Two red roses and chocolate.

Thank you :-)

Forrest Gump said, "Life is a box of chocolates."

Never an expectation, but yes, it was a very pleasant surprise.
Trust me to not notice the surprise. The view from the magic keyhole is always not the complete picture.The lil' slice of life from there is concave and convex from both sides.

Life has more to it and, our journey has begun with/without roses and chocolates --our hands are full aand folded in prayer, hope, faith, trust,dreams, happiness, fear of the uncertain and the unknown. The blooming buds and the love and warmth of the chocolate hold us together for better tomorrows.

The sentiment wrapped around each petal of the rose and the prayer whispered in each blooming bud for a loved one is what makes the rose special for both the giver and the receiver.

Every rose has a story to tell. Chocolates, well. The same story in a breath of sweet fondness.

Smiles.

Buddha in the dumps

Not quite out of sight. I guess, this is a result of spring cleaning before Deepavali. Not many of us enjoy watching a municipal bin but this is what I dont necessarily have to endure but well, it falls in my vision exercise in the morning when some maids do catch up on their saab-maedom gossip. Occasionally, a young rag-picker or a slightly older one would be seen scavenging for some stray fortune or mostly, separating plastics and glass.

Today, the Laughing Buddha has found an unusual home - the top shelf of a GHMC bin, quite the cynosure of all eyes. Feng Shui believers must have found a chink in the old man's armour ( i think he is non-violent and non-aligned!) and left him to his condition.
He is still smiling and laughing.
He is still rejoicing after being dumped.
But He stands tall despite the dregs around him.
He still spreads cheer and smiles.
He is my hero for the day, he still brings good luck to many.
Smiles.

No prologue and epilogue

Scene 1

As i walk into the not-so-hallowed but well-grilled gates of my college after a blissful 2 week Puja vacation, an-always-manages to look hassled and important, colleague roars in her car without a honk or a hoot. I saw her from the corner of my left eye and also, had this tiny-winy gut feeling, she might just do the impossible of mowing me down despite my awareness. In 3 secs she proved me right. Despite Tony Uncle and Nirmal Bhaiyya hey-heyying her to stop her car and also, a bevy of young girls criss-crossing her path, she chose to accidentally knock me. She did. I dint fall. i walked on, her vehicle just kept nudging me without. Weird. Finally, i turned around, she dint realise I was giving her one of those to-be-stoned looks. Anyway, the matter dissolved almost quietly. I checked her car, it was the humble humara maruti 800 and what pride she had like she was vrooming in a CRV.At the office, I slowed my pace, she could not avoid me. The apology was reluctant and my pride spontaneous. A cheeky one which would leave a seasoned one at the wheel red - " Looks like you are learning.."

Scene 2

An RTC bus breaks down,axle and brake and some handful of lives on board. I was seated behind the driver.We were asked to get off. The conductor stops a running bus and fellowspeak, we were on board the new bus without any fuss and fare. Impressed.Duty, obligation and responsibility.Public servants ( not bureacrats).And we still call them public servants. Sigh.

Scene 3

Shared rick-rides, slightly more economical and minus the precariousness of hanging on one leg on the footboard or bored hanging inside an RTC bus in the evening.The knave took the wrong road, a lil display of stern straightens a sinning snake also. But the no-change/9 rupaiya hai got me on the right side of his wrong side.He thought i was mad, yes i am but his fingers would go off if he dared to wave them at me. Saved 2 rupees in the bargain. Jaago grahak jaago.

Scene 4

Another rick-ride,i complete the 3 women in the backseat quota. One prospectively coy passenger got him greedy of 4 rupees and driver fella asks me to adjust and squeeze my companion on the right.I yelled at the passenger asking why she is keen on sitting on somebody else's lap. Then the fella and i indulged in Gandhigiri talk. He got an earful and a decent mouthful of teacher-talk. He thought i was too much when i asked him to carry the passenger on his lap.Cut the crap of ladies and gents. If he forced us, i threatened to cut the fare, pro-rate you know..

Scene 5

Home. I never spoke so much with my man over phone as much as i did with Customer Care Service for update of info related to my debit/credit cards recovery and the jazz.


A Happy Finito.

Homeward bound and anchored

Mom and my mobile alarm woke me up at 5, a call from 7 seas away brought a smile. Early morning haggling with the auto guy to reach the airport shuttle point, some festival tip to the maid and in 10 mins I was there, took my ticket and was too too excited to reach the airport - home, in some hours. 40 mins of light sleep and there I was, wheeled my stuff in, got my boarding pass. Looked around, a lot of Bengalis on flight, lot of saree bags and gifts for loved ones, newly-weds returning home for their first puja and some first time parents who din’t know how to keep their baby quiet thanks to wrong carrying postures or just plain indifference to understand what the toddler wants.
Kolkata stopover was brief but cool, I boarded the flight to Ghy and realised my wallet was missing. All my cards, 2 grand in cash and my identity papers were there. Flashback dint help me either. Tense and restless, the plane also hovered mid-air trying to dodge bad weather. Ghy was relieving, ran into papa’s arms. He still looked as handsome and vibrant as ever. The journey to Shillong brought back a flood of memories. I feel I am no longer as resilient, god, I threw up a couple times. I had not eaten a thing. Reached home, chilled to the bone. Mom looked a lil aged but both of us were so happy to see each other. Mama’s hug and I wept like a child. The missing wallet story upset everyone. I was busy calling helplines and blocking misuse of my cards. All well and a quip from papa, that I had extra money and some taxes to pay…that’s why divine intervention of the missing wallet. The precious things were my family pictures and a Ganesh ji pic given by a loved one. Dinner and I was fast asleep. Mobile switched off and bags half unpacked.
The next morning was a huge surprise, I saw papa in a kitchen apron wake me up with my toothbrush in his hand and asked me to go freshen up and that breakfast was ready. Woohoo, a propah English breakfast and we were expected to finish all ablutions before 11am. I did nothing but unpack and handover gifts. I slept again some unfinished sleep. The next one week was pure bliss. Mom and papa went to see the doctor, happy tidings. Mom wanted to cook and doc was more than happy she should do some light work. We took care of the heavy cleaning and washing. The only cooking legacy I took from Hyd was how to prepare upma and yes, one morning was upma breakfast. They thought it was the quickest preparation. The only thing missing was curry leaves and almonds.
Mom prepared my favourite momos and noodles. Week long feast. They insisted I must shop for a puja dress and shoes and of course, a wallet. I must have had some 20 at one go, chutney was home-made. Tongue-tickling and whacking.
Puja was fun, I met Surajit and his folks. I caught up with Koyal and Sujoy, Digvijay and Doyel. Bro and sis wanted to treat me. Both days of eating out, I paid the bill. One at Bar-be-Q and the other, my personal favourite, City Dhaba. Met some old students. We were asked to come have khichhdi at some mandaps. We got home dabbas of them, had them for breakfast. Mom and papa wanted to have dosas. Jeez, I was so taken aback. I packed 2 masala dosas and one paneer dosa from Madras Café, Chennai Junction dint serve very good chutneys. Lot of sweets, mishti doi and kheer.
I begged my sister to get me some aloo chat from that old time bhaiya who sits near Lady Hydari Park. She informs, he no longer sits there but near the Survey gate. Whatever, she never had time to get any and I was never motivated to walk there alone. So mom and I prepared something similar at home, it lacked the street side masala-tic appeal but it was many times safer and hygienic.
So, I approached my brother to get me egg-rolls from the Keatinge road chap, and yes, he dint disappoint me. Trust me, it is the best in India, it beats the Kolkata guys on Park Street. All for 9 rupees. I remember paying 3 rupees when I was in class 2. But it still had the same charm and taste, that small place is still a furnace and people don’t stop coming there. I had loads of egg rolls.
The Glory's Plaza pani-puri man has more competitors, I went beserk having a plateful at Lite Bites. The stuffing is glorioius and the pani tangy.
Irresistible weakness for eggs, I became a lil’ conscious and I was petrified of some break-outs on my face. They did. But my puja was not ruined. I still had more of them.
On Navami, I wanted to be at the Polo Matri Mandir. My favourite Lord Shiva and Ma Durga. I did some spring cleaning at home, since my feet were sore from walking in new shoes.
My bro and sis were pretty mad with me coz I dint walk enough with them. Shillong is ageing. The road-car ratio is the second highest in India. We waited for ages to get a cab, the Maruti 800. We paid 50 bucks, more than 3 times and came in an auto. How we laughed at our grandness. In Shillong, you cut a sorry figure if you travel by auto.My sis vowed to do pandal-hopping the next year in a car. Papa does not want to buy one now coz there is no parking space.
Lunches and rendezvous with dear friends. Some frozen moments for keepsake. I felt a lil’ miserable to be not waking up to papa’s brush alarm.
There were those sibling fights and they made it lovingly ouch for me by calling my age aloud that I have not changed nevertheless. Of course.A Shillongite never does.
Shilllong, I love you.
Mom, dad, I love you a lot.
Bro and sis, muah muah.

At 62-plus, where is that Indian-ness?

When the nation turns 63 today, patriotism and Indian-ness is such a relative concern. My part of the country, Meghalaya and the NE region of the country has seen independence day observations of a certain kind - decades of ethnic violence and reconciliation - a constant struggle with identity. In colonial times, there were two princely territories and undivided Assam. The two princely states are present day Manipur and Tripura, remnants of royalty can be seen until date. Undivided Assam per the States Reorganisation Act of 1971 and later gave birth to Nagaland, Mizoram, Meghalaya and we had NEFA, now Arunachal Pradesh. The struggle is not over. The NE region of India is rich and diverse with tribes and smaller tribes, each with a distinct identity and ethnicity. They don’t come under the media glare so much like the Red Indians do in Uncle Sam’s, they are fierce about their preservation of their community. Indian-ness as a concept is not absolute and binding, of one voice over the other. But there is a clear unacknowledged divide of the mainland and the hinterland. Each one of us is very proud of the heritage and legacy we have inherited and are ambassadors in our lil’ capacity.

Interestingly, history is full of tales of crossroads of national and regional moments of glory, strife and sacrifice. Manipur had Bir Tikendrajit fighting the common enemy of sovereignty, the colonial British forces. Present day Meghalaya was predominantly Hindu/pagan comprising the tribes of Khasis, the Jaintias and the Garos. The Khasis fought under U Tirot Sing. Undivided Assam gave the nation many Gandhians and reformers. The Welsh missionaries and the Salesians set up churches, hospitals and schools, the popular notion of the NE being a western society began then. Naturally blessed with heavenly dales and unexplored virgin territory, the clean air and the pristine-ness. Not as flamboyant and rich as Europe, but it was no less.

The 1971 Indo-Pak war’s result was Bangladesh. Pre-partition times had people in the region going to Dhaka and Sylhet to meet friends and relatives, study and trade. Things changed overnight. The influx of communal riot victims to the Brahmaputra Valley took away scarce national resources and means. The immigrants are survivors, to snatch opportunity and set up a comfortable haven not alien to them. I still have friends who suffer humiliating comments on the basis of their religion and where they come from. The locals are also bitter, and from a fun loving hospitable race they have become insecure and need inner line permits for non-locals. Absolute dynastic non-mainstream power corrupts badly. The region suffered in the hands of some Mammon worshippers. The youth went mad, some protested, some gave up school and work, some became militants. The region wept blood. It is limping back to normalcy, the prodigal sons are making it happen after realising that someone malicious is misleading them for some other intent. Many jingoistic rebels felt, they were accidently born and proclaimed Indians. Only natural. The on-the-fence intelligentsia and the yellow-journalism driven elite play safe and want to be politically correct. How simplicity is bruised. People lived the trauma of ethnic killings, mothers wept their bosoms at factional violence. Unsuspecting victims of violence and bitterness. It took music and grit to heal the wounds, and take the bull by the horns. Terrorism became a business, the centre provided crores of funds, wonder if those funds actually made sense-- never saw much of security and para-military stuff doing their work, business thrived on protection money, the region was in the news for terrorism, tourism died many deaths and a separate ministry was created for us, endangered species that we are.

Anyway, the cosmic joke didn’t spare many who wanted to rise above the cramped life. Parents thought their kids were safer in metros, so broods left their nests. The parents worked double hard to keep the money flowing. Some kids went back, many lost in the metro madness. Things in the mainland ( err.. sorry, why mainland? Who created the mainland?) were not rosy. The Mongoloid features made them the butt of all jokes. The chinkies or the Chinese or the Japanese -- that is how they are known. They speak English well and not speaking in Hindi ( one of the national languages) is a crime, they dress well and are easily available and gullible. Nietzsche said history is recorded by the powerful about what they choose to. The NCERT and the other so-called national enough education boards have been governed by size, the big states where the big money went with every national Budget. State boards made local history available in second language studies, which sadly is optional.

They come under the scanner faster than anyone. One reason is because they are “aliens” and look different and easy enough to judge since they are not from this part of the world. All the national hoo-hoo haa-haa around being patriotic and Indian died the day enlightened and proud Aryans and Dravidians displayed national ignorance and brouhaha around where the NE is and also, the jokes. Damn it, the enigma of the NE became smaller in focus than a question around cannibalism and the like. The mainland IQ is definitely relatively poorer and also, majorly indifferent. Molestation and sexual abuse of women in the NCR and in many parts of India is not a new thing, people complain and protest, file an FIR and the road to justice and perdition is a long agonising one. A few years ago, when two NE girls were molested in Delhi and two others were attacked at Gateway of India, there was uproar and divided opinion over clothes and culture. Delhi Police did something more wretched by producing a pamphlet for potential UG people from the NE with a list of do’s and don’ts and what to wear and not. Regressive times. The experience of bias is strong. It is not a one-day paranoia. Sigh! I don’t know how and where parents involve themselves at a child’s growth, the callousness is shocking at times. The sense of alienation only grew bigger, the rifts just grew wider. Now, it is a tch-tch feeling, call it thick-skinned otherwise. And, I am affected definitely. I wish to believe a free India exists for all of us.

A Kargil, a tsunami, a national calamity and a 26/11 inadvertently brings the nation together because the battleground is the mainland. Terrorist acts and bomb blasts are mundane part and parcel of life here, it is not probably over magnified and blown for 24/7 satellite TV coverage. The stakes are low but the pain of being abandoned is bigger than the casualty.We used to watch/observe Independence day and Republic day within closed doors on DD-1, we had token celebrations where the Guvs took the salute and a few made it. When I was the Vice head girl in school, I managed to take 16 brave hearts for whom disobeying parents was regular, to the parade ground. Yes, I was scared what if we get caught in some rampant crossfire. Today, things are fine. We fought terrorism in our own way, we came out on the streets. We had to be accountable and responsible for our lives and future, didn’t want to die like cowards. If at all, in action, in protest. Music is a magical healer and, prayer too. The region is scarred but the flowers are blooming in the hills, giving a chance to their fraternity in the mainland a chance to bridge the gap.

We have to rise above the cosmetic clarion call of Jaiho or Jaihind..

July is cruelly the toughest month.

It's the 24th of July and there is no single blog entry for this month! i am alarmed at my imposed lethargy and the feeling of not-upto-it, shyt!

Ok, some quick updates... a lot of birthdays,including mine. Don't know how i feel about mine, but i am sure all July babies had and will have an awesome one! My friend's hubby was surprised with 28 gifts! Yes, he turned 28 years old. Thank god, its not his 6oth birthday and his wife informs she is definitely not going to do this again even if it is a so-called milestone birthday. She is right, every birthday is a milestone.Well, the bad idea of gifting 28 stuff was mine. I never had and failingly don't have a wishlist. My family, friends and the loving and loved one more than make it up.But, I guess it was a subconscious desire.I am also turning 28 and maybe, I wanted 28 gifts.I lived my wish by suggesting my friend to surprise her man with 28 gifts. I like the pure thrill of giving and receiving,sometimes albeit selfishly.

To all my July babies, a Happy Birthday! The gifts are coming.Sorry for the delay.

I moved house in less than 3 months and yes,I miss Balaji Residency, Flat no. 304. The cacophony and the laughter. I miss Ragini, my lil' girl and our terrace talks and late night music soirees and those thoughtful and sometimes, thoughtless ramblings.I am very happy for you, Ragini. All luck and love with you, always.

New house,new roomie and a new beginning, some hiccups...living out of duffel bags, not being myself- yes, an abnormal me.A thorough lecturer by day,parsimonous by meal times and a wanderer for 3 weeks.Found sleep but briefly, i looked for my pillow.I am in my new house,still unpacking in my refuge.I say hello to the shelves, they welcomed my books. The room looks quaint and now, throbs with life.

I have a nice roomie and a nice neighbour. 6-month old Gauri is our ( Gauri's parents, roomie's and mine) heart-throb. All my stuff are in this house, except for some of my wandering books,part of my mobile lending library and probably,a phone charger somewhere.

Yes, the house-warming will happen, give me some time. The kitchen needs to be set up. Yes, Ma'am S,i will get sweets for everyone at work, courtesy my first salary at college.Yes, Ma and Pa,I have booked tickets for my Puja homecoming.

All well but the Guy up there needs to test my patience.

A day after i book my tickets, Ma calls me saying she has a tumor in her belly.I was and am reeling from that shattered feeling even now. No one in the family has ever had this. It sounds alien to me.I have seen Ma always so strong and binding. The fear of losing her weighed over me the entire night last Tuesday.I wailed, ranted and wept.Tears gave up on me. Why Ma? Ma said,it's only time that will tell. Pa asked me not to cry.I squirmed for comfort...So many miles away,I cling to that phone call again and again.

17 years ago, we lost Ma's mom ( around Ma's age then) to a similar fate in a state-of-the-art hospital.This palpable fear got us worked up and we feared history haunting us again.

Hello,You up there.You cannot do this to us again.You love us or love us too much, you can't and won't do this again.Ma has a lot to see and enjoy. She has had a tough life, her kids are just flowering today.All those nights she stayed up during our exams,and those sleepless moments when we were fighting illness or I did not call.You can't take away Pa's strength and love. Both of them fought heaven and earth to be together, they have stood by each other in the face of humiliation, strife and a palpable end to their love.

To cut it short, answer our prayers, in all sincerity.You owe that to her.

Letter to Pa and Ma - 1

Dear Pa and Ma

It's been close to 3 months since i resigned. i thought i was pushed to being brave. Felt very lost and dejected at being the chosen one. i have more plans than i can execute. You allowed me to leave home. You allowed yourselves to trust me. You allowed me to trust myself. You have a fervent wish that the break from academics is temporary and that i will come home. You are also aware that i have outgrown that place but we also know that i always carry my home everywhere with me, the number of times you call me during a day and small notes and instructions, only if you were here physically.

It is not easy to say it was tough. i was a leper to some and a lost child to some. i was moving into a new house in days, all plans backfired on my face. Even tears deserted me. i go on with the backfired plans, life surrounded by cartons and bags. Wish you were there around, simply like you were there when i walked out of jobs over a difference or two. i felt a lil' alone. Before i could finish unpacking, my new companions announce they are leaving, not a difficult choice for them. The bogey is empty and it does not feel eerie. i am packing once again,finished some.

Many things happened besides the ones i tell you everyday. Did i tell you what happened when i landed in hyd? Yes,i did. The city dint feel strange. Did i also tell you, i moved out of the guest-house on the 1st of Jan, and believers laughed at me saying i'd be moving house so often? Yes, i live to tell the tale, i have moved house so many times. i made friends,hurted and reconciled so many times. i am still undiplomatic and call the kettle black. i never had to look for a job but found one. It's a humble beginning, i recall all my humble beginnings with you, Pa and Ma around. This time, wish you were here. No one was there to see me off till the gate,Ma. i remember Pa, you'd put a half-day CL to drop me to work and be with me. i dint get that extra pocket money to come and go by taxi. There are good samaritans in this city, some make me feel at home and some make me feel wanted. Some have been kind, some very nice and some loving. i hope and wish to believe that the samaritans and i become/are family.

It feels good to hear dining table stories from my senior colleagues at work, what their lil' ones do at home, warm moments of sharing a small meal. i also want to share such stories but i have none for now. i feel grounded but not rooted. i need some assurance that everything is ok and alright. It pinches me a lil' to have my meal from the canteen. i manage breakfast and i prepare dinner. i dont want to live like this. Pa, i recall how you'd beg and bug me to eat and stop me from working like a maniac. Ma, i remember how you'd coax me with those dishes you'd pile before me. i know what it feels when your labour of love is not acknowledged, i guess, i am paying for it. i dont have time to cook my lunch! i cook to eat and eat to breathe. it feels strange to cook just for myself. There is hardly anyone with whom i can sit and eat or discuss dining table tales. Few and far between. Restaurant matters are social dos and one-off meals are get-togethers. All my roomies were younger than me and rarely ate at home, if they did it was because their parents were here. If they dint, it was because there were social dos.

i am enjoying the bus-rides despite nearly losing my life. i am special and not special according to god's plan. In a week's time, i move into my new house with a new roomie. Dont know how long i will be in a room of one's own till a house of my own happens. This is to tell you how much you and your loving and caring ways are missed. Ma, i still bug you to wake me up. i miss Pa's pulling off the blanket in the morning. i miss shouting for breakfast while i am in the bathroom. i miss that 20 rupees on the dining table. i miss the shouting after i get back home to change and freshen up.

i wake up to my mobile alarm. My breakfast is on the move, sometimes i give it a miss. i come back to empty quarters hoping to reverbrate with some life and music. i read more and write somewhat. You always complained i dont read enough, i still dont but i have improved.

It feels good to know that in times of distress and those just-like-that moments, without a care i can call you anytime even in the middle of the night without having to say sorry. That is unconditional love to me, when my call is not cut with an SMS for some genuine reason. i dont tell you how broken i am but i pick up when i hear your voice.

Lots of love,Pa and Ma.

your Sana