Growl and Squeak

As I revive my very rusty keyboard skills, I am taken back in time to all those occasions when they were intermittently resurrected to accompany congregations and rag-tag choirs in two different parishes.

We had the loveliest little reed organ, in our parish church, with the sweetest sound. One needed to coordinate hands moving horizontally on the keyboard with feet pumping the pedals in vertical motion, but the resultant melody rewarded the most basic of skills with an almost professional output. Coaxed by the musician priest in our parish, I reluctantly graduated from bashing the school piano with the mandatory daily rendering of Chopsticks and the Devil’s March as we processed to class from assembly. He wrote the music, taught me the chords and the fingering and encouraged me to practice and, hopefully, improve. It also helped that he sang like an angel and while he led from the pulpit, I played confidently, comfortably hidden away behind a handy pillar and out of view of the congregation. The church used to be packed to the doorways in those days. These are some of my happiest memories. The priest is no more, but the music is still with me.

Then, I grew up, married and moved. A new home, a new parish, a new priest and the time of electronic keyboards – just plug in and play! The parish had been established for some time but the church structure was still in the making, so what we had was four walls topped with corrugated roofing. The congregations was somewhat rustic in comparison to my earlier parish, and I soon found myself playing to a tempo that galloped in contrast to the more sedate accompaniment that I had been schooled in. Buoyant and hearty would be an apt description! No matter how loud or slow the accompaniment, the congregation forged ahead in happy unison and full voice to the pace that they enjoyed. I was younger, my fingers more flexible and I soon learnt to keep up!! I was joined by a violinist and a guitarist and together with the lead vocalist, who thankfully also had a lovely voice, the music of the liturgy became an event we all looked forward to. Tucked away in memory are the Nativity and Easter vigil services, when voices soared to heaven under the stars, at the open air services. I also remember the monsoons when an umbrella had to be unfurled over the keyboard to save it from the rain coming through the holey roof. (Sorry, bad pun!) We enjoyed the sublime and the sometimes ridiculous and took it all in our stride.

Then, once again, a change of residence. This time, the parish had no need of my keyboard skills and they lay dormant for over twenty years. Other occupations and distractions kept me busy. Today, as I rediscover the keyboard in its newest avatar, with a variety of ‘bells and whistles’ at my disposal, and grope my way through key signatures, timing and tempo, I am reminded of how often I have had to adjust and readjust to the range enjoyed by the lead singer and congregation – too low and they growl, too high and they squeak. Singing is supposed to be all about the music and the melody, but one gets to encounter many unexpected sounds in the repertoire! Ultimately, it all comes right on the day. Nine times out of ten. Fingers crossed.

From all my experience, two things have remained with me: it is the splendid music of the liturgy that holds me in thrall to my faith – a tradition that has been handed down from generations and rises like incense to God. What a legacy! And the other is that, with encouragement, even a meagre talent can bloom!

The Grass is Still Green

I am not a Facebook aficionado, but one has to keep up with the times and the news of family and friends, so I have joined the herd. I check in occasionally to see what is happening, but most times I forget that it is there until an email pops into my box reminding me of messages, birthdays and ‘friend requests’. The other day a more unusual message met the eye – my photo had been tagged. I followed the link, so helpfully provided, to find that a young friend had labeled me as being ‘very rich’. Annoyance gave way to humour. But then humour gave way to introspection. How do others really see us? How do we see ourselves?

When the majority of our people are without shelter, clothes, proper food, education and are denied much of their due and when I have all these then, by comparison, I am certainly well-off.

I have a loving and supportive family and a small but close and understanding group of friends whom I can turn to when in need and that is wealth indeed.

I have enjoyed the benefit of an excellent education which means that I am employable and can earn enough to put jam on the bread and butter. As the billboard outside the Anglican Church says: ‘When you know that you have enough, you are rich.’

I have also enjoyed my rights as a citizen of my country with freedom and without fear, albeit with some hassles which now appear insignificant when viewed against a comparative backdrop. This means that I am certainly better off than those who need to do interminable battle for what is their entitlement.

I have kicked off my senior citizen year with my health and faculties in good order (by my standard at least!). And that is an immeasurable blessing.

Though there is much I would like to change – I have known insecurity and I have known grief - at this point in time, it is obvious to me that the grass is still green on my side of the fence.

Therefore, I am not just rich, but very rich indeed. Thank you, my young friend, for reminding me.

The picture in the frame

At four floors up, our hospital ward provides us a bird’s eye view of the surroundings. I use the phrase quite literally: two sets of pigeons are roosting on the AC fans outside the windows. One pair is sitting on eggs while the other is nursing two hatchlings. And, since hubby’s bed is near the window, we share the same lookout.

The view spans the hospital backyard and the by-lanes and buildings beyond. On the nearer horizon, is a wide and heavy gateway. Strong pillars support an ornate horizontal beam – too narrow to be a canopy, too broad to be termed a strip. And as the scenes of life unfold, this gateway provides a temporary surround to an ever shifting tableau.

Caught within the frame, today, were five schoolgirls, laden backpacks in place but uniforms askew, chatting animatedly. They were replaced by a young boy walking an exuberant puppy, the red of the collar and leash a bright contrast to the puppy’s firm cream coat. After a small hiatus, the ‘frame’ was filled by a man trundling a barrel on a handcart. He was succeeded by a gaggle of local matrons, gaudily attired in nylon saris, on their way to the shops in the maze of by-lanes that characterize the locality. A couple of nurses going off duty walk swiftly through. Two little boys persuade their bicycles forward, the training wheels providing unnecessary traction. A young man, eyes fixed on the paper in hand, pauses to get his bearings. He accosts a couple of gents entering ‘stage left’. A short conversation later, they go their divergent ways.

In the afternoon, the ‘frame’ remains empty. It casts a shadow on the road below, lending a watchful tranquility to this somnolent time of day. Even the inanimate deserves a siesta!

Come evening, the light fails gradually into sunset. In slow motion ‘still life’, the vegetable vendor lays out his produce, while sparrows peck at the seeds and leaves – their final scrounge for the day.

Each moment presents new pictures for the viewing, a little bit of detail against the larger canvas in the background and a welcome distraction from the ward within; it provides the opportunity to speculate and daydream and weave a little fiction of my own.

I have no talent with brush and paint, but if ever an artist needed inspiration, he – or she – would find it here; a sketch already composed and framed!

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!

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.