Puja, Circa 2008

Puja came and went by. I knew it was there, by the time I realized it was here it was gone. I managed to offer anjali on Asthami at a nearby pandal, old times floated by for a moment of mirage-like happiness. You grow old but it only seemed like yesterday when Papa gave me a hundred rupee note each day of the puja and you could spend it the way you wanted. I blew it up most times, my sister saved hers. I thought I heard Bunty and Guddu calling out my name, let’s go!! I can see Ma talking to other aunties of the colony, complimenting each other- nice saree, nice this and nice that.

It is still the same, only I was not home. Ma was reluctant to tell me how they spent Puja, knowing I will probably cry. My new clothes were at the tailors, did not feel like following up like I used to.

I missed home so much this time, you have no idea. I missed being at home during puja, all the action and just being in tune for those 4 grand days, I missed everything.

My puja was quiet here, deeply engrossed in work and reminiscence, observed my abstinence of onion/garlic/eggs like they do at home, that was the closest association I could bring myself to with home. My homage to the Goddess is not an ounce less if not devoted. The night of Navami, I felt a certain hollow, felt a lil’ wretched, was a lil’ angry at myself for not being able to live Puja the way I love to. Mehndi-wet hands, some trivia shopping with a girlfriend, did I catch dinner at work? I don’t remember, but mobility in an alien city that I now call a working home is still pretty much full of constraint- traffic, a full day at work, a million Murphy’s laws should take care of the rest. I don’t blame anyone, including myself.

When I was going home, at some signal crossing my eyes just welled up. I just felt like crying, neighbouring passers-by and bikers and autos gave me that "is all ok?" look. That lil’ girl who ran across the road with a balloon came by, asked me to buy it since it was Puja. I told her to go, there is no kid at my place (that kid grew up long ago). Here, I was struggling to hold back my tears and here, you want me to buy that balloon. Yes, that bubble burst sometime ago. It is never the same.

Waiting for the next Mahalaya with folded hands.

Puja- old times

The thrill of visiting a Puja pandal is still fresh as ever. I remember the first time when Papa carried me on his shoulders in the jostling streets of a festive Shillong so that I get an aerial view of people, new clothes, food stalls and of course, the Goddess, resplendent in vermillion and bright hues of love, affection, strength and faith.

The rhythmic beat of the dhak, the blow of the conch, the chanting of the Vedic hymns, the frenzy and trance of the arati stay on for days until the next Mahalaya.

There is a plan more meticulous than the seasons in the sun when to buy clothes, how many, when to visit the tailors, a pilgrimage to the beauty parlour for that 10-day look, your shoes, accessories and all that dhoom-dhaam!

Stack your books and studies away for a few days, put your best feet forward, nicely painted toes, pedicured and nicely manicured hands to tuck that frequent/occasional cascade of hair across your face, thanks to a hair disaster that has turned fashionably signature. Oh, Puja is like that. You start with last year’s dress, the less fortunate ones don’t have a start.

Saptami was always quiet, you had to pinch yourself to believe that Puja has arrived. Asthami is the day-fun, fashion, food, frolic and all the jazz. By Navami, you should have seen all the pandals and eaten your fill, flirted you way and earned yourself a couple of blisters, thanks to new shoes that bite, lot of travelling, sore feet, dancing and whatever. Dashami always brought tears, the Goddess leaves and the poignance of the dhak beaters at your doorstep for that extra buck which they wait for the whole year, the colorful vermillion holi that married women indulge in and the excitement of the young, the old, the womenfolk and the middle-aged to dance their way until the river ghat to say a sad farewell. You should see the soiled clothes, the ruffled hair and the red foreheads. All look forward to the shantijal, the prasad bitaran and the sacred thread. I hate when parents howl-get back to the sansar, homework, assignments, revision, selection tests, library work, blah blah.

The morning ablutions were always elaborate and fun, from scrubbing yourself squeaky clean to a nice luxurious bath (with no one banging the bathroom door like the school bell will go off any moment), slide into new clothes, blow half a can of parfum deo spray and steal a lil’ make up here and there to show you have come of ‘make-up’ big girl age.

I always got the heebie-jeebies whenever I had to go to the pandal to sit and offer anjali and wait for the bhog. First, however much an attention seeker I am, I do get squirmish at constant stares, you don’t know why they stare- either you look funny or good(less likely in/with the pancake) or whatever. A small pouch of coins for dakhina and chewing gum, chana badam and the ilk with a sweaty hanky thanks to cleaning lipstick bleeds and kajal smudges, my dim retrospect of those bygone days make me smile like Chaucer. Nobody cooks lunch, there is no breakfast save for bread, biscuit and chai- our desi version of an English breakfast. The bhog is your lunch, piping hot khichuri served with loads of vegetables, brinjal fries, kheer, sweets and I could go on and on.

Pandal hopping was so much fun. You go in hordes. The younger guys and also, the older boys were our permanent ATMs doubled up as bodyguards and willingly enough. How they loved to foot the egg roll bill as long as the girls took care of the grand lunch, no no… we always went dutch. Some affairs happen and fizzle out like colas.

That was until a couple of years ago.

homecoming

I am going home. The last time I saw home was last Christmas. I remember being ecstatically enthusiastic and excited because I had so much to carry, both in stories and gifts. Dad was not particularly impressed with the lavish arrival. I don’t observe the festival but it is another thing to be in the city around that time. I love the Yuletide fever in Shillong. The wintry chill can numb your nose and there is a sense of being anchored in madness and total frenzy.

Dad thinks one should come home only when there is a need. What need? I have not figured it out until date but yes, he was only trying to be helpful by asking me to cut down on my expenses. I tried to make up for all the right times that I should have been home and I was not- when he retired, when mom was hopsitalised for a minor surgery, when he was looking for a second haven, when he just wanted to talk to me, when…

This time, I go back with a sense of achievement and ‘need’ to go home. They want to see me, they want me to see the house, and they want me to visit my place long before I become a domestic stranger and outsider. They want me to cling to my roots, they want me to cultivate my sense of rootedness and like Norah Jones sings,

“Come away with me…”

They want me to stop lingering in the mad, mad world and come back home, probably to groom myself for the next degree in life that I choose to ignore but is imminent. They know that I am doing good for myself, a lil’ indulgent they are with the nagging phone calls but I accept that as a form of affection for a girl away from the hearth and pampering comfort of home.

But this time, I see the excitement more in my family, they are dying to see me. I don’t know if I half feel the same. Am I going home because everyone else does? Am I merely fulfilling the ‘need’ to be seen and met? Don’t know much this time around. I will definitely miss Aroma without whom Shillong is never going to be the same. I want to see my garden, I want to see my brother, how tall has he grown? I want to see my sister, is she still unreasonable? I love her whatever. I want to meet dad, post retirement- hug that frail but steely frame which weathered every storm in his life like a lion, my inspiration. I want to see mom- my ever adorable friend who forgot along the way, that she is 52 and not 15. She still complains and rants, gets emotional when I don’t tell her ‘stories’ over phone. I want to visit all the familiar places and live and breathe the air again, and charge my warm memories that I have of the place.

I am coming home.

Smiles.

House hunting- concluded

Leaving an old place is never so easy. 9 months of eternal effort to settle down never bore real fruit. You still live out of half-baked niceness and forced pretences. People come and people go. Doors are opened matter-of fact and bolted to make sure no alien comes. Have a maid to feel a semblance of family around - her kids are adorable. They call me “Akka”, sometimes their friends call me “Aunty”. Weekdays are weekdays- some forced dinners and get-togethers, some usual polite conversation, some whatever. Insecurities grip you- the fact that we are too familiar about things around us. But the day the last item in the house was packed, yes, I did feel a twang. That familiar parrot chatter, those kids flying kites, those little girls playing hopscotch, the junior artistes’ van which smells of good food, the local rythu which smells of rotten tomatoes and slush on busy days and a deserted curfew struck lane on normal days- I won’t see them again. The warm marble floors, the huge expanse in the kitchen which bathes in sunlight in the morning- the eye-catching woodwork and everything familiar- let go. Said goodbye and left, the lane disappeared pretty soon and the lingering thought derails me until now when the cab supervisor mistakenly assigns me a cab for that house.

The new house, quiet and graceful with age smiles at me. The old windows and the heavy doors remind me of familiar bearings. I feel anchored even though I did not know what next. I have a brand new room mate, lot of gentle pets around, an indulgingly cosy balcony and nice tiles. Vaastu-wise the house is perfect. In weeks, the house reverberated with life and verve, Shalini, Kaku, Kakima and Doyel became family. When the kitchen is inaugurated for a sumptuous lunch, the house actually comes to life. Life resumed with beautiful serendipitous events.

Come by for lunch or a cuppa tea on a holiday, surely, you won’t be disappointed.

Smiles.

my birthdays

I am not the regular cakes and candles girl, no balloons and no confetti. In fact, my 1^st public birthday in school was at the age of 4, in the month of March! I saw birthday girls and boys getting a lot of attention and me, the show-stopper being ‘sidelined’ and ‘ignored’ totally! The solution is to throw a birthday party. My dad had little idea of the days to come. He ordered lollipops for 60 odd people and packed my Duckback bag with them and I felt like Alexander! Oh my god, I love birthdays, everyone is my best friend. The boys would try to be nice to get an extra lollipop and the girls would smirk, wishing it was their birthday. Oh, it used to be so hilarious. Then again in the middle of the year I would want to have another birthday. Dad obliged, this time with moti churr ki ladoos. God knows, what he told the teachers I never celebrated my birthday on my birthday that year! Probably my parents did but I was not aware, I don’t remember any of my friends coming home or did I forget to insist. After that, all I remember about birthdays were temple visits and feeding the poor and remembering the departed to seek their blessings. I used to hate giving away to unknown people. Dad explained that my less fortunate brothers and sisters do not know what a birthday party is, that’s why you are the privileged one to share with them. “Hmff” was all I had. Now it makes sense.

College saw me with treats and all, Chinese or continental. Then, the Archies gifts and all, trinkets and stuff. Within 300 bucks I would treat an army. Univ was dedicated and special. My birthday came in the summer break and the phone calls were never ending. Wishes and blessings were more important. Cakes and more were no longer novelty.

As a teacher, my birthdays were even more fun. I loved the cards and the flowers and the enthusiastic singing and –“ma’am, where’s the treat?” It is a different birthday experience when your students (for whom you are surrogate mother/sister/friend) see you doing the normal things like everyday and still feeling like a diva! My boss threw a surprise lunch for the entire faculty at work, which was a pleasant surprise!

I miss my best friends and family. Last year, my birthday was spent admiring Salar Jung Museum, boy! That was an educative lesson!

This year, I was a lil’ unabashed and boisterous. I announced to everyone it was my birthday tomorrow and bla bla… People were offended, pretended to ignore but who cares? I made my point. I love my friends at work. I waited for my birthday- from 28^th to 29^th watching some forgettable movie on TV and my roomie trying hard to keep awake. My brother and comrade-in-arm, Gowtham lands at my place. Ahan, I can smell something. My cake was set up 15mins before 12. I was all –“Aww!” Man, I took 15 mins to blow those candles off! Shalini and GTM had great fun laughing their lungs out

And I was struggling with my lungs. Yes, I was OLD, they certified and sealed it. The cake smashing was not all that welcome. I was more worried about the uninvited ants. But it was the best birthday in years, away from home and familiar surroundings. Felt like a kid!

This morning when I got ready, I remembered Kristina’s dedication of Britney Spears’ “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.” She always sang that whenever I attempted wearing a saree. And yes, I wore a saree to work. It was a great day, affection poured from every corner of the world from midnight. It is just another day in the calendar but I will always feel special. Thank you.

A rainy weekend

Hyderabad witnessed its first proper summer showers and yes, it was heaven-sent. Bonnalu brought good luck to the farmers and some respite to the electricity board. What happens with the onset of rains is an oft repeated tale. As much as I enjoy walking in the rain and picking up all the dirt and muddy rain water close on the heels I dislike it for all mundane reasons. Your clothes smell of whatever, everything has that musty damp feeling. Your hair is forever tangled and you can’t seem have enough of going to the loo. Water intake is low and tea, if someone is going to make it for you then it is most welcome. Make sure the kitchen bin is nicely covered, lest the neighbour’s cat decides to explore and play around. My flower pots were happy. My doormat was not tho’ and my flatmate’s turtles enjoyed the trickle on their tub. They frolicked and danced all over the water. The autowallah always has a reason to ask for more fare, why? It is raining. God, what happens if it is sunny? The roads are clean, no creature except for the odd stray tramp looking for some cover. The leaves of all the grand trees and also, the smaller ones make beautiful pitter-patter sound on the window-pane and also on the road, the earth smells fresh and nice and also, if the municipality forgot to seal the septic tank then that also smells. The bhutta guy has a scant umbrella to save his fire and business. That is the best rain snack. The vehicles on the road think the road belongs to their ancestry. They have scant heed towards that lone ranger walking home. They don’t mind splashing some mud, some water, some sewage and some gags. The choicest of expletives get drowned in the din of the pitter-patter. Ice-cream never tastes so gorgeous on a rainy day. Getting wet until your waist despite the fabulous umbrella you carry is no longer a distress, it is a style statement.

Interview

A ride on the rickety auto thru’ potholes and puddles
From over bridges and hoardings,
Women smile in namaskar and gold, selling sarees
The pigeons and crows do their business
Reminding me that we (read I) should also, do my karma

The little sacks of burden and the wobbly walk to school
The hot tiffins and the neon bright water bottles,
The neatly oiled hair infested with lice,
The kohl rimmed eyes and the flower adorned plait,
Such is one slice of life that I saw.

Either you or me,
Says the driver and the chap crossing the road
The resentful man shouts, “Phat!”
With a matchstick for a toothpick,
The auto driver rubbishes him off like dirt!

The buses honk, the cars cram.
The bikes jerk and the scooters hoot.
The kids wail and the mothers yap,
The fathers are grumpy and the servants crib,
The air smells foul and the jasmine makes it worse.

Over-ripe tomato carts and pushy vendors
Fish and fowl, live harmoniously with fruits and nuts
The lemons and the melons smile in their seasonal importance
Like the mangoes who suffer from a major superiority complex
Food is in plenty, you just need to know what to eat and when.

Enter the maze-
People speak in a weird jargon,
Trying to outwit each other,
Waiting for their moment,
You are either in or out.

Famished thoughts and fanned hunger,
Fans on in an AC room,
Papers rattle as much as the packets-
Mobiles ring, hostile looks
“How was it? “ “It’s ok, they smiled and laughed…”

Saturation point, patience running out
Two parathas and canteen chatter
Dog staring at you and hoping,
Like you hoping in a Micawberesque manner
That something good will happen.

End of the day, nothing happens
All sound and fury end in a whimper.
You don’t even get your five minutes of fame.
Came, showed and shoved, we are running out of time,
Another way of shielding inefficiency.

The long way home, home seemed so far.
You just long for that Momma special warm hot beverage,
You just want to hit the sack, you just want to bury your head somewhere
You just don’t want to answer any questions, calls or whatever.
Animated voices in the car, I drizzle off…