A second Childhood

Some years back mom had fractured her arm and to make things worse, her live-in maid had gone to her village for a vacation. Thus, unable to manage on her own she reluctantly came to stay with me. I was working from home during that time and had only a computer paper to write for, leaving me with a lot of spare time to spend with her. We often went out for evening walks though she hadn't recovered completely. This piece I wrote after one of my usual evening trips with her to the neighbourhood park.

A second childhood

Walking along with mom in the park the other day, I was suddenly reminded of my childhood. Often, mom took me to the Children’s Park and stood around while I played with other kids my age.

Interestingly, after so many years we were together once again however, now our roles had been reversed.

“Mom why don’t you sit on the bench and rest a little”, I said. “Who said I am tired. When I was younger I was on my feet from six in the morning. We knew how to use our hands and keep active. We didn’t need a gym to burn calories”, she retorted.

Of course, she was rebelling the same way I did at the age of five. It was a hard task for mom to stop me from going wild. By evening most days my legs would hurt and somehow I knew, that by the end of the day, I would have a similar situation on hand.

That night, when mom got into bed, I quietly slipped in a heating pad. She looked relieved and did not protest. I remember, years back her handing me a glass of chocolate milk and saying, “Kids who drink milk at night have strong bones and can play longer in the park.”

During my school days, breakfast had always been an ordeal. I often tried to step out quietly, leaving half-finished food on the table. Unfortunately, I always got caught. For, mom would scream from somewhere in the house, “Eat the porridge and finish the egg”. It was as if, she had X-ray vision.

Now, it is my turn to coax her to eat her meals properly. “Mom, try out this. It will not be heavy. I will only serve a small portion”, I hear myself say, at meal times. Some days she obliges and other times, no one can reason out with her. “Don’t pile my plate. I know what I should eat. You know my stomach is sensitive. Look at my age and leave me alone,” she snubs me outright.

Off late, mom’s obsession with her live-in maid, Santosh brings back my daughter, Shubhi’s childhood. The little one was so crazy about her maid, Izabella, that when she went home once a year Shubhi scribbled letters to her.

Twenty-two year old Santosh, has become my mom’s constant companion. Santosh, a rare human being takes care of her day-to-day needs. I often see her in the afternoons, huddled with mom, with lots of wool and knitting needles. Only during these brief sessions I see mom assuming the role of an instructor and I see a hint of her old self in her.

My niece, Pallavi recently sounded a bit disturbed. “Mausi, nani keeps misplacing her things. She needs a search party all the time.”

Deep down I know something has changed in our lives forever. It is not easy to watch mom grow old. However, trying to calm down Pallavi, I said, “Enjoy her the way she is. You saw her commanding, organising and taking care of the family. Now it is her turn to take it easy. Let her enjoy her second childhood.”

"Now I have to go.." said Sonali

After a long time I have been home for nearly two weeks, recovering slowly from a sudden diagnosis of high levels of sugar in the blood. Ofcourse, being put on a low calorie and no sugar diet, I have had to make drastic changes in my life style. However, what I miss the most are my mid-night meals of chocolates and icecream.
I wrote this piece, "Now I have to go..." in 2006 after visiting Sonali.

Interestingly, these days Sonali calls me every day to enquire about my health and for once she is no rush and I don't hear her say, "Now I have to go..".


"Now I have to go..."


"When you reach the Residency Inn, at San Mateo just give me a call and now I have to go,” said my 22-year old daughter Sonali, in her typical accent from San Francisco. However, before I could react, the phone call had been terminated.

I must have scowled a wee bit because my younger daughter, Shubhi patted me and remarked, “Hey mom don’t worry, she does that to me all the time. I know she is thrilled that we are visiting her.”

My husband, Diwakar, and I, had planned a holiday to California to see that Sonali had adjusted well to the new city and her first job.

“We must make her feel secure. She will never tell us that she is lonely,” I told Diwakar. For once there were no arguments and Diwakar agreed immediately. In fact, he said in a solemn tone, “She must be missing us. She has been away from home for nearly nine-months.”

So the family arrived in San Francisco to meet the Bio-engineer daughter. The two small bags between the three of us and one large bag containing 24-packets of Maggie noodles, Priya green pickle, steel masala container, microwave idli-maker, packets of spices, a dozen packets of ready made food, sweets and nani’s home made namkeen, fortunately, did not create any problems at the airport. “Daughter’s food-bag”, smirked the guy at the counter.

There was no sign of Sonali at the airport, I tried calling, the voice mail responded, “Hi! this is Sonali, leave your number and I will call back”. “Oh! She must be in the shower, relaxing after a long day in the office,” said Shubhi, pacifying a hyper mom.

Finally, Sonali arrived with an overnight bag, and a large Pizza. “Hey! dad, hey! mom. The hotel looks good. I have eaten already. The pizza is yum. I have brought you some. I will sleep with Shubhi tonight,” she said. I was happy to hear that.

She looked skinnier than before, but more confident and relaxed. “She has matured,” I said to my husband quietly. I guess, I had said it a bit too soon.

“What are you doing about Shubhi’s pimples, and why is she not exercising”? Sonali commented giving me one of her usual severe looks. “She is on the treadmill everyday and plays golf with dad,” I said trying to pacify her.

“That is not enough. When you go back to India , put her on a diet. Don’t you guy’s read anything back home,” she added.

Before I could react I could hear her say, “Now move Shubhi, I need to sleep. Got to reach office at 6.30 a.m.” The conversation was over.

I did not meet her the next morning because she had left early. I tried her phone in the afternoon. A tired voice responded, “Hey mom, I am so tired. Why does dad have to make his office calls so early in morning, I barely slept. Shubhi kept turning and waking me up. I will not come tonight and now I have to go.”

I decided to leave her alone. The next two weeks went past quickly. Sonali was busy working on most days; one weekend there was a cricket game, the next one her colleague of two months was leaving. In fact, I just about got to see the apartment she had rented and we did some shopping together.

The day before we were leaving Sonali once again walked in with her overnight bag. “I am going to sleep with Shubhi. Hey! mom, why don’t you and I, chat. You know you could have stayed another week.”

“You are happy and well settled. My job is over and now I have to go”, I said mimicking her accent. She looked up and smiled sheepishly. For once she had no answer.

Nuke trauma

I was going through a couple of stories that I had written long ago. This is one of my favourite ones. Chandra, (the catalyst for this story),and I have known each other for countless years. Even now she is as dramatic as she was when she joined the prep school in class two. Of course, she is now a well-known writer and writes serious stuff.

Nuke Trauma

“Aren’t you worried you will be vapourised. Here we swing from Media hype to Karmic calm”, wrote Chandra, a close friend, in her e-mail from Jallandhar. I have known this friend from class two, and so well, that I can sum her up in one sentence, “A real Drame Baaz”. However, I could imagine her looking all pale and worried at the idea of going up in smoke with her four big dogs, guarding the ten acre government house, and all the precious ghost stories, on her Laptop, she wrote to keep her intellect from rusting.

I wrote back, “Ask one of your friendly ghosts to come to your rescue.” No reply so far.

The very next day Musharraff had addressed the nation on PTV. He spoke of the many nuclear bombs he had in his locker. It was apparent by his body language that his fingers were itching to grab them and chuck them from the terrace of his house. Musharaff, we all know is a “Purani Dilli ka chokra” and could not have escaped playing Holi. He spoke with a confidence of a man proficient in the art of chucking water balloons at his neighbours. For the first time I felt the nuke trauma.

If Doomsday was so close, then time was short and there was so much to be wrapped up. Guilt pangs lying dormant for years were beginning to surface. I suddenly felt; I must allow my daughter, Shubhi to eat her favourite ‘Pepperoni pizza’, I had denied her for weeks. I was busy working out the cost when a perturbed friend Rita called; “Did you watch Musharraff on TV. The man looked crazy. Anyway let us not waste any precious time. How about lunch in my house? I have already spoken to the gang and every one has agreed to come.”

So, despite the nuke threat lurking over our heads, we all met at her place to enjoy the sumptuous lunch followed by Nathu’s Rabri. Now it was Kalpana’s turn. “You know I have never visited Shopper’s Stop. It is so close to the target area. Maybe this will be our last chance to visit the place.”

Ofcourse after that a number of days were spent recovering from all kinds of aches and pains and sorting out the shopping bags. However, nothing was going to deter us now. We were already working on our pre-decided agenda, of fun and frolic. Our spirits were high but for some a bit irritating. “Why don’t you all go and watch the new Amitabh Bacchan movie,” remarked my niece, Pallavi. And then added with a naughty smirk, “Mausi, but leave your brains behind, otherwise you will lose your job.” She was well aware of the fact that I was avoiding my editors in Singapore, like plague.

Indeed, in the Nuke Threat we had found the solution of a lifetime. The gang motto now is, “Live Life every moment and empty out every Bank Account within your reach.”

The menfolk are sulking as usual. They say they can handle Musharraf’s ‘Nuke trauma’
but they are at a loss when it comes to ‘Wife trauma’.

Chicken Soup for the Soul!

Recently, our good friends lost their 11-year-old dog in Chennai. It is a strange emotion and void that you feel when your pet dies. However, life moves on.

I wrote this piece seven years back.

Chicken soup for the soul!

After we lost our eight-year-old dog, Snowy, I could not bear the thought of bringing home another pet.

I remember the day clearly when we brought home one-month-old Snowy; the first couple of nights she slept snuggled in my lap and gradually she became my constant companion.

Most days, while I worked on my desk, she sat huddled close to me. Her daily walks, meals and her bath had become a part of my schedule. Often, when I worked till late, and due to hunger pangs, sneaked out for a mid-night snack, she followed me quietly. I assume; she knew she would get her share too.

However, that one night, last November, she did not follow me and when I looked around for her, I found her lying dead.

“Mom life has to go on”, consoled my daughter, Sonali from California. My thirteen year-old Shubhi had suddenly sounded like an adult, “Mom, she was lucky she did not suffer.” The vet had confirmed it was a cardiac arrest.

“Mischief”, the seven-week-old Cocker Spaniel came into our lives a month back.
The little pup with long hairy ears and a black coat sniffed around the house, as if he knew he had come home for good. A trip to the vet is all we needed to get us started on project “Mischief”.

A cane cot with checked-cushion was bought, along with a hairbrush and teething bones. I discovered that a red and white collar and leash had come hidden in Sonali’s luggage a fortnight back. Now, I knew the reason for closed-door sessions and all the heated debates for getting another pet.

“Mischief” lived up to his name and was quite a handful. Each day he tried out new ways to make a bigger mess.

However, one morning we found Mischief lying quietly in his cot. In the evening a worried family took him to the vet. “An injection is all he needs”, diagnosed the vet. But there was no improvement.

Finally, we went in for a second opinion. A blood test revealed parasites in his blood and an extremely low HB count of 3.5. “The pup needs anti-biotic, a protein-rich diet of chicken soup and a lot of nursing. If he survives we will be lucky,” said Dr Kharb, the vet.

We went back home with a heavy heart. With tears in my eyes, I served Mischief a bowl of chicken soup. It was his last chance to get back to life. To my amazement, Mischief sniffed and moved towards it with shaking legs. He lapped it up quickly and looked up at me, as if saying, “See, I am a survivor”.

Fortunately, tonics, a course of anti-biotic, regular meals of chicken-soup, and 24X7nursing got him back on his feet in the next couple of days.

Mischief is now back to his old ways. I hear myself say “No!” more often than anything else. But no threat seems to work on him.

I guess, his regular meals of chicken soup have added a new dimension to his personality. He is stronger and bolder. But I must admit he is also a “great survivor”.

Goodbye! grand-mother

We lost mom on 16th March night due to lung infection. She was suffering from Alzheimers and was bed-ridden for several years.

Her grand-daughters,Pallavi (Tuk Tuk), Sonali, Ritika and Shubhi sent their tributes for the prayer meeting. Tuks read them out:

I am Pallavi Goorha Kashyup.
I will like to share my thoughts about Mrs Shashi, my nani . nani was the first one to hold me on my birth….and the most beautiful relationship began. Being the eldest granddaughter and staying close here in Press Enclave, I got the lion’s share of time with my grandparents. I learnt a lot about the life and the values from them.

My nani was strict disciplinarian at one end but the other end she pampered us .Whenever, me and my sis Sonali fought under the dining table she will scold both and then she will say…..you are the elder one…. forgive your younger sis. We had good times together. I still remember the time we spent in holidays in Kashmir and other places with nani painting the pots, embroidery and knitting.
I can’t forget interesting stories she used to tell about her childhood and then her children mom, mou and mama.

With a Masters degree in Hindi, she was reservoir of knowledge of Hindi Literature. Sometimes, she will be on the opposite side quoting Sharat Chandra and my Nana talking Shakespeare. It was great fun watching this old loving couple pulling each other’s leg.

I still can’t forget the mohavara she will shoot at the drop of a hat. I can request for sweets in the middle of the night…. teasing me… pat she says….” gilhari hamesha peda maangti hai”…. Then lovingly she will make me my favorite besan ka laddoo or kheer. (You didn’t taste it….sorry you missed something very delicious)

I still remember the beautiful lessons on life from her….. “neki kar kua mein dal”. I and all my sisters and brother Me, Sonali, ritika, Shubhi and Anantiya remember nani as a wonderful, loving ,caring human being. We all pray for her soul and hope to imbibe her teachings.

She was a great giver of love and affection. Smilingly, she managed both sides of the families all through her life. She helped the family bond with each other and never differentiated between her own children, grandchildren and nephews and nieces of a large extended family. She was adored by all.

Sonali’s note (from California) for prayer meeting.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

When I was little my nani's house was my favorite place in the whole world. When I went to visit nani, I got to do all my favorite things. She made my favorite foods, bought me books to read and taught me my favorite crafts. Nani would scold my mom when I complained about her. Nani taught me to mind my manners in public places. And she taught me to only set the highest standards for myself.

To me my nani was perfect and I loved everything about her.

In her lifetime Nani embraced many changes: A young girl from Allahabad travelled the world with her husband, learned to speak the Queen's english and raised 3 wonderful children. She was a talented artist who inspired her daughter and granddaughters to paint. She was a caring wife who indulged my grandfather in every possible way. She was a gracious hostess who opened her home and her heart to everyone.

Nani was the most fragile woman I had ever known. But she gave us all strength to face our toughest challenges. And she conquered our hearts with her love.

Nani no longer lives in the house that I loved as a child. But she lives in my dreams and aspirations. Halfway around the world, she inspires me with her courage, her love and her simple faith in the goodness of everyone.

I feel her comforting presence in my toughest moments and it helps me live my life to the fullest.

Thank you Nani for being perfect.

That’s what Ritika from Singapore has to say about her Dadi:

"I will always remember Dadi as an incredibly giving person, who cared for her family members deeply. She also had considerable patience, which proved extremely useful when she tried to teach me hindi, though I'm sure my ridiculous pronunciations secretly amused her. Her stories were fascinating and insightful, and ensured that we all remained connected to our roots and that, regardless of where we lived, we knew where we had come from. Some of my fondest memories from my visits to Press Enclave are of listening to Dadi's stories, either about her freedom-fighting relatives or about how Amitabh Bachan used to play in her backyard. She will be sorely missed by all her grandchildren, and we love her a lot.'


Here is what my younger sister, Shubhi writes from US :

Whenever I think of my Nani I think of sari's and sunshine, the smell of agarbatti's and Olay cream. I think of bhindi and ParleG biscuits dipped in tea, the Ramayan and Mahabharat. I think of hugs and kisses, knitted sweaters and long hindi lessons. Most importantly i think of being loved unconditionally and completely.

When I actually sit and consider every good thing in me, I realize I've learnt it from her. She taught me to love my country. She spent countless afternoons telling me stories from the Ramayna and Mahabharat. Then she would spend the evenings teaching me Hindi lessons. Without her I would be an Indian Born Confused Desi who would not have passed 8th grade Hindi.

She taught me there was no difference between a boy and a girl. And I was to never let anyone tell me any differently. She taught me to always be on my feet and to not let myself lose focus. She taught me to treat people the way I would want to be treated. She and Nana taught me to love books and to dream big. Every fortnight they would take us on an excursion to the bookstore. My dreaming and aspirations began at the age of 5. She taught me that even though my parents could be obstinate and unfair, they still loved me and would eventually cave in to my demands. She taught me the difference between faith and hysteria. And that everyone deserved love. And most importantly she will keep saying till the last ball ….. sometimes I can’t trust the Indian Cricket team, "ye sab ulle hain***"…..poor guys….even when they actually won the match.

It is hard for me to say how much I love Nani No child could ever have had a more supporting, loving and involved grandmother. Even though my heart breaks as I write this, I know I will never lose her. She lives in my mothers smile and in my sisters heart. I carry her with me wherever I go. I love you nani.

Mrs Shashi will remain in our heart all our lives and continue to spread that amazing love, affection and inspiration through her noble thoughts.
On behalf of my parents, my mausi and mausaji my mama/ Mami and the whole family I thank you all for being here with us today. We all appreciate your love and affection.We thank many other friends and relatives who couldn’t join us today.

Bringing up father

If dad was around we would have celebrated his 85th birthday on 5th February. We lost him on 18th May 2001 but in the last 8 years not a day has passed when I have not thought about him. He was great fun to be with, always had something interesting to tell as there was not a dull moment in his life. An activist journalist having experienced a great deal in his personal and professional life, he stood by his convictions and lived on his own terms.

Bringing up father
“When will your father grow up”, was mom’s constant complaint. But much to our delight and later the grandchildren’s he never really did.

Ofcourse, the process of ‘spoiling him silly’ was initiated by my ‘dadi’. Born the eldest son in a family of eight children he was indulged and pampered. Moreover, his father spent long periods away from home during the freedom struggle. Thus, in his early years of childhood his widowed childless uncle took care of the family. “He refused us nothing,” dad would say.

Interestingly, there were no sibling rivalries. My Uncle Kamal admits quite willingly that “Bade Bhaiya, was amma’s favourite. He says, “We were happy to run errands for him. I would clean up his room, and even get his clothes from the dhobi. Amma would cook special dishes on Sunday and allow him to buy his favourite magazine, The Illustrated Weekly.”

At the age of nineteen, dad had picked up his first job in a local newspaper in Lucknow. “Life had become tough for the family, there was no earning member and your uncles and aunt were still in school. I had just finished college but there was no choice,” I remember dad telling us. Later in his life he had the satisfaction that each one of them excelled in their chosen careers.

By the mid-fifty’s dad had moved to Delhi and got a job with a British news agency. That was a providential break. He got a lot of exposure and a good many opportunities to travel abroad. His British boss, Mr. Howe treated him like a son. Mrs. Howe was a cookery expert and would often call-up and say, “Prakash, come over and try out this continental dish”. She knew he relished her cooking. And dad continued getting indulged.

I remember, as a 3-year-old, running for his slippers and his copy of London’s Daily Express, when he came home. Gradually, I guess, I had taken over my Uncle Kamal’s place in his life. When I worked with him at the Press Foundation Asia, bureau my first question to him every morning was, “Dad what have we lost today?” Invariably it was a clipping he had cut from the newspaper or a particular report he had been reading the night before. Putting his clippings in order, was a task I dreaded the most in the 15 years I worked with him.

However, the most hilarious incident was when he summoned the local cable TV guy and told him to fix the MTV channel on his TV set. The guy looked aghast at my 75-year-old dad when he was told, “I don’t want to miss my favourite show – ‘MTV Bakra’.” He loved to listen to Eric Clapton and Elton John with his granddaughters and go over with them to McDonalds for a cup of coffee and French fries.

After he retired, once a week, we met in my house. I helped him with his political column, and we had lunch together. On one such afternoon, when he was leaving, I slipped a large piece of his favourite Swiss chocolate in his pocket. He smirked mischievously and patted his pocket. That was the last time I saw him alive. We lost him the following mid-night. He went quietly just like a child.