The mosquito net

It was 1981 and mom, all of 23 was in her 7^th month with her first child. She trailed Dad all the way to Uppal in Hyderabad from a sleepy town in Assam. The office provided quarters – a big room with 2 single beds (which could be joined to make a single one) and an attached kitchen. The common bathroom was outside in the hallway. The Goyals lived next door and there was this other family. Life was very comfortable despite the small stipend – weekend visits to Charminar and Salar Jung, the Zoo and rides on horse-drawn tongas and no windows but curtained double-decker buses. Sugar-cane juice and black and white (Isolate 2) photography were the weekend treats. Vegetables and fruits were in plenty and very dirt cheap.

Summer is summer. The fan ran non-stop and mom would tie soaking wet clothes around the bed poles as a sort of cooler As the days advanced, she took to sleeping alone in a single bed and craved for a mosquito net. She informs me the mosquitoes are peculiar this side with a white spot on their heads, almost as if they  are wearing Gandhi topis. So off they went to the bazaar one weekend and brought home a nice mosquito net for a decent bargain. Both hoped for some respite and relief and some peaceful sleep.

She was woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of the front door being opened. Oh, dad just stepped out to visit the bathroom. The door was kind of ajar and there was a gentle breeze outside. And she felt relieved she was not a feeding pit for those bellowing mosquitoes grr-ing outside the mosquito net. Just then, she felt a poke in her tummy, she was lying on her side with her eyes on the door waiting for dad to come back. She thought, must be the hyperactive baby inside her. Then, another poke. She turned and lied on her back. She felt the poke again and, wait. This time it was a long stick from outside the mosquito net. There seemed to be two people standing outside the mosquito net and one was holding the stick. She sat up with a fright and called out for dad. There was no sign of him, the door still open and creaking, and she was left with no choice but flung herself out of the bed and ran towards the door only to find it latched and when she turned back, the strange visitors had disappeared. And, she heard dad snoring in the other single bed.

She woke dad up and went hysterical for sleeping so deaf to all her shouts and screams. Dad had no idea so much had happened within 3 feet of each other. The mosquito net was brought down and it was a sleepless night for many reasons. The next day, the mosquito net was disposed (actually burnt) and those pokes and visits never happened again.

Valentine's Day

2006 - I remember ‘celebrating’ my first Valentine’s Day with my best friend A, and her elder sister – our MD. We never believed in love per se but what the heck.Of course, we were always broke, research scholars that we were. MD always bailed us out. The Horticulture Deptt of our home state put up a stupendous rose and strawberry show and live music by a very old band at our favourite All Saints’ Hall. Old and young, married and unmarried but much in love – pride and happiness at the homegrown Dutch roses and the strawberry spread, again home-grown. We decided not to go restaurant-hopping since we would be ‘disqualified’ for all ‘couple’ benefits. MD bought us a box of strawberries each and the roses came for free. Those were the days, my friend.

2 years later, when I met him and I told A, she was the happiest but she said she’d travel to my part of the world to approve/disapprove after meeting ‘the love’. She was not disappointed. And, the Valentine’s Days that followed were forgettable. We simply did not believe in that one day, found it too yo! And we were definitely not part of the cappuccino crowd. You can imagine the kind of gifts I got from him– a hammer and a tool-kit when I was moving house, or a global travel adapter or a fish-net for my aquarium – yes, very practical ones, nothing remotely romantic.

And, last year, when the elders decided to solemnize our engagement, the pandit chose a day we had been disdainfully laughing our heads off all this while – 14^th Feb’11. Umm..well, the pandit informed us helpfully that it was ‘shubh’ to help preserve love in a marriage. After the ‘sagai’, we were packed off in the evening to go enjoy dinner and the works and come back home early. We were officially ‘a couple’.

This year, ‘the love’ who is husband now tells me on Monday that he has a surprise for me. He promised to be home by 5 in the evening.The surprise was he didn’t come home till 12 in the night.

14^th Feb this year, he took a day off for me. We had a bad idli-sambar breakfast at home. I made it up with nice sambar-rice with papad and dahi in the afternoon and, ice-cream. Slept like logs. Washed and cleaned the house. He fumbled around saying he left something in the car and needed to get them. I can’t tell you how wow the surprise was – a stunning blue Kanjeevaram. By the way, I was not yet over my Sunday thrill when he gifted me a lovely silk sari, just my kinds type. We went to the temple where I first offered to play city tour-guide to him 3 years ago. That is another hilarious story. Another time.

Then, off we went to our favourite Green Bay bakery for our evening round of snacks and tea, this is close to my old workplace. And I was nervous when he asked me to buy whatever came to my mind at the jeweller’s. I told him I am not used to such things. And, he said reassuringly, we have a lifetime to get used to such things. It was a gulp moment for me. When we left the jeweller’s, I was sporting a lovely pair of ‘baalis’. Glee! We landed at our favourite restaurant – and well, another awkward moment there. At the entrance, the restaurant staff ‘instructed’ hubby dear to pick up a rose and hand it to me. We were like okay!

As we were ruminating over the years gone by, we realized how time flies so fast. So many things have happened and so many are in the pipeline. We smiled as more couples with and without children in tow of all ages poured in for their evening celebrations. As we were leaving, we saw the waiting lounge – young and old, in their finest finery.

So, what goes around comes around. Both of us shed our cynicism and agreed we cannot put away this date – love is love but we still don’t and won’t belong to the cappuccino crowd and no mush, yes, no mush. We rounded off the day with a sumptuous 'meetha paan' which resembled a cone ice-cream. So much for Valentine’s day.

What is your name, Madam? My name is Madam

It's been ages I had interesting conversations with the autowallah bhai log. Around  Diwali, i met a kind soul who drove me home safely through an unavoidable potholed road.He charged 10 rupees more than the actual meter fare and for a change, i didn't feel bad giving him his premium. I also offered a box of Diwali sweets.His face lit up and he was tad guilty, left with a 'Happy Diwali, Madam!'

Yesterday,I was outside a big retail store with a big bag and of course,the waiting autos are always the foxy ones, negotiating with them is a real hurdle. So I don't even look at them - simply ignore. I flagged a running auto, a young boy driver and I must say,I am partial to brand new autos.He had absolutely short hair, seems to me, he shaved his head weeks ago.I didn't say a word, just hopped in and he had that 'please,meter pe 10 rupaiya, madam' look. I gave him a hard stare and told him to take the nearest left and exit to the connecting road. He mumbled a grumble but gave up mid-way, more like a student who has been denied a free period.He defended he won't get any return passenger. I retorted he should never give up hope.He said he lost all his hair hoping.I was like - come again? I preached if he got up everyday that he would not get any passengers.You can always expect 2 kinds of reactions. One, to extract their pound of flesh, some autowallas drive over potholes purposely and make you regret you ever hired them. Two, well the obvious - drive properly.Well, my young boy drove properly, more out of love for his new auto.And, methinks, he is not from the city, once in a while, he asked me directions. Two, he also gave me options of shortcuts or regular U-turns which meant more fuel and more fare.I left it to him and he took care it was optimum for both.

I was amused a little. I remarked at him that he does not look like a local, he confirmed. He was from Mahbubnagar and I asked him what about his family. He said he has none. I asked again, mother-father? He was puzzled, and answered of course, his parents were there. Then, what was he thinking - wife and kids . His parents were in Annaram.On further enquiries he said he is a class 9 drop-out and he was more interested in autos and lost interest in school.I asked him if he ever wanted to finish school. He said yes, his mother is after his life egging him to write his 10th.I asked him, if he wants to. He said yes because he feels bad his friends are in college.I asked him his age, he quickly defended saying he is not so grown-up as he looks but is much younger. I told him I didn't say he looked old. He reluctantly revealed he was 17.And what about his driving licence - he was like 'ho jata'. Very good, I told him his entire life was there in front of him and tomorrow, his kids would be very proud if their dad managed to study a little more.

Soon, I was at my doorstep. He pleaded with me to give that extra 10 bucks. I looked at him with a stern but gentle stare. I handed him the meter fare. He accepted it fairly. Then, I handed him 10 bucks with the promise that he will write his 10th open schooling exam.And wherever and whenever we meet again, he should shout out with the update.I asked his name - Venkatesh. He asked my name - 'What is your name, Madam?' I said, 'Madam!' And, that I used to teach kids his age.He held that 10 rupees, wondering whether to return or ..I didn't turn back.

A suitcase of hopes

I was looking outside the window-sill, found the rain water outlet so absolutely clean. Before I could turn around and ask, my mother informed me Guddu and Bhatt uncle got it cleaned. My school can be seen across our house, a half-constructed parapet and a little girl running around in white stockings with a nice red-jacket on and her mother calling out her name.

Everything seemed very distant and all the voices drowned in that feeble winter sunshine. There seemed to have been a light drizzle. And there was this crumpled invoice of a failed courier in my hand. That dark steel gray suitcase never reached me. I had not paid attention to it in months. It was sent on the 3^rd of August, 2011 and today is the 26^th of January, 2012. There was a helpline number I could call on the reverse of that invoice. Some Mr.Kirti answered my call, he tells me its about 5:30 pm in Mumbai and the office is about to close for the day. I gave him the consignment number and he agreed such a parcel came and was never delivered to the rightful owner and they conveniently informed us – Lost In Transit. He was kind enough to assure me the parcel is safe.

Suddenly, I hate myself for not following it up on time. The courier people offered compensation but I stood my ground. I thought of consumer rights and the counter measures, anything not claimed over a period of 3months can be disposed in whatever manner by the courier people. But they said the suitcase was safe.

I began wondering what about the contents inside. This aunty told me she sent an orange saree with a black and gold border, meaning ornate heavy stuff. Mother told me, my favourite saree was also in that suitcase. I was like, oh no – you mean the silver one with that blue and dull gold brocade? She said yes. I was even more determined to get hold of the suitcase. Kirti told me the suitcase was in some godown in Pune. Why on earth, Pune?

I dialed the courier people again, since it’s a toll free 24/7 hotline. A young woman answers my call and I could almost sense domesticity in the background - a cranky husband and a cantankerous kid and our lady was munching on something. I rattled off my missing bag story to her. She could not care a flying whatever, she told me she was eating dinner and she will see into this on Monday. I was very desperate and told her, that one of her colleagues spoke to me and assured me that they’d go out of the way to ensure this got sorted out at the earliest. I don’t want to sound sexist but I hated her so much at that point in time. I came down like a ton of bricks on her and questioned her work ethics and what about that glorified thing called customer care and service and how they could be so careless of a missing baggage for 6 months. Mother interjects that she had packed some homegrown herbs and foods. It was so agonizing to learn that, I almost felt like saying woh sab jaye tel lene but the sarees are heirloom to me and I’d do anything to remove the odours and smells of 6 months.

I wake up in the morning to find my husband packing for his Europe trip and gosh, it was the same steel gray suitcase standing next to his favourite Samsonite. Very endearingly, he told me to have a look and see what needs to be added or subtracted. Of course, I won’t find those 2 sarees – the orange one with the black and gold border and of course, my favourite one, the silver one with the blue brocade. The silver one is with mother and the orange one does not even exist. It was a 4am dream. 

By the way, I have been shopping to my heart's delight without burning any hole whatsoever anywhere. I began the year with an envious Kashmiri collection -a chignon saree,a heavy embroidered party stole and a salwar suit that I admire day in and day out and would hate to see the tailor cut to size. A few days ago, went berserk getting Rajasthani mojris and jootis of the choicest colors and don't kill me for getting about 8 MP handloom kurtas in different hues and dyes. Oh, another update, a friend's mom in Baroda just sent me 2 splendid Bandhej salwar suits in glorious shades. I am already over the moon. And,these are not gifts.

Apathy of the 'police'

A couple of years ago, my landlady's YWCA city wing visited the Chanchalguda jail and she came home with 3-4 items prepared by women inmates and prisoners, the scheme is sold under the name Sudhaar Products from Central Jails and Prisons. It was very encouraging to read that the annual Numaish mela also had a stall dedicated to Sudhaar Prison Products. My husband and i were there last evening. From furniture to bed covers,towels to candles and soaps, there was pretty much everything. There were a few long-serving prisoners who did the PR. We picked up a bar of hand-made soap, wrapped in simple butter paper and waited for the counter-guy to issue us the receipt.There were different counter guys for different central jails - Warrangal, Cherlapalli,etc and they were issuing receipts for every damn item sold.By the way,our soap was from the Cherlapalli jail.The need for a receipt here was more in terms of promoting their cause through social media and all  those with eco-friendly advice of saving paper here can hold their horses. Had the soap wrapper carried some information on that particular Sudhaar product and price, we would have still parted in good faith.

But then,bullies exist everywhere - our counter guy from Cherlapalli here was a very bald man who came close to abusing and threatening us in Telugu to return the soap and that he won't issue a receipt.He must have attended until 12th std but the education was not forthcoming.We tried to understand his logic - he said he has made a manual entry in his sheet of paper that 1 cake of soap has been sold.We were like, good for you but no heavens would come falling if a similar piece of paper was given to us.The Warrangal counter guy was more forthcoming, he was more than willing to issue a receipt but the police ego of his colleague bullied him into meek surrender.Another spectacled half- paan chewing henchman also tried to flex his police muscles with us.But then, truth hurts - we told him, he was useless and doing no service to customers by making a redundant entry in some random sheet of paper,it would be productive if he wrote us a receipt. The bystanders, were as mute as the rocks in the Outer Ring Road. They were happy collecting their receipts and their bags. It was not a big deal but it got into us that the stubbornness needs to be corrected and the  police need to appreciate why a consumer right of a receipt is important for all and especially, being the guardian of the law, it is more important the habit is inculcated by them. I was almost reminded of how police constables wanted easy money but bargain for a receipt and they take to their heels.

Being insistent helps, the head in-charge, a smiling man calmed us down and said, he will issue a receipt.He acknowledged that however small or big the amount, a receipt will be issued. We also told him to train his subordinates to be a little more customer-friendly in terms of listening.But then, a grudge is a grudge. He issued the receipt in the wrong book - the Central Jail of Warrangal and tore the bill with all his smouldering smiling anger, that half the information on the top of the receipt remained with him. The embarrassment was tantamount -- we said thank you, but no thank you. Everybody was left red-faced. We actually felt we were inside a prison and thought how tough it must be for those who are wronged and not given a chance to negotiate. Those in power, clearly love to revel in power without a sneeze or a toss.

Random random random

Another year went by in the city and it still fees like i left school just yesterday. I have a Peter Pan disorder. Also, I am prone to getting nostalgic at the drop of a hat as much as i claim to have moved on. Got some heady knocks and learnt some priceless lessons on the way, especially from near and dear ones and friends and former colleagues.No point  intellectualising family and friends, each has their quirks and we have little choice but work around them, the options are few - endure,indulge or ignore.

I have literally gone places last year from status change to what not.I can't tell you how much i hate packing now, even unpacking is a nightmare. Many  think  i have changed - oh yes, if i am pausing by to catch a breath.

Living is an onward journey, with interesting chapters.I am not of a philosophical bent to say Life aha! It brings sheer joy to know comrades and 4am friends are following their hearts and dreams. Many are enjoying parenthood - the miracle of life does not cease to tire anyone.We don't get to meet or speak in days or years but that they are under the same sky somewhere is comforting. 

I realised i am sentimental about challenges even with family. There are some things which are non-negotiable.I paid less alms last year and i am proud of it. Husband keeps small biscuit packets in the car and they are better than alms. Husband and i distributed surgical masks to traffic constables at signals, those surly guys smiled for once.I gave up eggs for 3 months on a whimsical challenge and celebrated the feat last night with a bread omelette I watch less TV,boring movies, dont touch the camera and read fewer books these days, and i am not fretting. I have an awesome ManFriday who brings tulsi saplings for my garden when i'm least expecting them.

Life is good, the chinks will iron out.

What Santa meant to me

When i was about 8, our family moved in as tenants to this lovely cottage in a happy neighbourhood called Mawpun near Pynthorumkhrah, the bigger and easily identifiable landmark being the hallowed and historical Golf Links.Each home was unique.If our landlady was obsessed about rare roses in this world, our Garo neighbour grew corn and dahlias, while our Khasi neighbour had the loveliest orchids and perfect greens - i remember, Mom even bought many bunches of healthy mustard leaves ( all for 2 rupees) for lunch and dinner from the old dame. Her grandchildren visited her every Friday - Christabelle, Annabelle and Euphraim. We became weekend friends. The girls had absolutely rosy cheeks.Euphraim had curly locks.Their granny would try catching hold of them and apply coconut hair oil on their hair - she felt they never took care of their mane. 

I celebrated my first proper Christmas with them that winter. Otherwise Christmas was always part of my winter holidays when we visited Police Bazar and admired the aroma of cakes and bakes that wafted in the air. Some old men sold branches of pine and fir for last minute Christmas trees. The imported Chinese made foldable and re-usable ones had not invaded the market then. Christmas to me, was the cards (some which were hand-drawn) that classmates and friends gave.One would decorate those cards for a long time or   staple them into a nice arrangement. Christmas was singing carols in school the entire month of November and looking forward to that class-party of chips, cakes and juice. It was always great to count the number of beautiful stars outside the porches of my neighbours, the bigger and more colorful, my innocent mind thought, they must be rich! It never snows in Shillong which makes Christmas very different and warm.

Chris and Anna, and some other new friends asked me to join them in a Nativity play for the Christmas Eve celebrations at the local church. My folks gave me permission since i loved acting. I played an old lady who goes ecstatic at the news of the birth of Baby Jesus and i was taught to sing - "I've got the joy in my heart!" I went out for the neighbourhood carol singing, all layered and armoured with socks and mittens, jackets and mufflers.It was chattering cold but so much of fun and excitement. Every home treated us to lovely goodies.On Christmas eve, I remember taking my costume  and bunking at Chris's granny's place. The dinner was simple but very delicious. I remember Chris's youngest aunt coming and instructing us to keep our stockings ready (yeah, even i could keep one) because Santa was in town! We were like yay!But we also exchanged doubtful smiles. I dint have a stocking ready - or even a fancy pair of socks. In greeting cards, those stockings and socks looked so good and colorful. Felt relieved to know,Chris and Anna also dint have theirs. Their eldest aunt, who worked as a nurse told us not worry and that we could tie plastic bags, the bigger the better.We all managed bits and strands of strings of wool to tie our plastic bags on the Christmas tree which was in the drawing room, nicely lit and decorated.We got back to our rehearsals and totally forgot about the Santa goodies.

Midnight mass was over, we all wished Merry Christmas to one another. Neighbours who only existed became friends - those warm hugs, the winter chill was magical. We came home and Anna reminded us to collect our Santa gifts. Very endearingly, she hoped the gifts must have arrived. We were not disappointed. While the elders were getting ready to retire for the night we were busy tearing our gift-wrapped packets with shrieks not forgivable at that unearthly hour. But all is forgotten in Christmas.I received a pair of lovely dainty hair clips which i preserved for the longest time. Someone played Santa, so i thought coz i really dint have a wishlist. But like all polite girls, I said, thank you and smiled. 

The next day, i accompanied Chris and Anna and attended the morning mass, came home. My family joined them for lunch. Lots of cakes and biscuits, sweets and goodies. Post-Christmas was even more fun. There was a community feast. All the youngsters cooked for the whole neighbourhood.The love and warmth, the sharing of joy and happiness with everyone around - that is what Santa gave me actually. After that, i remember there were smiles for the rest of the year, everyone was a friend.

Suddenly, all of us grew up. The weekend visits were fewer. We moved out to the office quarters, away from the idyllic settings of Golf Link. We would meet Chris and Anna once in a while, while shopping. Our excited hellos were immediately restrained because we were big girls accompanied by elders.Many winters have passed by. Wherever Chris and Anna are in Shillong, have a blessed Christmas!Thank you for bringing Santa into my life!

Merry Christmas!