Storms ruled the first thousand years of life.
By the time I claimed my room, I turned into a zombie...
Suspended somewhere between the worlds within and outside...
Vaguely aware of either...
But then, existence needs more meaning, and spectacles need a windowpane...
Right here, I found mine…

Who am I? An average woman - trying to work on my share of maze through layers of haze...

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Brooms, Mops and the World Beyond: Ganga’s Story

Didi, I noticed some cobwebs along the walls today. I’ll come early tomorrow and dust them off. You’ll be home all morning, right?”
I: “Huh! What cobwebs? Which walls?” 
….
….

Didi, umm… is bhaiyya too busy? Emmm … I was wondering if he could help me push this box cot. You see, the floor below hasn’t been swept or mopped for quite some time, and this cot is a bit heavy for me...  Just a few inches would do...”
I (post cot-shifting): “Ow, that’s a lot of dust! How the heck did it get there?”
….
….

I: “Ganga, there’s a huge pile of soiled utensils today. We had guests last night. Can you somehow do the heavy utensils? Sourav and I will wash the rest later.”
Ganga: “Oh, don’t bother yourself at all didi! Any household will have its share of guests. What good is a kaamwali (maid) who can’t wash a few extra utensils once in a while?”
….
….

Meet Ganga, our domestic help. To say the truth, I’ve often been just a wee bit jealous of quite a few things about her – say, her effervescent smile, and how she strikes up a warm conversation with all our guests without ever overstepping her boundaries, or her inherent proactiveness, or her apparent lack of complaints about the monotony of her job (or life, or anything in general), or the featherweight dignity with which she carries herself. In a discrimination free world, she’d probably be considered a better professional than me on any given day.  

Ganga’s kids never fail to me amaze me either. Aged eight and six, Karan and Arjun are friends with this entire ‘brigade’ of neighborhood kids. Children of IT employees and management executives shriek with them in ecstasy as they run behind each other to catch the ‘thief’ or roll in the sand together. On some mornings, the two wail in unison at the top of their voice – “Why do we have to go the school each and every day? Hadn’t we been good boys yesterday, Ma, and the day before that? Let us stay home and play today, pleeeeeeease.” Otherwise, they go to a small English medium school close by in tip-top dress, and Arjun even managed to top his class last year.

Ganga works from dawn to dusk as maid and/or cook in several households in the locality. Bahadur, her husband, serves as the security guard of our building and washes cars for some extra bucks. A small single room at the heart of our car parking zone, a rope charpoy laid outside it, and a toilet close to our boundary wall are what they call their home, sweet home.

A few weeks back, around 1-30 am, shrill, helpless shrieks of Karan and Arjun pierced through the night. “Uncle… uncle… save us… bnachaao… somebody… please help… ”. The sense of panic in their pleading voice intensified with clanging of metals, smashing of glass and random thuds. We rushed downstairs. And there we saw Ganga – an angry, distraught, complaining Ganga - with her eyes red and her face puffy, her cheeks laden with streams of tears.

“See how this monster has been beating up the kids, didi! He kicked me hard in my belly while I was sound asleep, and kept on kicking till I fell out of the cot. When I protested, didi, he turned his rage on the poor boys!”  

Ganga’s tolerance was spilt out on the floor amid flung out utensils and splattered rice grains. The trembling kids stood huddled in a corner, seeking safety in each other’s tightly-held palm.  A badly drunk Bahadur hurled the choicest of expletives at the small crowd that had gathered there.  Most of them were from the neighboring buildings and had been jolted out of sleep by the chaos. While some tried to pacify Bahadur or threaten him back to sobriety, others turned on us – “Why do you guys keep this drunkard as your security guard? We’ve complained on this issue before. You should talk to your association and get him replaced straightaway.” If Bahadur lost his job, it would cost his family their current shelter and much more. That night, I stopped being jealous of Ganga.

What does Ganga do if her husband turns rogue? – I found myself mulling over the question for the next couple of days, when she let her guards down and shared the darker pieces of her life with me.

Bahadur, when drunk, sometimes contemplated deserting her for a better wife; a wife who’d drink along with him and bring masti to his life. His friends told him that his wife spoke way too much, and that he beat her up way too less than he ought to. It was not Bahadur’s fault that he was swayed by their advice, believed Ganga. He was orphaned early and grew up awaara (like a vagrant) among these spoilt bewra-s (boozers). It was not her family’s fault either that they had married her off at a tender age to a drunkard twenty years older to her. Her father was run over to death by a car when she was just seven, and the family lost its only source of income. The girls could not be educated and had to be married off early so that the meager left-behind savings could be utilized for the education of the sons.

Apparently, it was nobody’s fault that Ganga was stuck where she was stuck. Apparently, there was no respite. Apparently, as it dawned on her when her sense of hurt subsided, she could rather do without complaining – for she was much better off as compared to the rest of her lot. They got thrashed daily; she got thrashed once in a couple of months.

Other than the poisons of deep-rooted patriarchy and wealth disparity that afflicts the entire sub-continent, is there any other factor that contributes to Ganga’s vulnerability to abuse?

Is she capable of working hard enough to provide independently for her sons and herself? May be.

Does she have a minimal job security? If she were to be bedridden for a couple of weeks and irregular to work for another month or so, say due to a relapse of the severe anemia she had last year, how many jobs would she retain? How would she cover the regular expenses for the period of her joblessness in the absence of a paid notice period and a fallback bank balance? Does her salary allow her to save for rainy days? And what about the rising healthcare costs? Can the Gangas of our country afford health insurance coverage for themselves and their family?

Is it justified that the profession of a domestic help should squeeze away her time and energy as long she is healthy and capable, and in turn guarantee her almost nothing beyond two square meals a day? How much disadvantage would it put us in if our maids were legally entitled to formal employment contracts with minimum wage policies to be adhered to, in addition to a weekly day off and a certain number of sick leaves per year? How much would it benefit the country to have its huge sector of domestic workforce formalized? 

Bahadur has been sober for the past three weeks, and Ganga smiles a lot. But Ganga’s smile is fragile. And now I know the sparkle in Karan and Arjun’s eyes to be less perennial than it seems to be. So let us take a peek at the alien world from which numerous alien hands emerge every morning to sweep our floors, dust our furniture, cook our meals and keep our happy households running. What do our eyes see? What do our hearts say?

Acknowledge. Share. Raise a mass concern if you feel so. 

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Mosses, Tombstones and a Lingering Morning, May 26, 2014

Lt Col. Miss Violet David “Sunbeam” rose from her grave and beamed at me with the quiet radiance of the springtime sun. I smiled back gratefully. The last couple of minutes had had me wondering about the curious title engraved next to her name on her epitaph. Now I knew.

It was the morning of May 26, 2014, our third and final day in Ooty, and Sourav and I had sauntered to the cemetery behind St. Stephen’s Church in search of some good photographic subjects. The dead didn’t approve. With my lens aimed at the nooks and crevices of their mossy tombstones and broken crosses, we were unwelcome intruders. The tall trees that spread out their hundred and one arms to form the wall that holds the churchyard a world apart from the rest of Ooty conveyed to us that we had stepped into a sacred place. So did the birds and the crickets that chirped in a rather measured tone, and the sun that shone sparingly through the foliage. We packed our gadgets away.

The cemetery, with its many decrepit colonial era tombs covered with layers of fallen leaves, mosses and wild flowers, teemed with a silent consciousness. Fragments of a long-lost Ooty stay trapped here, in the collective memory of all who lay here. A Major General William Pitt Macdonald, Madras Staff Corps, sat stone-faced at a lonely corner of his grave. It was the 12th of March, 1867 when he had passed away – says his epitaph. His face, with its innumerable lines and wrinkles, had witnessed the rolling of decades with the deepest impassivity. A Victor David “Sunbeam” strolled past us, hand in hand with Violet. They had died as recently as 2007 and 2011 respectively, and their distinctively unscathed black marble tombstones stood out rather as misfits amid the surrounding unkemptness. A few ill-fated Brit kids, who had succumbed to various epidemics more than a century ago, loosely gathered around us. Their eyes for sure had stories to tell. Their ears thirsted for tales of all the newness that continually unfolded in the world beyond the church and the trees – and was yet beyond their reach.

We couldn’t speak to each other. I wish we could. Their voice is too subtle for us, and ours, disturbingly loud for them. They are creatures made of thin air, and when they were more than air, they had treaded the same lanes of Ooty that we tread today.  They belonged to families that founded, planned, built Ooty and served in its armies.

That afternoon, we started back for Bangalore, thus concluding my third trip to Ooty. The ethereal morning spent at St. Stephen’s, of course, is destined to remain etched in my memory as a precious takeaway for years to come.



How to Drive a Driver, May 25, 2014


Telescope House, Doddabetta Peak
Ooty, on Day 2 of our stay, thrust upon us this driver who'd get cold feet at the very sight of a traffic congestion! He'd grumble and whine, and look as sad and miserable as a forlorn puppy, only to get us out of his car. He'd prod us to walk 3 kilometers uphill to visit a point of interest, while he'd park his car somewhere downhill and enjoy a sweet nap. Sourav would consider obliging, I would turn defiant, my osteo-arthritis afflicted MIL would get into panic and my DIL would diligently try to play the referee in the ensuing chaos. 

"Let's arrive at a decision.", he'd say. "Do we, or do we not, want to see this place? Is it, or is it not, worth an hour of uphill walk? In case it is, does that leave us enough time to cover the rest of the sightseeing points by evening? And in case it is not, is it feasible for him to turn his car back?" His questions would have the precision to invoke a clear-cut majority rule, and yet we'd debate on hopelessly and haplessly to the point of a deadlock. The driver would be pestered a few more times to line up behind the stagnant queue of cars, and he'd nod like a stubborn mule, looking sadder and sadder with each passing minute. Finally we'd budge and decide to give the place a miss, and voila, the traffic ahead of us would suddenly start moving! We'd unanimously cheer, only to land up in the same soup, or loop, in the next 10 minutes - the takeaway lesson being, NEVER visit Ooty in the peak of the tourist season!!!

The view from Telescope House

Anyways, if I manage to ignore the element of unentertaining 'loopiness' that prevailed throughout the day, and one particular episode of our driver running into serious trouble with the policemen, and yet another all-the-more-inexplicable episode of us actually having to walk 3 km through mostly traffic-less roads and fields to discover the parked vehicle, the day turned out to be good. We visited the Doddabetta Peak, the highest point in Ooty, and caught a lovely glimpse of the surrounding hill slopes through one of the telescopes maintained in the Telescope House. We also enjoyed a demonstration of the tea-making process and machinery, along with a complimentary cup of Nilgiri Tea, at the Doddabetta Tea Factory. By the time we left Doddabetta to travel to Coonoor, our car dickey was filled with boxes of many sizes and shapes, all holding Nilgiri Tea in its many available flavors. 

While Coonoor itself offers some splendid viewpoints - Dolphon's Nose, Lamb's Rock and Lady Canning’s Seat - that provide breathtaking panoramic views of the lush Nilgiris, the journey to and fro Coonoor turned out to be no less visually fulfilling. As we meandered from one slope to another along the serpentine hillside paths, each turn brought forth a yet new look of the layered Nilgiri greenery - be it in the form of its untamed forests, grass-covered valleys or wide tea and coffeee plantations. 

Ensuing Dusk
On our way back to Maruthi Cottages, we briefly touched a very happening Ooty Lake brimming with adults and kids alike, with hundreds of people lined up at the Boat House to avail the paddle and motor boating facilities. The day wrapped up with Sourav and I taking a long semi-aimless stroll to the serene St. Stephen's Church, and along the busy streets of Charring Cross, and we ended up buying more handmade chocolates, 'Varkees' and aromatic spices for ourselves and our friends back in Bangalore and Kolkata.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

An Ooty Downpour, May 24, 2014


This post has been selected for BlogAdda's TangyTuesday Picks (July 1, 2014).

It was not the first time Ooty saw me. She had, in fact, known me back in 2008, much before I got married, even before I shifted to Bangalore. The wind under my wings had grown curiously strong those days, and they could fly me from Kolkata to Hyderabad to Bangalore to Ooty, all in a single weekend, at the drop of a hat. Prior bookings? Who cared 'bout them? Hectic schedules? Who gave a damn? 

But now that I am married, and (therefore) chubbier, and have Lazy-lazy-lazybonesourav as my husband, and was travelling for the first time with my new parents, things were different. Full-sleeper bus berths were booked via Redbus well in advance, and MakeMyTrip hotel listings were scanned and re-scanned to achieve absolute unanimity of choice. The results were somewhat lukewarm. While I snored gracefully (or so my husband claims) throughout the night of our journey (from Bangalore to Ooty), the rest of the folks
 had sleep rattled out of their eyes and bones by the jerky ride. And the first glance of the hotel we had booked, Maruthi Cottages, had us suspect the plus-fifty praise-gushing MakeMyTrip/TripAdvisor reviewers to be bots. 

Ooty welcomed us with a torrential downpour that had Sourav and I undertake nothing short of an adventure in order to procure lunch. Our hotel offered no dining or room service facilities, though their website designer had the gifted imagination to advertise separate vegetarian and non-vegetarian restaurants in the premise. We ate, watched the rains, sneaked into our blankets, still watched the rains, slept, dreamt of an Ooty in floods, and finally woke up to a lovely, mildly rain-sodden evening tempting us to step out. We ventured out to the Botanical Gardens that was muddy, splashy and on the verge of a stampede, courtesy to an impressive flower show, an unimpressive cultural event and some ministerial visit. Maruthi Cottages turned out to be stone's throw away from Charring Cross, the commercial center of Ooty. And we somewhat forgave the bots on MakeMyTrip after tasting some of the renowned handmade chocolates sold in the shops lined along Charring Cross. 


Night descended with the gleam of a thousand meditating fireflies seated on the hill slopes. We watched mesmerized, only until one of the two supposedly out-of-order TVs in our cottage sprang back to life. City humans, alas, give in to the lure of the idiot box a little too quickly. Some random IPL match, some more heavenly chocolates, a few more clicks, reminiscence of many other hillside trips, and with that, our Day I at Ooty came to its closure.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Pipi's Summer (Part-II)



The train rocked violently – but there was music to it. It was nowhere close to the ‘ku..uuu jhik jhik’ Pipi was made to expect, but rather a thundering form of ‘ghanta ghatang ghanta ghatang ’ in a never-ending loop.  It was a rhythm that initially sounded scary – as if the train was being ripped to pieces, as if the boxes were being crushed with a monstrous hammer - and her heart thumped wildly to the very same music. But when enough time passed, Pipi came to like it. Just in the way she liked the howling of wind during a raging storm, or the roar of thunder amid the pitter-patter of rain. 

She braced herself up and walked to the first bed of their box. “Hi, I’m Pipi.” – She introduced herself. “I’m going to my mamabari for the first time. My mamabari  has Dadu, Dida, Boro Mama, Mejo Mama, Oli Didi, Riku Dada, Chhoto Mashi, and… and… ”. She briefly paused to remember all the names Ma had told her. But everyone around giggled and pressed her cheeks so hard that the girl got all messed up. Grown-ups sometimes did things that Pipi despised with all her heart. It always hurt her when people pressed her cheeks. They turned rosy and tingled. And grown-ups found it funny!

To add insult to injury, a very plump lady then tried to lift her up to her lap, with complete disregard to the frown on her face, and offered her some toffees. Didn’t Pipi immediately know that she was in the hands of a kidnapper! She hurried off to the other beds, her heart pounding again to the rhythm of the train. 

Fortunately, no one tried to kidnap her again that night. Rather, people on the rest of the beds opened their eyes wide in surprise when she told them that her Shona Mama could play a REAL mandolin, and that her Ranga Mama had a pet German Spitz! The girl gained a dozen of new grandpas, grandmas, uncles and aunties in the next couple of hours.

“Trains are good places to be IN”, she told herself, although she couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to sit ON the train with her Mom and newfound friends, and touch all the clouds on their way to the land of mama-s.



Finally Pipi came to the last bed in their box, where a knight sat reading a book! On the opposite bed, Snow White munched an apple! They had hair of gold, their eyes were as blue as the evening sky, and they were taller than anyone Pipi had seen in her entire life! The girl was so astonished that she stood looking at them for a very long time, trying to figure out if they were fairer than the banana milk shake Ma would often prepare for her. Finally, running back to Ma, she asked her to come and have a really good look at them so that she could find such a boy for her to marry. But Ma burst out laughing and no one knew why!

Pipi went so grumpy at this latest instance of despicable-grown-up-act that she herself asked Ma to put her on the highest and scariest bed in their area. And there she lay all by herself, occasionally making faces at the bunny-toothed boy sitting a few beds away. Luckily, the boy replied by rolling his tongue in and out while pulling his right earlobe down with his left hand and vice versa. Wasn’t it by far the BEST new thing Pipi had learnt in that entire day? She couldn’t wait to demonstrate it to Papa once he rejoined them at mamabari!

Shortly, Ma climbed up to lie beside her. And as usual, she right away went to sleep hugging her so tight that Pipi could no longer sit up to look around. With nothing else to do, she thought and thought. Were all babies born with black eyes, and did only a few pair of eyes ripen later to become blue, brown or green? If it indeed did work that way, would Pipi’s eyes turn blue as well when she grew up? Wouldn’t enough talcum powder make her look fairer than Snow White? 


Finally her thought-train halted at the hair of gold, and Pipi missed Papa again. Rapunzel, Cinderella, Snow White and most of the fairies, dwarfs and princes in her picture books had strands of gold on their head, but none in their apartment block had so. The girl had crucial questions to ask, but Papa wasn’t there. And all her thoughts had left her in yawns. So she dug her face into her Ma’s neck and cuddled up under the blanket.

And then the train, the first real train Pipi had ever seen, rocked her away to the station of sleep. 

Notes and Translations:

Mamabari: Mother’s home or maternal uncles’ place.
Dadu: Maternal grandpa
Dida: Maternal grandma
Mama: Maternal uncle (mother’s brother)
Mashi: Maternal auntie (mother’s sister)
Boro: Eldest
Mejo: Second eldest
Chhoto: Youngest
Didi: Elder sister or female cousin
Dada: Elder brother or male cousin

Pipi's Summer (Part-I)


As some of you will remember, this chapter has already been published in the same blog in Mar'13. However, subsequent reads made me hate the original write-up to the point that I was driven to rewrite it.


When little Pipi finally saw a REAL train, she was so upset that she hardly wanted to travel to mamabari any longer.

Well, it was a chain of boxes alright - and that too with doors, windows and wheels which her matchbox-train didn’t have. But as luck would have it, they expected Pipi to sit IN a box, and not ON it!

Pipi went all grumpy while Papa carried her into one of the boxes and got her seated beside a window with rusty metal rods.  The scariest of beds, high and still higher, hung all around. One look at them, and she knew that the naughtiest of kids would be banished to the upmost beds. There they’d have to sit alone all through the night until the train reached mamabari, or worse, they fell down and broke their teeth!


The poor girl was so scared that her heart galloped like a race horse and her teeth began to chatter. All she could think of was to curl up in Papa’s lap and be the quietest little kid the world had ever known.

But to her utter surprise, Papa touched her chin, ran his hands through the curly mess of her hair, asked her to be a good girl and strode towards the door of the box. In the blink of an eye, he was standing on the other side of the window – waving goodbye to them! And the real shocker was the huge, unruffled yawn let out by Ma, following which she too waved back at Papa. No questions were asked. No eyebrows were raised. Poor Pipi finally realized that she had fallen prey to yet another hush-hush conspiracy of the grown-ups.

Now the box was full of huffing, puffing, sweating and jostling strangers Pipi had never met before. As tears swelled up in her eyes, Pipi could almost hear them whisper to each other – ‘Who’s this girl with a bird’s nest for hair? Now see what an annoying crybaby she’ll turn out to be!’ With her face pressed hard against the rusty rods, the girl whimpered as softly as she could; but Papa showed no sign of moving back inside. Rather the floor started swinging, there was a loud and very long whistle, and he just shifted slowly out of the window without moving his legs!

Pipi couldn’t believe that Papa had a real pair of roller shoes, and he’d never bothered to show them to her! How much more could she take in one single evening?


Decidedly, Pipi boohooed out - loud and louder. She had to have Papa back. What if she never saw Papa again? What would she do without Papa? How could she make the train move backwards so that her Papa could board it? Why did nobody listen to her?

Pipi decided she’d flood the entire train with her tears and drown all the staring, whispering strangers, unless they did something to bring her Papa back. And she’d definitely have tried it out hadn’t Ma wiped her tears away with a hanky that smelt of fresh jasmines. Pipi loved jasmines. Unlike the loud roses, the jasmines in the small grilled balcony of their apartment spoke to her with a warmth that smelt of truth. She chose to believe Ma when she told her that Papa would join them in a day or two – and right at her mamabari

Meanwhile, it was getting dark outside. Wind blew in through her window. Lights and giant shades of many a shape ran in a mad rush outside their box. “Has the train entered a magic tunnel?” – wondered Pipi. Initially she was excited and curious. But within an hour or so, her eagerness gave way to monotony. The tunnel grew dark and darker until all the shapes merged into each other – and all she could see was the strange assortment of tiny lights spread out high above and below.

“Who knew how far the tunnel stretches – may be right up to the land of the mama-s!” - She thought before she turned her attention to the many odd faces around. And for the first time, she felt somewhat sad that they’d all go away to their own mamabari-s, never to meet her again, once the train reached its station. 

Pipi decided to talk to them. 

Notes and Translations:

Mamabari: Mother’s home or maternal uncles’ place.
Dadu: Maternal grandpa
Dida: Maternal grandma
Mama: Maternal uncle (mother’s brother)
Mashi: Maternal auntie (mother’s sister)
Boro: Eldest
Mejo: Second eldest
Chhoto: Youngest
Didi:Elder sister or female cousin
Dada: Elder brother or male cousin

NEXT

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Pipi's Summer (Part-I)









When Pipi finally saw a REAL train, she was SO UPSET that she hardly knew whether she still wanted to travel to mamabari!

Well, it was a chain of boxes alright - and that too with doors, windows and wheels which her matchbox-train didn’t have. But as luck would have it, they expected Pipi to sit IN a box, and not ON it!

Pipi went all grumpy while Ma and Papa carried her into one of the boxes and got her seated beside a window.  The scariest of beds - high and still higher - hung all around. Although no one told her about it, didn’t Pipi know for sure that all the naughty kids would be put on the uppermost beds, and they could NEVER EVER come down unless they turned really good!

Then Papa touched Pipi's chin, ran his hands through the curly mess of her hair, asked her to be a lokkhi meye and walked away. Even before she could start wondering, Papa was standing on the OTHER side of the window and waving at them.

Now the box was full of uncles and aunties Pipi had never met before. So she started with a soft whimpering – and saved bawling for later.  But Papa still showed no sign of moving back to HER side of the window. Rather, the floor started swinging, there was a LOUD and LOOOONG whistle, and Papa just shifted slowly out of the window WITHOUT moving his legs!  To think of that Papa had never bothered to tell Pipi that he had a REAL pair of roller shoes!




Of course, Pipi bawled out loud this time – and why would she stop unless Papa was back? But Ma wiped her tears away with a pink towel-hanky that smelt REALLY good, and told her that Papa would join them in a day or two.  Pipi chose to believe her.