of the necrology marking the passing of Herr Pfarrer Bertrand Georg Puchwein at the age of 87, and as I peruse the accompanying letter from friends who have conveyed the news, I endorse the prayer and the sentiment.

I met Father Puchwein, for the first time, when he was the 75-year young parish priest of St. Severin’s in Sievering, Vienna. He belonged to the Augustinian order of Canons or Choir-monks (for want of a better translation – the correct form is Augustiner Chorherr des Stiftes Klosterneuburg) of the monastery at Klosterneuburg – more about that later. And he was selected on the basis of his golden tenor. Only those who could sing could make the grade. And how he loved to sing!

We (my husband, one of my sisters-in-law and I) had barely stepped off the plane and into the parish house, when we were greeted, in a strong German accent, by this burly, red-cheeked, white haired priest: ‘Welcome, welcome!” His next words were, “Do you sing?” My husband and sis-in-law politely declined, while I responded with, “A little.” “Can you sing the Missa de Angelis?” “Yes, Father!” He had touched a chord – the sung Latin Masses are a much treasured relic from my childhood and the Mass he referred to was one that I can sing in my sleep. I was promptly trotted off, in my travelling clothes, to meet the group that was practicing for the Feast Day of a sister church. All Austrians who spoke only German and sang Latin, they welcomed me with beaming smiles and once the singing got under way, the smiles grew wider. I might have been wearing a sari and sporting a complexion of a darker hue, but I sang the same music!! There were several more practices, all of which concluded with white wine, crackers and cheese. The ‘treat’ was well earned – Fr. Puchwein was a perfectionist. And, yes, I sang with the choir at the Feast Mass at St. Vitus. The gift of music and the gift of inclusion are my lasting souvenirs of that visit.

During our stay, I got to know him and his larger than life personality, very well. After all, we were guests in his home and his hospitality was lavish. And he filled his home with music thanks to a powerful sound system - an offering from his parishioners who had known him for forty years. His knowledge of church music was wide as it was deep and he was eager to share this knowledge at every opportunity. I was an amateur and a novice, with just a smattering of German, but this did not deter him in the least! And when shadows fell, he would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the supper table the old favourites and folk songs from the region.

One of the high points of our visit (and there were many) was the visit to his monastery, the imposing Klosterneuburg with its even more magnificent wine cellars which descended three (or more?) levels underground. The vineyards and the wine were the monastery’s source of income. We were treated to a wine-tasting and attended Vespers. Both unforgettable. There is nothing so solemn or as wonderful as plainchant – invocation and response – sung by male voices (all powered by their own lungs – no microphones) under the vaulted roof of what was literally a vast castle. I was spellbound, experiencing in reality what I had only imagined of monastic life in the cloisters.

It seems more than coincidence that my present reading is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Set in a fictitious monastery, the descriptive passages returned memories to life. Once again I walked within cloistered walls and felt the shadowy presence of robed monks, hooded, hands tucked in sleeves, silent except in their songs of worship.

And now, when the relevance of monastic life is being questioned and vocations are few, old stones have seen once more the passing of one who graced their existence with God’s praises. Old stones whose rafters will continue to be raised in song, but for how long?

English, you snob!

The BBC is currently broadcasting a fascinating TV programme entitled ‘Worlds of English’. It deals with English as it is used in different parts of the world and, since there is considerable dialogue with local inhabitants, we are treated to unique insights concerning the evolution and use of hybrid English – Hinglish, Chinglish, Singlish, and so on. (Yes, I’ve watched just three episodes, so far!)

English was carried to the colonies and taught to the ‘natives’ who promptly adapted it to their own requirements. If they could understand each other, where lay the problem? English language teachers were horrified and sought to instill the use of propah English by drilling hapless students in grammar and vocabulary. The knowledge and ability to use correct English was the standard by which one’s erudition was judged! No more. As one savvy Singaporean put it, ‘We use Singlish to communicate with our friends and within our peer group. It’s a fun language – unstructured and accommodating. And we know when and how to use Standard English as well.’ He was affronted that Singlish was treated as pidgin. Singlish is used to communicate, therefore it is a language. How right?!

This brings me to the reason for my topic today:

I belong to a generation that was rigorously schooled in the King’s (Queen’s?) English. As part of this education, it was considered de rigueur for us to flavour our writing with the bon mot, phrases and expressions culled from Latin, French, and German. Such usage was indicative of a higher standard of language, such as exhibited by the best British Universities! So we mugged up the words and phrases: carpe diem, Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes, bête noire, la dolce vita, savoir faire, doppelganger (go figure!) and made sure that we used them within the texts we produced. We wanted to appear au fait with the language, and how! (And what is wrong with saying ‘conversant’ anyway? The Lord knows that the English language has enough synonyms to fit any bill).

My current reading brought this home. A series of essays on the work of other authors, the text is peppered with mutatis mutandis, contemptus mundi, propria persona, Zeitgeist – you get the drift. What makes it deliciously ironical is that these phrases are culled from the ‘classic’ languages, the languages of nations that were inimical to the British – at one time or the other in history, Britain was at war with France, Germany and Rome.

Yet, when it comes to the language of the colonies, the injection of local words and phrases is considered a corruption.

Why does it cause so much jhanjat (such a furore) if we choose to ghoosao (try and infiltrate) a few choice phrases of our own? Particularly those phrases which, thanks to juicy idiom, defy translation?!

And, to use such an idiom, even though out of context, why must the English be kebab me haddi? (‘play spoilsports’ would be an accurate translation, but it conveys none of the spicy flavour!)

PS: A note of caution. In the words of my favourite grammarian, David Crystal, one must first know the rules in order to know how to bend them. A strong grounding in Standard English is required for representation at the global level. One cannot carry over Hinglish and expect to be appreciated!

Drenched but not quenched – II

I have just found out that there is more than one way to get ‘drenched’ in the monsoon.

When the lights went out, I thought it was the usual temporary monsoon glitch. When the lights did not come back on, I ventured out to check. It turned out that, thanks to our lackadaisical landlord, the meter room was taking in water through the roof, posing the very real threat of an electrical fire. The power supply company had pulled the fuse and would replace it only if the room was waterproofed and dry. With the rain showing no sign of stopping, I was staring at the prospect of at least eight days without electricity! No lights, no fans, no fridge, no mixer, no geyser, no washing machine, no iron, no computer or internet, no television, no battery recharge, and worst of all, no music. Thanks to the ongoing deluge, my world had changed in a matter of moments.

The landlord was not traceable, the power company adamant and I was caught in a time warp – the time before Thomas Alva Edison.

After the initial impotent fuming and wondering what to do, I gathered myself together , sat by a window where there was still sufficient light and picked up my crochet (something one can do without electricity). As I worked, the memories of other times and other places came flooding in.

Hubby and I used to retreat to a nearby village to recharge our batteries. Ironically, it was a place without electricity! We rose with the sun, ate our supper by the light of the moon, and used kerosene lamps as needed. Baths were at the well (with sufficient arrangements for feminine modesty) – refreshing douches of cold, crystal clear water from an underground spring. As I shivered and gasped through today’s ablutions, I marveled at the hardier, more adventurous person that I once was. Yep, been there, done that and how!

After a night spent in the company of a guttering candle, I awoke at war with the world. I decided to attend morning Mass even though I was all of a-grumble at my Maker, and found myself being admonished in the sermon - a grateful heart never complains! Well, I do complain to the Lord and don’t plan to stop, but I am also grateful for the gift of gleeful memories that even a power failure cannot quench.

Drenched but not quenched!

Yesterday, I set out dry on an errand that was imperative in its urgency. Cocooned in AC comfort while waiting for a print run to be completed, I was oblivious to what was happening outside. Imagine my horror on being confronted by a torrential downpour and a howling wind, when I opened the door! In the span of just fifteen minutes, the weather had changed dramatically. Courageously clutching my inadequate brolly (I like ‘humble brother’ too!) I braved the rain. Home and bedraggled, I headed for a hot bath and an equally steaming cup of chicken soup. Seated by the window, I watched others struggle against the storm and commiserated.

There is nothing quite like the wet and windy Indian monsoon. I know. I have waded through waist deep murky pools in the concrete jungle and in the real one too. I have trudged through rural sludge and through urban slush. And I have muttered imprecations at the weather gods for picking on hapless me.

But there is a flip side. I have seen the wonder of a firmament lit up end to end by streaks of blazing lightning – a pyrotechnic fantasy, and I have heard the swell of thunder – crashing cymbals and reverberating drum rolls, building up crescendo upon crescendo till the climactic finale. (Yes, I am spellbound by thunder and lightning, and maybe one day, I’ll learn to dance in the rain without protective battle gear!) And I realise that I am but a speck in this great cosmos. But, I am here – an indelible fragment in the history of humankind. To paraphrase Descartes, I experience, therefore I am.

Father Trevor Zenon D'Souza

Occasionally, a little packet would be dropped into my letterbox. The covering would be slit, the whole tied with string and the postage affixed was just Re. 1! When such a packet arrived, all other mail would be put aside and I would happily browse the little booklet revealed by the unwrapping.

I was truly privileged to be on Fr. Trevor Zenon’s mailing list. He made it his retirement work to spread, through the printed word, the message of God’s love. He also circulated, through his little booklets, affirming thoughts and guidance for daily Christian living. Over the years, I have built up a collection of these pocket-size books which I return to whenever I need a ‘dose’. Thanks to my contact with Fr. T, I have always had something to turn to when I am in a slump - inspiring words can be the best pick me up in times of need!

We remained in (and out of) contact over a span of some 40 odd years, all because of CONTACT. That was the name of the newsletter that Fr. T published when he was based at Byculla. He sent out the first copies through an embryo mailing list, parish wise, and a friendly priest passed on the publication. At 15, I considered myself a fledgling ‘writer’ and I flooded Fr. T’s mailbox with my manuscripts – mostly poems and teenage ramblings. He published my work and sent me complimentary copies of the newsletter. I was thrilled - for the first time, my words were in print outside the Parish Bulletin. Fr. T was transferred, and went on to serve in other parishes. We lost touch as we went our separate ways. And then, out of the blue, I encountered him at the Clergy Home to which he had retired. We resumed our acquaintance and once more, I looked forward to the mail in the letterbox.

Strangely, we never met in person.

It was with a heavy heart that I attended his funeral yesterday, but it is with gladness and gratitude that I will always remember his presence in my life.

Like Fr. T, I am a ‘scrapbooker’ – I shared his love of quotations, extracts, poems and philosophical asides and I collect these with avidity. Fr. T gifted his readers nuggets from his collection and I gift you, in remembrance, one from mine – a poem that, for me, is evocative of the Lord’s servant:

“He cast a stone,

And wavelets on a silent sea

Caressed the shores

Of lands where he would never be … he started something.

He hid a seed,

And blossoms in the wind that blow

Have set aflame

The countryside with radiant glow … he started something.

He dropped a thought,

And in youth’s eager mind

A candle reared

Through all the future years enshrined … he started something.

He lived a life

Which made appeal to you and me;

We loved to live

In what was his community … he started something!”

- (From: He Started Something by H. Halbisch)

I DO

“When I said ‘I do’

I meant that I will

To the end of time,

Be faithful and true,

Devoted to you.

That’s what I had in mind

When I said ‘I do’”

(Words from a song)

Where and when did it all start? The incompatibility? The refusal to reconcile? The climbing divorce rate? The beginning of the end of marriage?

Time was when marriage was a living, breathing, loving partnership. Unequal at times, perhaps, but the shared plans, dreams, laughter and tears evened out the odds. Anniversaries coming and going, marking the years, rubbing off the hard edges, fitting together more comfortably, growing older but staying young at heart, listening to Jim Reeves singing that touching reminder – ‘Memories are made of this’ – marriage is romance, most certainly, but not the fictional romance of Mills & Boon.

A wise man once told me, ‘A husband is not the handsome guy in a well-fitting suit with a stretchable wallet who buys you expensive gifts; he is the man who will be the father of your children.’ And for the man who seeks a wife, she is not the arm candy or the life of the party, she is the one who will be the mother of their children. Whether there be children or no, the ‘mothering’ and ‘fathering’ qualities make sure that the course will be stayed, that the nurturing will be there, that the sharing will be complete because man and woman, husband and wife, need to be halves of a whole. They are each other’s support system, ‘for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health...as long as they both shall live’.

Is marriage to the ‘right partner’ a dream come true? Certainly not! Everyone retains their individuality and certainly has the right to – this means divergent reactions, different wants, different needs, different purposes. All good marriages have their rough and rocky moments and time shows how and when to compromise; one just has to weather the initial turbulent patches – not easy, but certainly possible. You pull in different directions but you know, instinctively, when the bond has reached snapping point and you relax the tension, take a deep breath and start over, one retreating step at a time. A sense of humour helps. As does the art of conversation, where each one listens as the other speaks.

I am no marriage counselor. On the other hand, I am privileged to have married into a family that has witnessed several silver weddings, a few ruby anniversaries and at least one gold. Would we like to go back and do things differently? Perhaps. Would we choose the same life partner, given a second chance? Most definitely, yes!

When you set out on a long and difficult hike, you invest in a stout pair of shoes. When you set out on a marriage, you need a stout heart. Which is why, when you set out to meet at the altar, if you do not mean ‘I do’ please don’t.

Food, Glorious Food (or, an AI in an EI Kitchen – Part V)

The real rite of initiation for a new bride is her first stint in the marital kitchen (and I brook no argument!). For one who has never stepped into a kitchen before, the trepidation in advance and the ordeal that follows rivals any feat of endurance. Think of all the weapons of mass destruction – fierce flames, hot cavernous ovens, sharp knives, choppers and skewers, heavy skillets, pungent and dangerous condiments (when you chop a hot pepper, for heaven’s sake, don’t rub your itching eyes – a very novice error!) If you’ve been there done that, smile. If not, look forward to it. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.

But once the first terror has been overcome, the rest is a rollicking adventure as you pick up culinary skills that are at once unique and fascinating. And you can chuckle at the goof-ups that made you cringe. Thanks to an affectionate and helpful mother-in-law I was coaxed and coached into learning hubby’s favourite foods - like all good EIs, he loved variety and quantity on his plate. The highest accolade I could hope to achieve was ‘just like Mother’s’ (I never made the ‘better than’ grade). I was often regaled with stories of feasts and festivities and special dishes which now reside only in memory and imagination (mine!). I stuck to the daily fare and left the fancy to the more experienced hands. Occasionally, I would slip in a few AI variations. Hubby would take a tentative first spoonful and then utter a plaintive, ‘What’s this?’ He knew authenticity when he tasted it.

Over the years, I find that I have a acquired a goodly collection of recipes – EI, AI, local and international cuisines - which embrace the instructions received from hubby’s mum and sisters and also those gleaned from friends, cookbooks and magazines. The books (yes, I have many) have been well thumbed and the firm favourites splattered with tell-tale smudges - relics of the working kitchen. And now that I’m a battle-scarred veteran of the senior citizen's brigade, it is my turn to pass on the folklore, the helpful hints and tips. This is why I have decided to embark – very ambitiously – on a recipe book. I doubt very much that the next generation will find it useful, but they can read and dream.

So, if I am absent from my blog, you’ll know the reason why.

Dress Code

We are a people who are very partial to conformity – we love to recognize ‘others like us’, more often than not, through cultural backgrounds, dress, mannerisms, food habits, customs, residential location or our alma maters. There is that rush of excitement and recognition when we bump into those who share school and college memories even after years of no contact. And while there may be no special connect with the person you have met up with, there are common recollections of faculty, social functions and of course, the uniform – that unique badge of identity which every school flaunts.

Since I changed several schools through my Father’s army days, I also changed uniforms - some for the better and some for the worse.

My first and best was the uniform I donned at the Convent School in Chepstow Villas, London. Since England enjoys distinctly separate seasons – very cold and not so cold – we had two sets of uniforms, one for summer and one for winter. Summer saw us in cherry red striped frocks with brown shoes, white socks, cherry red blazers and straw bonnets with a ribbon band; winter wear was a woolen shirt topped by a pleated grey pinafore. Black shoes, grey socks, a thick grey coat and a grey felt brimmed hat completed the gear. We even had smocks to cover our uniform during art class or for anything that would cause us to get dirty!! I always felt dressed up and very ready to go to school. It also helped that I had friendly companions and a loving teacher!

When we returned to India, my school uniform was diverted for use as Sunday best, such was the quality, such was the look. And, yes, the winter wear came in mighty useful in India’s very cold north.

My next was a sky blue frock with white collar, cuffs and sash. There was no change for the seasons - come summer, winter or monsoon we wore the same cotton frocks. Since this was a co-ed school and skirts are apt to fly with the breeze, we were also encumbered by commodious bloomers elasticised at the waist and the knees. We could climb trees and indulge in less ladylike gymnastics without loss of dignity or so the nuns liked to believe. In the monsoon, we’d tuck our skirts into the waistband so that we could wade through knee deep puddles without our hems getting wet. We must have presented a pretty picture to the onlooker!! The local students who came from more orthodox families wore white salwars under their frocks and topped the whole off with a white dupatta. How we envied the boys their short shorts and tucked-in shirts.

From the north to the west, and my final school uniform. Here we had white blouses topped by a cream tunic and, since we had ‘houses’ to which we belonged, we also sported ties of the appropriate colour. Mine was blue. How I hated that uniform. The back was plain while the front had a heavy row of box pleats which made the tunic hang in front and ride up behind making it look very ungainly. Also, the cream colour showed up dirt and, in the time of leaky fountain pens and inadequate detergents, we tended to acquire ‘battle scars’ that were hard to erase. I had a strong desire to change schools only so that I could change my uniform! A very impractical and immature solution, but appearance is appearance even to the young, and more so to the teenager.

The most compelling reflection that comes to mind, fueled by glimpses of the current crop of school students, is that no matter how much the uniform attempts to make us conform to a common code of attire, the Good Lord made each of us unique with respect to shape and size and so the ‘uniform’ sits very distinctively on each schoolgirl frame!