When my cousin, Madhu's husband, Admiral Nirmal Verma, became the Chief of the Naval Staff, our family had reason to celebrate. Also, there were interesting reactions from family members, friends and who ever knew him. Most felt it was his integrity, humility, sincerity towards his job and his non-controversial temperament that enabled him to get the top job in the Indian navy. All this was of course true, however there was another very significant factor. And I call it, "A Wife's conviction".
I was still in college when Madhu married young and handsome, Nirmal. Infact, I had bunked college to attend their wedding in Bhopal. Madhu was special; we shared a strong bond having spent a lot of time together during our childhood and growing up years. However, soon after her marriage she left for Bombay and then for Russia. For the next couple of years we lost touch, as both of us were lazy about writing letters. She became busy with her baby boy, Hemant and me with my post-grad classes.
We met again in the year 1980. She had come to spend a day with us in my mom's house. I was still unmarried and Hemant was little over a year and quite a brat. As usual we gossiped the whole day. Of course, the conversation between us had changed dramatically. Madhu was full of Nirmal's achievements and the great career that awaited him. I was certainly in awe of her much married status and all the fabulous stuff she was engaged in being married to a smart naval officer, so I could be a bit biased. But, in those few hours that we chatted, I had sensed what I would call; "A wife's conviction", and I don't think I was wrong.
Madhu was in and out of Delhi after that. Their every posting to the capital brought us together. I was married, so I would go live with her when my husband traveled and vice-versa. Fortunately, our children also grew close.
Interestingly, in all my interactions with her after 1980, there was one common thread in our conversation, once again her conviction that Nirmal would achieve big things. Part of it was happening, for with every posting to Delhi, Bombay and Vishakapatnam, he was moving upwards in rank within the determined time-frame set by the Indian navy.
Nirmal, even as a young officer was a quiet, and a gentle person. However, Madhu with her extrovert and affectionate nature made a lot of friends where ever she went. "We would have very long evenings if I talked less", was her explanation for her exuberant personality.
Madhu had to often cope alone while her boys were growing up. "Being a naval officer's wife is not a piece of cake. Every new rank meant more responsibility for Nirmal and that meant more patience from my side. But I always wanted the best for him," she said plainly.
The CNS's (Chief of Naval Staff's) house they occupy today has been tastefully and creatively done up. A lot of it reflects Madhu’s passion for collecting old pieces of art, pottery from where ever she has traveled and her eye for detail and aesthetics.
Both Nirmal and Madhu have come a long way. In August 2009, Nirmal reached the pinnacle of his career. However, as much as I am proud of Nirmal, for me it is a pleasure to see "A wife's conviction" becoming a reality.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Fasting or feasting
Just before Diwali we celebrated "Karvachauth". On this day most women fast without drinking water. I wrote this several years back.
The morning started like any other day. I had dropped my daughter to the bus stop. I was back home, ready to enjoy my morning cup of tea.
“Aren’t you fasting today”, remarked my husband in a sheepish tone, watching me merrily sip tea. “Ofcourse, I am. But what is the harm in drinking a cup of tea,” I retorted.
“You know, I don’t like all this fuss about karvachauth. Go out for a walk. You will feel more cheerful”; he said walking away with his golf bag and car keys.
But there was to be no strenuous activity. So no mornings walks. Even the gym instructor didn’t want us around. “Stay away and relax. All the sweating can cause dehydration,” he had warned us.
I was glad to see the newspaper man much before time. It could be my imagination but the man looked rather preoccupied. May be the thought of going back to a cranky, fasting wife was troubling him.
Indeed, with nowhere to rush to the morning stretched beautifully into mid-afternoon.
I was now ready for my appointment with Shahnaz, my twenty-one-year-old, charming beautician, at the SPA, in Saket. Not realising my folly, with a half-finished apple, that was to be my lunch, I walked into a room full of ‘Women in Red’.
“Didi aren’t you fasting,” Shehnaz piped from somewhere in the room. “Ofcourse, I am. But what is the harm in eating an apple”, I said, repeating my morning lines. I could see a few raised eyebrows. Ignoring them all, I settled down for a manicure.
“Guess what Kavita, this time my mom-in-law parted with her best diamonds. I had never realised she could be so generous”, remarked a girl, waving her hands to display the huge stone on her finger. “Lucky you. I got only a sari. But Kuku has promised to get me a gold kadda from Dubai”, screamed back Kavita from the other end of the room.
Another young lass with mehendi on her hands was avidly describing her evening dress, “I have bought this lovely lahenga-choli from the Bridal Asia fair. It is more expensive than my wedding dress. None of my friends are wearing saris this Karva. We want to do things a bit differently. We are all meeting at a farmhouse with our respective husbands in the evening. We have arranged a DJ so that there can be dancing later.”
Amid all the cacophony I heard someone say, “I had delicious gobhi parathas and kheer. It is going to keep me going till late in the evening”. Shahnaz sensing my anguish smiled naughtily and explained, “They get up before sunrise and eat sargi. It is auspicious.”
I did not like what I heard. So their feast was over and they were grudging me my 100 calories in-take. However, I had made a mental note of all the “MUSTS” for the next karvachauth. An expensive sari -a must. Gobhi paratha and rasmalai before sunrise– a must, must. And Kuku like indulgence – a must, must, must. My only problem is that the first two I can manage easily but for the last one I might have to adopt some arm twisting tactics.
The morning started like any other day. I had dropped my daughter to the bus stop. I was back home, ready to enjoy my morning cup of tea.
“Aren’t you fasting today”, remarked my husband in a sheepish tone, watching me merrily sip tea. “Ofcourse, I am. But what is the harm in drinking a cup of tea,” I retorted.
“You know, I don’t like all this fuss about karvachauth. Go out for a walk. You will feel more cheerful”; he said walking away with his golf bag and car keys.
But there was to be no strenuous activity. So no mornings walks. Even the gym instructor didn’t want us around. “Stay away and relax. All the sweating can cause dehydration,” he had warned us.
I was glad to see the newspaper man much before time. It could be my imagination but the man looked rather preoccupied. May be the thought of going back to a cranky, fasting wife was troubling him.
Indeed, with nowhere to rush to the morning stretched beautifully into mid-afternoon.
I was now ready for my appointment with Shahnaz, my twenty-one-year-old, charming beautician, at the SPA, in Saket. Not realising my folly, with a half-finished apple, that was to be my lunch, I walked into a room full of ‘Women in Red’.
“Didi aren’t you fasting,” Shehnaz piped from somewhere in the room. “Ofcourse, I am. But what is the harm in eating an apple”, I said, repeating my morning lines. I could see a few raised eyebrows. Ignoring them all, I settled down for a manicure.
“Guess what Kavita, this time my mom-in-law parted with her best diamonds. I had never realised she could be so generous”, remarked a girl, waving her hands to display the huge stone on her finger. “Lucky you. I got only a sari. But Kuku has promised to get me a gold kadda from Dubai”, screamed back Kavita from the other end of the room.
Another young lass with mehendi on her hands was avidly describing her evening dress, “I have bought this lovely lahenga-choli from the Bridal Asia fair. It is more expensive than my wedding dress. None of my friends are wearing saris this Karva. We want to do things a bit differently. We are all meeting at a farmhouse with our respective husbands in the evening. We have arranged a DJ so that there can be dancing later.”
Amid all the cacophony I heard someone say, “I had delicious gobhi parathas and kheer. It is going to keep me going till late in the evening”. Shahnaz sensing my anguish smiled naughtily and explained, “They get up before sunrise and eat sargi. It is auspicious.”
I did not like what I heard. So their feast was over and they were grudging me my 100 calories in-take. However, I had made a mental note of all the “MUSTS” for the next karvachauth. An expensive sari -a must. Gobhi paratha and rasmalai before sunrise– a must, must. And Kuku like indulgence – a must, must, must. My only problem is that the first two I can manage easily but for the last one I might have to adopt some arm twisting tactics.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Born free
Face Book has helped me connect to people I had lost touch with for so many years. Recently traced an old school friend Gitie Wiiliams. Interestingly, we were together from nursery till we passed out from school. Gitie an avid reader and writer had edited the school magazine in the final year and I had helped her put it together. She has moved on and now does "bird watching" and is writing about her experiences on the face book.
I wrote "born free" several years back. I don't think Gitie can relate to the latter part becasue she has moved away to Australia and life must be so differnet there. But the intitial bit is about our growing up years in school where we spent the first 12 years of our lives together.
Born Free
The fragrance of the sandalwood incense sticks still lingers and so does the soft humming of ‘Om jai jagdi sha hare.’ I often scurried out of bed when I heard the mellow sound of the small brass bell, well aware that Ma’s puja was getting over. Hell would break lose if she found me asleep. But this was only on weekends and holidays.
The other five days of the week, morning began with beautiful hymns. From the last row in the choir, I loved to watch Miss Harland’s deft fingers move on the piano that filled the hall with enchanting music. It was not just prayers but a feeling of one-ness with music and God.
Christmas brought more fun to the morning assembly; we spent more time singing carols and hymns than doing boring classwork. The festive spirit was evident everywhere; teachers became more tolerant, classrooms looked bright and colourful and small priceless gifts were exchanged. I still treasure the string of beads; a friend gave me in Class V.
Interestingly, Christmas didn’t end with classmates in school. At home, a group of friends would get together and decorate the Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve we sang and danced till late in the evening, eating cakes, pakoras and steaming idlis.
I remember, in all the growing up years we looked forward to each festival with the same enthusiasm. Durga puja brought new clothes and sweets. The ten-day festivity ended on Dussera with a visit to the over-crowded Ram Lila Ground. We chewed roasted ‘channa’ while the demon Ravana burnt.
Diwali followed with some more partying and firecrackers. Holi was the best. It was the only day in the year we could behave like hooligans. Also, I can never forget the taste of the ‘kada prasad’ we ate at the nearby Gurudwara on Guru Nanks’s Birthday.
By the time I came out of school we had shifted into a new apartment block. In the flat below lived Mr. Shamim. “Baji”, his old mother with a pan in her mouth and her glittering ‘pandan’ looked so much like my paternal grandma. She spoke the same dialect. I was terribly amused with the way she referred to mom as ‘Dulhan’. Mother, was often summoned in the afternoons for short gossip sessions.
A friendship that had started with a cup of morning tea by Uncle Shamim - had become a bond. On ‘Id’ we were served the best home-cooked Biryani, Kababs and Sivaya in town. Sabina, the young daughter-in-law, who prepared all these delicacies, was soon recognized for her culinary skills. In time, she was cajoled into starting a home-catering business.
Life was wonderful. We belonged to a generation that was born in free India. We had not witnesses the harsh realities of pre-independence era. The British rule, the freedom struggle and the Partition were only a part of our history curriculum. We had got the best opportunities; a good education, a modern lifestyle and a progressive urban society. Moreover, no one looked at our textbooks with suspicion or told us to guard against suspicious looking objects in public places or be wary of some terrorist lurking in the corner of a street. Indeed, we were fortunate to be born free.
I wrote "born free" several years back. I don't think Gitie can relate to the latter part becasue she has moved away to Australia and life must be so differnet there. But the intitial bit is about our growing up years in school where we spent the first 12 years of our lives together.
Born Free
The fragrance of the sandalwood incense sticks still lingers and so does the soft humming of ‘Om jai jagdi sha hare.’ I often scurried out of bed when I heard the mellow sound of the small brass bell, well aware that Ma’s puja was getting over. Hell would break lose if she found me asleep. But this was only on weekends and holidays.
The other five days of the week, morning began with beautiful hymns. From the last row in the choir, I loved to watch Miss Harland’s deft fingers move on the piano that filled the hall with enchanting music. It was not just prayers but a feeling of one-ness with music and God.
Christmas brought more fun to the morning assembly; we spent more time singing carols and hymns than doing boring classwork. The festive spirit was evident everywhere; teachers became more tolerant, classrooms looked bright and colourful and small priceless gifts were exchanged. I still treasure the string of beads; a friend gave me in Class V.
Interestingly, Christmas didn’t end with classmates in school. At home, a group of friends would get together and decorate the Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve we sang and danced till late in the evening, eating cakes, pakoras and steaming idlis.
I remember, in all the growing up years we looked forward to each festival with the same enthusiasm. Durga puja brought new clothes and sweets. The ten-day festivity ended on Dussera with a visit to the over-crowded Ram Lila Ground. We chewed roasted ‘channa’ while the demon Ravana burnt.
Diwali followed with some more partying and firecrackers. Holi was the best. It was the only day in the year we could behave like hooligans. Also, I can never forget the taste of the ‘kada prasad’ we ate at the nearby Gurudwara on Guru Nanks’s Birthday.
By the time I came out of school we had shifted into a new apartment block. In the flat below lived Mr. Shamim. “Baji”, his old mother with a pan in her mouth and her glittering ‘pandan’ looked so much like my paternal grandma. She spoke the same dialect. I was terribly amused with the way she referred to mom as ‘Dulhan’. Mother, was often summoned in the afternoons for short gossip sessions.
A friendship that had started with a cup of morning tea by Uncle Shamim - had become a bond. On ‘Id’ we were served the best home-cooked Biryani, Kababs and Sivaya in town. Sabina, the young daughter-in-law, who prepared all these delicacies, was soon recognized for her culinary skills. In time, she was cajoled into starting a home-catering business.
Life was wonderful. We belonged to a generation that was born in free India. We had not witnesses the harsh realities of pre-independence era. The British rule, the freedom struggle and the Partition were only a part of our history curriculum. We had got the best opportunities; a good education, a modern lifestyle and a progressive urban society. Moreover, no one looked at our textbooks with suspicion or told us to guard against suspicious looking objects in public places or be wary of some terrorist lurking in the corner of a street. Indeed, we were fortunate to be born free.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Super mom!
Shubhi, my 18-year old is home for the next couple of weeks. After working hard for a whole year she is now relaxing. And I am trying to spend some "Happy Moments" (as I call them) with her before she once again has enough of me.
Wanted to share this "middle" I wrote when she was fourteen.
Super mom!
“Am I a good mom”? I asked my teen-age daughter, Shubhi, jokingly. She looked a bit confused and then replied cautiously, “I guess, you are fine.”
“You mean nothing great”? I said provokingly. “Any grudges”? I questioned further.
“Yes, you do not cook fresh parathas, in the morning. All my classmates carry something hot that their mothers have cooked for them in the morning. Also, you never listen to me,” she replied sheepishly.
“But you leave for school at 6.15 am in the morning. It is too early to get into the kitchen and cook hot food. You know I can barely keep my eyes open when I am heating the milk for you,” I said trying to sound reasonable.
“And you know with age catching up, my energy levels are a bit low to keep pace with your stories”, I added.
Shubhi was not too convinced with my explanation. I could read the look in her eye, that said plainly, “Mom you are just too lazy.”
In her own way she was right. How can I forget my mom’s lunch packets? Though, we carried just plain sandwiches, but a complete breakfast of freshly cooked egg, porridge and cut-fruit waited for us before we left for school. And I, remember, her eyes were always wide open and she managed to look tidy and alert all through the day.
I made-up my mind to change for Shubhi’s sake.
But to be a “super mom” was not an easy task. The hot food packet was the least of the problems. It entailed many other tasks like driving her to the bus stop in the morning, listening to mindless stuff on the stereo while waiting for the school bus to arrive etc.
Also, I had made it a point to be back home before she returned from school. Of course, that meant no leisurely lunches with friends. I even tried my best to have a friendly chat with her about her day in school. To keep her in good humor, I organized a snack for her every evening and sat and ate dinner with her, something I had not done in a long time.
By mid-week, I had dark circles under my eyes, my smiles were burning my insides, I was feeling frustrated keeping up with the “super mom” act and much to my chagrin dear daughter had shown no appreciation. Yes, this could not last forever!
However, it was Shubhi who pounced on me one afternoon, “Mom, are you not feeling well? Go and spend time with your friends. Why don’t you just leave me alone? You are constantly watching over me like a hawk. Do you have nothing better to do”?
I was shocked at her outburst. “But, I was only trying to be a good mom, the kind your friends have”, I said.
“You mean the hot-lunch-packet-kind. I can do without it. Please give me only sandwiches. With all the oily food you gave me last week, I am getting pimples”, retorted the ungrateful child.
So within a week’s time “Super mom” had to sign off and exit rather unceremoniously.
.
Wanted to share this "middle" I wrote when she was fourteen.
Super mom!
“Am I a good mom”? I asked my teen-age daughter, Shubhi, jokingly. She looked a bit confused and then replied cautiously, “I guess, you are fine.”
“You mean nothing great”? I said provokingly. “Any grudges”? I questioned further.
“Yes, you do not cook fresh parathas, in the morning. All my classmates carry something hot that their mothers have cooked for them in the morning. Also, you never listen to me,” she replied sheepishly.
“But you leave for school at 6.15 am in the morning. It is too early to get into the kitchen and cook hot food. You know I can barely keep my eyes open when I am heating the milk for you,” I said trying to sound reasonable.
“And you know with age catching up, my energy levels are a bit low to keep pace with your stories”, I added.
Shubhi was not too convinced with my explanation. I could read the look in her eye, that said plainly, “Mom you are just too lazy.”
In her own way she was right. How can I forget my mom’s lunch packets? Though, we carried just plain sandwiches, but a complete breakfast of freshly cooked egg, porridge and cut-fruit waited for us before we left for school. And I, remember, her eyes were always wide open and she managed to look tidy and alert all through the day.
I made-up my mind to change for Shubhi’s sake.
But to be a “super mom” was not an easy task. The hot food packet was the least of the problems. It entailed many other tasks like driving her to the bus stop in the morning, listening to mindless stuff on the stereo while waiting for the school bus to arrive etc.
Also, I had made it a point to be back home before she returned from school. Of course, that meant no leisurely lunches with friends. I even tried my best to have a friendly chat with her about her day in school. To keep her in good humor, I organized a snack for her every evening and sat and ate dinner with her, something I had not done in a long time.
By mid-week, I had dark circles under my eyes, my smiles were burning my insides, I was feeling frustrated keeping up with the “super mom” act and much to my chagrin dear daughter had shown no appreciation. Yes, this could not last forever!
However, it was Shubhi who pounced on me one afternoon, “Mom, are you not feeling well? Go and spend time with your friends. Why don’t you just leave me alone? You are constantly watching over me like a hawk. Do you have nothing better to do”?
I was shocked at her outburst. “But, I was only trying to be a good mom, the kind your friends have”, I said.
“You mean the hot-lunch-packet-kind. I can do without it. Please give me only sandwiches. With all the oily food you gave me last week, I am getting pimples”, retorted the ungrateful child.
So within a week’s time “Super mom” had to sign off and exit rather unceremoniously.
.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A letter to my granddaughter
Dear Ritika,
I just received a message from your dad. He said you had got a first class for the third consecutive year and it is a rare feat in Cambridge. He was going for your convocation ceremony with Anju(your mom) and little brother Anantya. When you receive my letter, they might have already reached.
I do not have words today to tell you how much happiness you have brought the whole family. We feel so proud of you. Your ‘dada’(grandfather) if he had been around would have said, “Ritika has fulfilled my childhood dream of studying economics in a prestigious college abroad”. I don’t think he ever shared this with you because you were very young when you went away to Singapore.
When children do well, the credit for their success goes to their parents as well. Both Anju, and Bunty have been terrific parents. I have seen your mom take care of you as a child and she was the best. Every single moment of her life she was concerned about your health, education and extremely careful that you grow up to be an honest, brave, bright and confident girl. These are the values you are going to carry forward in life. Your dad has worked hard for the family to be able to provide the best possible for his children. I am writing this to you as a parent who brought up three wonderful children and I know from my own experience what it takes to bring up children and set them on their path to success and then let them be.
As a grandmother I can share a small experience from life. People who succeed in life and lead happy lives are the ones who are kind, generous, share and reach out to others. Families that remain united are the ones who not only share happy moments but also stand up for each other in times of distress. I don’t know whether I have been able to put it across properly but always remember to take care of your loved ones wherever you are and whatever you do.
I will wait for you to come to Delhi so that I can give you a small present and a big hug. Your aunts, uncles and cousins send you their best wishes and loads of love.
Love,
Dadi
“I could not help but write on mom’s behalf. Unfortunatley my mother suffers from Alzheimers. She cannot write nor can she speak. However, it was as if she was writing and not me.”
Dear Ritika,
I just received a message from your dad. He said you had got a first class for the third consecutive year and it is a rare feat in Cambridge. He was going for your convocation ceremony with Anju(your mom) and little brother Anantya. When you receive my letter, they might have already reached.
I do not have words today to tell you how much happiness you have brought the whole family. We feel so proud of you. Your ‘dada’(grandfather) if he had been around would have said, “Ritika has fulfilled my childhood dream of studying economics in a prestigious college abroad”. I don’t think he ever shared this with you because you were very young when you went away to Singapore.
When children do well, the credit for their success goes to their parents as well. Both Anju, and Bunty have been terrific parents. I have seen your mom take care of you as a child and she was the best. Every single moment of her life she was concerned about your health, education and extremely careful that you grow up to be an honest, brave, bright and confident girl. These are the values you are going to carry forward in life. Your dad has worked hard for the family to be able to provide the best possible for his children. I am writing this to you as a parent who brought up three wonderful children and I know from my own experience what it takes to bring up children and set them on their path to success and then let them be.
As a grandmother I can share a small experience from life. People who succeed in life and lead happy lives are the ones who are kind, generous, share and reach out to others. Families that remain united are the ones who not only share happy moments but also stand up for each other in times of distress. I don’t know whether I have been able to put it across properly but always remember to take care of your loved ones wherever you are and whatever you do.
I will wait for you to come to Delhi so that I can give you a small present and a big hug. Your aunts, uncles and cousins send you their best wishes and loads of love.
Love,
Dadi
“I could not help but write on mom’s behalf. Unfortunatley my mother suffers from Alzheimers. She cannot write nor can she speak. However, it was as if she was writing and not me.”
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Monkey school
Recently, there was a story in the newspapers about government school space being auctioned to private builders. The officials felt that a lot of school buildings were lying vacant for a number of years and if sold the land could be utilised for other purposes.
It sounded a bit strange because only five years back I had heard a horrific description about a government school from a close friend. She had retired from a government school where she had taught for more than 25 years.
The school she described now has a brick building, however, I still would like to share what she told me about the plight of these government-run schools in Delhi.
Monkey school
It was a school with a difference. Here, children and monkeys studied together. While the students sat on the ground, monkeys attended classes sitting on treetops, right above the teacher’s head. Much to the children’s chagrin, while they had to concentrate on serious class work, the monkeys had a rollicking time, jumping from one branch to the other. During recess the primates would charge towards the school bags, feel out the tiffin boxes and scrape out the remains. They would also take out geometry boxes and often escape with the contents.
Interestingly, this was no village school, in the interiors of the country, but a government run school, in an area, bordering a posh South Delhi colony.
“After the lunch break, we were showered with rulers, pencils, rubbers, empty boxes and even sharp objects, from above. My students sitting on treetops were asserting their presence”, an amused, Ms Veena Kayastha told me with a smile. Ms Kayastha had taught in the school for a number of years. Now retired, she was sharing her teaching experiences in government schools. “When the sun would become strong we would move the black board to the coolest corner under the tree.”
However, she was lucky to get her home science class shifted to a shed that had an asbestos cover. They left behind their four-legged, exuberant friends, but they had to contend with the sweltering summer heat. In the makeshift classroom, that had a capacity to accommodate 45 students, now sat sixty girls.
The girls came from very poor families. Some had the will to learn and improve themselves. But most of the time they did not succeed due to family pressures.
“Looking after their families was their main priority. They had to finish all domestic chores before coming to school. Some did not find time to eat, bathe or even comb their hair. I remember, my favourite student, Sharmila. A frail and weak adolescent, she frequently came to school on an empty stomach. Often some one from the teaching staff would take her aside and buy her tea and biscuits”, Ms Kayastha recounted.
In another incident, a child with very high fever was sent back home. The next day her father confronted the teacher, “I would rather see her dead than lying around in the house”. The teacher was stunned by the inhuman reaction.
Ms Charu Kumar, a senior teacher, in a government run school, in East Delhi, had a similar experience.
She cited the example of seventeen-year-old, Arti, a new pupil in her class. A quiet and reticent child, she refused to interact with her classmates or teachers. Over the months she looked more and more insecure.
Finally, the principal was informed. An inquiry was made quietly and it was found that she was ill-treated by both her step-mother and father. She was forced to do all the housework before attending school. Though her grandfather was interested in her education, her tyrannical father constantly threatened to get her married off.
“A petrified and insecure Arti, was scared to interact. She constantly lived under the fear that her father would pull her out of school on the slightest pretext,” explained Charu.
Fortunately, the Principal intervened and Arti moved in with her grandparents and completed her education.
Thus, any law enacted towards Right to Education, will remain a mere paper tiger, till the time the Girl Child is treated with contempt.
It sounded a bit strange because only five years back I had heard a horrific description about a government school from a close friend. She had retired from a government school where she had taught for more than 25 years.
The school she described now has a brick building, however, I still would like to share what she told me about the plight of these government-run schools in Delhi.
Monkey school
It was a school with a difference. Here, children and monkeys studied together. While the students sat on the ground, monkeys attended classes sitting on treetops, right above the teacher’s head. Much to the children’s chagrin, while they had to concentrate on serious class work, the monkeys had a rollicking time, jumping from one branch to the other. During recess the primates would charge towards the school bags, feel out the tiffin boxes and scrape out the remains. They would also take out geometry boxes and often escape with the contents.
Interestingly, this was no village school, in the interiors of the country, but a government run school, in an area, bordering a posh South Delhi colony.
“After the lunch break, we were showered with rulers, pencils, rubbers, empty boxes and even sharp objects, from above. My students sitting on treetops were asserting their presence”, an amused, Ms Veena Kayastha told me with a smile. Ms Kayastha had taught in the school for a number of years. Now retired, she was sharing her teaching experiences in government schools. “When the sun would become strong we would move the black board to the coolest corner under the tree.”
However, she was lucky to get her home science class shifted to a shed that had an asbestos cover. They left behind their four-legged, exuberant friends, but they had to contend with the sweltering summer heat. In the makeshift classroom, that had a capacity to accommodate 45 students, now sat sixty girls.
The girls came from very poor families. Some had the will to learn and improve themselves. But most of the time they did not succeed due to family pressures.
“Looking after their families was their main priority. They had to finish all domestic chores before coming to school. Some did not find time to eat, bathe or even comb their hair. I remember, my favourite student, Sharmila. A frail and weak adolescent, she frequently came to school on an empty stomach. Often some one from the teaching staff would take her aside and buy her tea and biscuits”, Ms Kayastha recounted.
In another incident, a child with very high fever was sent back home. The next day her father confronted the teacher, “I would rather see her dead than lying around in the house”. The teacher was stunned by the inhuman reaction.
Ms Charu Kumar, a senior teacher, in a government run school, in East Delhi, had a similar experience.
She cited the example of seventeen-year-old, Arti, a new pupil in her class. A quiet and reticent child, she refused to interact with her classmates or teachers. Over the months she looked more and more insecure.
Finally, the principal was informed. An inquiry was made quietly and it was found that she was ill-treated by both her step-mother and father. She was forced to do all the housework before attending school. Though her grandfather was interested in her education, her tyrannical father constantly threatened to get her married off.
“A petrified and insecure Arti, was scared to interact. She constantly lived under the fear that her father would pull her out of school on the slightest pretext,” explained Charu.
Fortunately, the Principal intervened and Arti moved in with her grandparents and completed her education.
Thus, any law enacted towards Right to Education, will remain a mere paper tiger, till the time the Girl Child is treated with contempt.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Palmist's Bakra
(Happy new year! Hope I can get more readers and followers in the new year. Once again posting a story written several years back.)
Palmist’s Bakra
“Your luck is changing”, I was told by the man sitting under a fancy canopy in the premises of Jai Palace Hotel, in Jaipur. He was the local soothsayer. The moment we saw him in the evening, my daughters and I, decided to take a peep into our future and check out his palmistry skills.
“So you have three children”, he said. I interrupted, “No, only two”. My daughter, Shubhi, tapped my shoulder, “He means Snowy, the dog also”. The man did not look happy; he peered into my palm more closely. “You have a good imagination,” he tried again. “Yes, I do some writing”, I replied. He now looked more confident, “I will say the year 1990 saw a great many changes”. “Hurrah”, screamed Shubhi. “It was the year I was born.”
He was right for once. It was the year diapers came back into my life once again. For the next ten months, I got no sleep, carried a baby with a listless maid to my workplace, tried very hard to write a good copy and got the maximum frowns from my editor that I nearly chucked up my job. Also, my husband traveled 115 days to America, happy to escape the baby’s wails at night. Indeed, it was an eventful year.
“In 1995 you were accident prone,” said the palmist. A slight discrepancy here, I noted mentally. I had been prone to accidents from the day I went out with my husband for the first time. There were no speed breakers for him and it seemed the road belonged to his Highness when he drove. I often clutched on to the seat and the door handle and closed my eyes. In fact, life became accident free in 1995, when I put my foot down and a driver was engaged.
“You are lucky for your husband. You have brought happiness in his life,” remarked the palmist quite gleefully. “Yes he complaints there is too much of it now”, I nearly said aloud. “And also the mausis”, butted in my elder daughter, Sonali, cheekily.
He, poor husband, cannot cope with the gang. His phone bills are mounting. Only last night, he was just about to begin snoring when pal Rita called up to ask, “Does Diwakar know anyone in Cadbury. You know Anjudi’s brother-in-law’s cousin’s grand child needs a job very badly.” He is equally at a loss when well-meaning friends Nita and Kalpana drag him for a dance while Sonali insists she could part with her dollar allowance to keep him off the floor.
“Your daughters will do wonders for you,” continued the man. They already are. My credit card just bounced. Sonali shops for Indian summer and winter in California and Californian summer and winter in India. Inquire about her grades; her answer is “Mom leave me alone. I am not a nerd.”
Shubhi acquires a distinct American accent when sister Sonali is around. People ask me, “Was she born in America?” Not only that, her room turns upside down. There is blaring music on all the time. The twelve-year-old has been taught the American life-style. It takes a good deal of time to undo the damage and soon elder sis is back in India, with another shopping list, and some new American slang words.
“After Jan 15, your career will take off”, said the palmist summing up the session. It has taken off in a subtle way. My editor in Singapore is not responding.
By the end of the palm reading session, I could tell the palmist without even looking at his palm, a thing or two. Tonight, he was going to eat malai kofta, dal makhani, and laccha paratha, followed by some kheer, at the Five-Star, Jai Palace Hotel, and not some tasteless home-cooked food prepared by his wife. For, he surely had reason to celebrate. He had palmed us off Rs1500 for a thirty minutes session and we were not his only clients for the evening. There were several other “bakras” waiting outside in the queue.
Palmist’s Bakra
“Your luck is changing”, I was told by the man sitting under a fancy canopy in the premises of Jai Palace Hotel, in Jaipur. He was the local soothsayer. The moment we saw him in the evening, my daughters and I, decided to take a peep into our future and check out his palmistry skills.
“So you have three children”, he said. I interrupted, “No, only two”. My daughter, Shubhi, tapped my shoulder, “He means Snowy, the dog also”. The man did not look happy; he peered into my palm more closely. “You have a good imagination,” he tried again. “Yes, I do some writing”, I replied. He now looked more confident, “I will say the year 1990 saw a great many changes”. “Hurrah”, screamed Shubhi. “It was the year I was born.”
He was right for once. It was the year diapers came back into my life once again. For the next ten months, I got no sleep, carried a baby with a listless maid to my workplace, tried very hard to write a good copy and got the maximum frowns from my editor that I nearly chucked up my job. Also, my husband traveled 115 days to America, happy to escape the baby’s wails at night. Indeed, it was an eventful year.
“In 1995 you were accident prone,” said the palmist. A slight discrepancy here, I noted mentally. I had been prone to accidents from the day I went out with my husband for the first time. There were no speed breakers for him and it seemed the road belonged to his Highness when he drove. I often clutched on to the seat and the door handle and closed my eyes. In fact, life became accident free in 1995, when I put my foot down and a driver was engaged.
“You are lucky for your husband. You have brought happiness in his life,” remarked the palmist quite gleefully. “Yes he complaints there is too much of it now”, I nearly said aloud. “And also the mausis”, butted in my elder daughter, Sonali, cheekily.
He, poor husband, cannot cope with the gang. His phone bills are mounting. Only last night, he was just about to begin snoring when pal Rita called up to ask, “Does Diwakar know anyone in Cadbury. You know Anjudi’s brother-in-law’s cousin’s grand child needs a job very badly.” He is equally at a loss when well-meaning friends Nita and Kalpana drag him for a dance while Sonali insists she could part with her dollar allowance to keep him off the floor.
“Your daughters will do wonders for you,” continued the man. They already are. My credit card just bounced. Sonali shops for Indian summer and winter in California and Californian summer and winter in India. Inquire about her grades; her answer is “Mom leave me alone. I am not a nerd.”
Shubhi acquires a distinct American accent when sister Sonali is around. People ask me, “Was she born in America?” Not only that, her room turns upside down. There is blaring music on all the time. The twelve-year-old has been taught the American life-style. It takes a good deal of time to undo the damage and soon elder sis is back in India, with another shopping list, and some new American slang words.
“After Jan 15, your career will take off”, said the palmist summing up the session. It has taken off in a subtle way. My editor in Singapore is not responding.
By the end of the palm reading session, I could tell the palmist without even looking at his palm, a thing or two. Tonight, he was going to eat malai kofta, dal makhani, and laccha paratha, followed by some kheer, at the Five-Star, Jai Palace Hotel, and not some tasteless home-cooked food prepared by his wife. For, he surely had reason to celebrate. He had palmed us off Rs1500 for a thirty minutes session and we were not his only clients for the evening. There were several other “bakras” waiting outside in the queue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)