It's a freezing cold night....

Prompt:It's a freezing cold night. Shiela finds a family on her doorstep and invites them into her home to sleep. The next day the family does not leave.

 

It was freezing cold outside, the temperature had suddenly dipped below zero. Sheila had gone to check on the main door, a habit she had acquired when her daughter, Nitya left home for further education.

 

She was now living alone in the house, her husband, being an army officer was posted to different parts of the country every three years. Initially, as a young bride she had accompanied him but later for Nitya's school education and her own job at the local college, she decided to stay permanently in one place.

 

Sheila, was just about to switch off the light of the entrance when she heard the sound of a child crying outside her door. She opened the door to find a young couple with a small child in their arms.

 

The mother had covered herself and the child in a thin shawl and the man in a torn kurta and worn out pajamas was shivering in the cold. Shiela immediately told them to come inside her house. She switched on the heater and ran in for a thick blanket to cover the little one, while Anita the maid was told to make hot tea for the couple and organize a hot water bottle quickly.

 

The next hour was spent in warming up the child who had nearly stopped breathing. Luckily the child was fine after sometime and started sucking at her mother's breast.

 

By the time Sheila settled the couple and the child, it was nearly mid-night. Herself, feeling emotionally and physically exhausted, Sheila told Anita to put them in the spare bedroom across the garden, which had been occupied by the live-in gardener, Ram khush. Ram Kush was away for a month to get his daughter married.

 

Shiela woke up in the morning to the voice of the child's whimpering and remembered the incident of the night. She got ready for college and went into the kitchen for breakfast and found the couple seated on a mat on the floor and Anita was serving them tea and bread.

 

Anita, quietly came over to her and whispered, "They say they have nowhere to go." Sheila had not prepared herself for this situation, she had housed them for the night not realizing what she was getting into.

 

Not knowing how to deal with the situation, Shiela, acknowledged the couple with a nod, said quietly, "We will discuss this further in the evening," and left for college.

 

When Sheila returned home that evening, she was in for a big surprise. The front lawn had been mowed and cleaned, the pots and the gate had been freshly painted. The man was washing the leaves of the tree with a pipe. Anita, took her quietly to the back of the house and she saw the woman cutting mangoes for making pickle while the little kid crawled on the floor.

 

The house appeared to be bursting with energy, as if the couple had always been a part of the house.

 

After eating dinner that night Sheila with an envelope that contained cash, walked to the couple's room and thanked them for their hard work during the day.  

 

The man promptly replied, "We are poor but we still like to earn and feed ourselves." The woman folded her hands and mumbled her appreciation for providing them with shelter for the night. "Our child would have died if you had not taken care of us last night," she said quietly, with tears in her eyes.

 

Sheila was wondering what to do next, when she felt a tug at her shawl. She turned around to find that the child, had crawled up to her and was pulling her shawl with her tiny fingers. Sheila looked at her smiling and innocent face and was suddenly reminded of Nitya's childhood. Nitya too would pull her sari when she left for college every day. Often, Sheila had to bribe her with a piece of chocolate to distract her. 

 

Sheila, bent down to hug the child and closed the door behind her. She walked back to her house with the envelope still in her pocket.

 

Sheila could hear her phone ringing in the house and she knew it was a call from her daughter Nitya. Sheila was suddenly excited, there was so much to tell her daughter. She knew Nitya would understand and would be happy to find someone to share her chocolates with, when she came home next week for Christmas.

 

Prompt: They came back every year to lay flowers at that spot.

They came back every year to lay flowers at that spot.

From the day we lost dad, our mother was never the same person. Her plants lay neglected in the balcony, the half knitted cardigan with the wool and needles seemed to have been forgotten. All her interest in the kitchen and other household chores was over. She even stopped chatting with her neighborhood friends when she went for a walk. Her transformation from a lively and energetic person to a dull and listless one shook the family completely.

Saddened to see the change in  her, we even consulted a doctor, who advised us to give her time to heal herself. The situation remained the same for many months and nothing seemed to interest her till one winter afternoon when she saw a small puppy abandoned near the gate of the colony.

Her grand-daughter, Pallavi, who was spending the day with her, quickly suggested, "Let us take him with us. He looks starved and so dirty."

Pallavi was right, a bath, a bowl of milk and bread revived the little pup completely. Mom seemed to be suddenly  in command. "We should consult a vet and get him his inoculations", she suggested.

Mother being an animal lover we always had a pet dog while we  were growing up. "It makes you a better person and more compassionate", she felt.  Whenever she found time she would sit with our dog, "Kitty", and remove her ticks and brush her coat.  We were encouraged to take Kitty for her daily walks.  As children we often complained, "Kitty is mom's favorite child".

The little stray puppy was named "Shadow" and in reality he lived up to his name. He would follow mom everywhere. He slept on the stool next to her, would sit at her feet in the living room and wait outside her toilet when she went in for a bath.

Slowly, mom appeared to be more like her old self. We could hear her talking to the dog and . disciplining him when he was naughty. Pallavi who had begun to spend a lot of time with mom, would giggle and say, "Shadow has now started misbehaving like us. I enjoy hearing the way he is being scolded by nani all the time." Not only her, we too were reminded of our own childhood.

Shadow had become mom's constant companion. All her waking hours were spent with him. . When she visited us for lunch or dinner, the dog was also extended an invitation. He continued to hog all her attention for her remaining life.

During her brief illness while she was confined to bed, he did not move from her room. It was difficult to even take him out for his daily walks. 

When we lost mom, Shadow refused to eat for several days. I took him home and he lived with me till he died some years later. Every year on his death anniversary we lay flowers at the spot where we buried him in our backyard. However, we all realize that we can never thank him enough for giving our mother a purpose to live for, during the last few years of her life.                    

The garden was overgrown now (writing prompt)

The garden was overgrown now and hid the cottage completely. The unpruned Bougenvillia had spread and a  web of thorny stems, leaves and flowers had grown all over the gate and the boundary wall. I could see dirty green moss sticking out of the grill and there was a rusted iron handle staring at me.

"Is this the Red and Blue cottage you told us about", asked my nine year old daughter, Ananya.

"Oh mom you were so lucky! You grew up in a house surrounded by a jungle", screamed, Ajit, my 6-year-old son, running towards the old gate.

My husband, Ajay, and I had settled in San Francisco ten years ago and our visit to India had brought us to this old house in the outskirts of Shimla. It was true that I had grown up in this red and blue house, where my father, a writer had written most of his award winning books, and mom had worked in the local school to keep herself busy.

My parents had moved into the cottage when I was a couple of years old. My younger sister was born in  this very cottage. My earliest memories are of mom sitting in the bright sunshine in the open verandah and me on the swing hung from an old tree near the boundary wall.

 My Red and Blue house had been a delightful place. Clean wooden flooring with rugs from the local market spread all over, an old but functional fireplace in the living room and the warm, large kitchen with Maya, our maid, always eager to shoo me out. Of course, I never went away without a few cookies in my hands.

A wooden creaking staircase took us to the three bedrooms on the first floor of the cottage. I remember the branches of a tree peeping through my window. Mom always found it difficult to shut that widow because the branch had grown many more branches, and pushing them back to shut the window was quite an effort for her. The window sill was my favorite spot. I loved the tree and envied the squirrels dancing on their toes and birds chirping away happily.

I often imagined wild things in the night. One night I dreamt I had climbed out of the window and a bird with large green and pink wings had carried me into the hills with full moon keeping us company. I woke up that morning to Maya's banging on my bedroom door disappointed that my journey had been cut shot. The whole day I had been cranky and upset till night came and with the darkness some more exciting dreams.       

Some of the stories I tell Ananya and Ajit are the ones I had dreamt as an eight-year-old and were so lovely that I never forgot them. 

In school, I was a day boarder, but children came to study from all over the country and they stayed in the school hostel. I had plenty of friends who stayed there. Often I felt sad going back home and leaving them behind to their exciting lives in the dormitory. However, my devious mind found innovative ways to contribute from behind the scene. Once I left a Christmas gift for the warden on the doorsteps of the hostel. It was a beautifully wrapped shoe box with a semi conscious frog inside. We had dissected the same frog in the Zoology lab in the morning. The whole hostel was in splits but only a few had been let into my secret plan.

I was a born leader but not really a bossy type. My friends were proud of my risk taking ability and depended on me for advice. I had this wonderful story telling talent. I managed to make every situation hilarious and sound real. Often I forgot the original plot after weaving so much imaginary stuff around it. I plotted with my friends all through my years in School. We did get into trouble with our school teachers and get punished on various occasions. However, most of it was harmless mischief done to get over our day to day class-room boredom.

I so very much wanted to be a boarder like my friends that I wished hard that my parents would move to some other city. My parents stayed put and it was I who moved over to Delhi to study Economics after finishing school. All my friends had left for different places and the cottage was not much fun anymore.      

Coming back to the red and blue cottage with my children Ananya and Ajit had brought a flood of memories. My mother had moved in with my sister in Singapore, after we lost our dad. She visited me often but never spoke about our life in Shimla.

I think she felt a deep pain when my dad died suddenly of a heart-attack and she could not get him to the hospital in time. For miles and miles around the cottage there was no medical facility available. Both being in good health had somehow assumed they would never fall sick.

Standing outside the now rusted cottage, I felt an urge to break open the past and enter my forgotten childhood again. Ajit and Ananya had never seen their grandparents home. 

A couple of months later, I had a surprise for my sister. I sent her a mail with pictures of our freshly painted and renovated childhood home. I had spent all the money my mother had left us both to get the job done. Luckily I  had traced an old friend of my father who lived in the city. His son was an interior designer who had recently converted an old heritage property into a five-star hotel in Shimla. He was now interested in working for himself and we thought he would be the right person for renovating the cottage for us.

I had given him only one instruction, "Let the soul of the cottage live".

With the grass around cottage gone so are the cobwebs in my mind that had tormented me for so many years. I had always felt awful that we were so far away when my dad died, leaving my mother to deal with it alone.  I feel I have begun to live again. Whenever, I visit the cottage  I can feel the warmth and presence of my parents there.                

Even in San Francisco I dream about the red and blue cottage. The tree peeping through the window and the squirrels and birds dancing on the branches.  In fact, my story telling ability has matured and has become more real. Only my audience is different. Earlier it was my school mates and now it is Ananya, Ajit and little Suhani, my sister's daughter whenever she visits us.

Every  year, both me and my sister spend a month in the cottage, reliving our childhood with our children. I do not know how long we will be able to manage these vacations but till the time we can we want to make the most of it.

letter in the alley

 

Prompt: Waiting to catch the bus you see a young boy look both ways before entering an alley. When you follow him into the alley, he has disappeared. Instead, there is a note lying on the pavement. What does it say and how do you react?

I picked up the note wondering where the boy in red-check shirt had disappeared all of a sudden. It was  a narrow, badly lit alley and to read the note I had to go under a street light.

The night was windy and I clutched the piece of paper scared I might lose it. The note read, "I have run away from 'Uddhar', the orphanage I was sent to after my parents died. The warden is a bad man and wants to catch me so that I do not go to the police for help. My name is Ramesh. Please save me."

The handwriting was of a ten year-old child. I wondered what I should do. Should I go to the police and ask for their help in tracing the boy or come back later in the morning and look for him myself.

I decided on the latter. Next day I was back with my friend Usha, who worked in urban slums and with street children. We decided to move around pretending to be conducting a general survey. In our khadi kurtas and jholas and with cameras hanging over our shoulders, we looked the typical volunteers from an NGO. The next move was to get all the children out of their homes on some pretext.

"We are making a film on children and want all the children to participate. Each child will get a gift for attending the session", announced Usha, to the women near the hand pump. There were several children around helping their mothers and they ran excitedly towards Usha. In a couple of hours we had fifty children auditioning for various roles. As the cameras kept rolling, we waited for that one boy  whom we had come to rescue.

Both Usha and I grew worried by late afternoon. Had we taken too much into our hands. We were not sure whether going to the police would have been a better option. Just when we were about to wind up for the day, we heard a voice, "Will you audition me"?

From behind the tea-stall a small head appeared, "Is it going to be like the Slum dog millionaire?" he asked. "Of course, it could be something similar," replied Usha, happy to be the next Mira Nair.

I knew instinctively that the head belonged to Ramesh, the boy who had written the note. He had been there right in front of us, hiding, watching us work with the children throughout the day, taking his time to trust us. He came forward slowly, and looked into my eyes and smiled. His face looked  innocent but the bruises on his neck, hands, feet revealed the torture he had experienced. Usha, looked at me and whispered, "Should we now go the police?"

For some unknown reason I could not reply. "Let me take him home for now. He needs to take a bath, eat food and sleep comfortably. We can decide tomorrow." I heard myself say after a few minutes.

 Being a single forty-year-old woman I had been chasing adoption agencies to adopt a child for the last six months. Here was Ramesh, a child who needed a home, a mother and love. Was it  destined that I find Ramesh and take him home away from the cruel, and unsafe world into which he had been thrown after his parents died? Usha, guessed my thoughts from my expression. "Let me take a picture of you both together."

 The next morning there was a post from Usha. She had sent a picture, she had clicked the day before, with a message that read, "Letter in the alley has finally reached its right destination." In the frame were a smiling Ramesh and me looking like a family already.        

First snowfall

Prompt: It was the first snowfall of the year.

Much to our delight, the weather throughout the week had been sunny and bright. The first snowfall of the year, as predicted by the weatherman, seemed nowhere in sight.

So when my daughter, Sonali, called up to tell us that she was driving home over the weekend I saw no reason to dissuade her. The three hour drive from college to our house was something she had got used to doing over the last couple of years.

"There is no chance of a snow storm at least this weekend," I had told her jokingly on the phone.

I spent the morning baking her favorite banana cake and some spicy chicken curry for lunch. She was going to start after breakfast so I was expecting her home by lunch time. However, I had barely finished cooking that I realized, it had become dark outside, there was a sudden strong gush of wind and within minutes it started snowing.

I immediately tried to reach her on her mobile but there was no signal. Finally, I gave up after trying her several times. By now my nerves were on edge as I knew she was still an hour away from home.

Meanwhile, I noticed a car had pulled-up near our house and a young girl with a bag and umbrella stepped out of the car looking completely lost. I waved to her to come in. She looked a bit hesitant and then decided to accept my invite.

"I am Angela. I was feeling scared driving in so much snow. Thanks for letting me into your house", she said as she entered.

I realized, Angela was my daughter's age and she too was driving home for the week-end. We spent the rest of the day chatting about the college she attended and her family. In the night, while I prepared the guest room for her, I prayed to God to take care of my daughter too.  Sonali's mobile had not responded from the time the storm had started and there was no other way of contacting her.

Surprisingly, by morning it had cleared completely. Angela was packed and ready to go. She thanked me and left a note with her phone number and a picture of her family.

Angela had barely driven out when I saw Sonali drive in. I rushed out to greet her. She looked cheerful and happy as if nothing had happened during her journey. Once inside the house she excitedly told me about the family with whom she had spent the night. She recounted how her car had suddenly broken down in front of a house and the lady of the house had invited her in.

"There are still good people left in this world. She was so kind to me. In fact, her own daughter was stuck in the storm and she could not reach her on her mobile," she said.

I was about to tell her about Angela when Sonali's eyes fell on the picture Angela had left behind. "Oh you know them? This is the family I spent the night with,"  she exclaimed.

"I was about to tell you. This is Angela, the girl who spent last night with us. Strangely, she too had stopped in front our house as she was scared to drive in the snow," I heard myself say.

Sonali and I looked at each other completely dazed at the co-incidence.      

Prompt: He hadn't seen her since the day they left High School

Dinesh was sitting with his iPad in the coffee shop, trying to complete the article he had to submit in the afternoon. But despite, drinking two cups of  hot coffee, he was unable to concentrate on what he was writing. "Was it a writer's blog", he wondered.

Dinesh closed his eyes and tried to listen to the conversations around him. This was a habit he had cultivated from childhood whenever he felt lonely or tired. He had seen a group of girls walk in and from their chatter he knew they were sitting right behind him. He could not see them and nor could they see him. Best position for  eves-dropping.

"Oh you remember the guy who sat next to me in school, wasn't he a big show-off?" he heard a female voice from behind his chair. The others in the group giggled. "Wonder what happened to him?" asked another. "He belonged to the rich Jain family from Prithviraj road. Must be driving around in a BMW or Mercedes with his trophy wife," exclaimed someone in the group, sounding a bit jealous and irritated. " "Hey! don't make fun of him. There was a terrible tragedy in their family? I don't remember exact details, but it was all over the papers," interrupted a voice sympathetically.

The voice was so familiar, the same softness and sweetness, Could it be her? thought Dinesh excitedly.  After school had got over, she had joined a medical school in the South, while he had left for US for an under-grad program in computer science.

"Vandy, I remember you had a crush on him", he heard the irritated one say. "I think I did Anjali. But he belonged to such an affluent family. There was no future in such a relationship," replied the same sweet voice.

"Vandy, you lost Arpan five years back. How long are you going to grieve over him? You are still young, pretty and a good doctor. Isn't it time to find a companion?"asked the girl addressed as Anjali. The other voices agreed.

Dinesh, knew they did not remember his name, but he was boy they were talking about. He suddenly remembered his sprawling house on Prithviraj Road. It was in this house his father had shot himself dead. His father, a proud man, had never revealed to his family about the business debts that he had accumulated over the years, and was unable to repay. Fortunately, Dinesh had finished college by then. He came back to take care of his  mother, whom he sadly lost within a year of his father's death. The one sister he had, was married to a doctor in US, and she was busy with her own family. 

After settling his father's debts there was little left for him to do. He hated the corporate world that had taken away his father from him so tragically. So when a job offer came from his friend's father to write a column for his new publication, Times News. Dinesh gladly took the offer and soon got involved full time.

He loved the freedom he enjoyed at Times News, Delhi office. He built their development news section from the scratch and was now heading it. The job entailed long trips into the interiors of the country, to report on development issues, and many opportunities to attend international seminars and symposiums.

However, he was experiencing a strange loneliness for quite some time now. The work place seemed colorless, his one-room apartment seemed dull and even the summer break he had taken to the Caribbean had not rejuvenated him. In the last ten years, so much had happened. His best friend, Aujun Patel had decided to settled down in California. Another friend, Arvind had married his college sweet-heart and moved to Bangalore, where his parents lived, and recently his office buddy Brijesh Kumar had joined the electronic media.

The cafe where Dinesh was sitting had become quiet. He woke up from his day dreaming and realized that the group of girls, sitting behind him had already  left. He could now only hear a mother pacifying her child who was throwing a tantrum. 

Dinesh felt irritated with himself, then thought, "Oh! I  lost one chance but surely there will be many more", and pulling out his i-Pad, he went to Face Book, and searched for Dr. Vandana, Delhi. The face, he hadn't seen since they had left high school, popped up.

Looking at the pretty and smiling face on the screen, he knew she was the one he was waiting for to complete his life. He had always liked her but was too shy to tell her in school.    

Dinesh felt rejuvenated, and scolding himself for being lazy, he went back to finish his article.

The toy train

Prompt: Every morning it was the same thing for Martin Hedger. He had put on a pot of coffee and get dressed as he waited for the coffee to brew. But today, things would be different.

The toy train

Every morning it was the same thing for Martin Hedger. He had put on a pot of coffee and get dressed as he waited for the coffee to brew. But today, things would be different. His son, Kevin was visiting him after twenty years.

Kevin had left home after he lost his mother in a car crash. Martin, had been unable to hold him back. "There is nothing left for me in this house," he had told his father the night before he left for Australia to do college.

Martin had not protested as he knew he had little in common with his son. Kevin had been their only child and while Martin, a marine engineer, was always at sea, his wife Julia took care of him. The brief vacations that he took with his family were nothing to write home about. Martin seemed to be restless and bored, the sea being his first and only love.

The old man, had been skeptical when he received a cable from his son that he and his family were visiting him in a week. The house in which Kevin grew up stood neglected. Julia had been a perfect housewife but Martin after her death had been least interested in the upkeep of the house. The curtains were faded, furniture unpolished and rugs were in tatters.

Suddenly Martin felt helpless. He had no energy to do anything. The doctor had repeatedly told him to keep a check on his alcohol intake, eat at regular hours and go for walks. Martin had done nothing about it. His unshaven look made him look like a hermit.

Kevin arrived early morning with his pretty wife Jennifer, and five-year-old son, John, as he had indicated in the cable. Both father and son looked at each other confused not knowing what to say.

The disheveled state of the house had brought a frown on Kevin's face. "You knew we were coming and bringing along our son. Couldn't you get the house swept and dusted," he remarked angrily. Martin did not react immediately. "I am an old man, I just about manage my life. You have come after twenty years. It is a long time," he said softly.

Kevin saw his father's eyes brimming with tears and for a moment felt guilty. "Don't cry dad. You never wanted me here. I wrote to you several times but you were always sailing. I did not know you had retired until a month back when I met uncle Patrick, your old colleague," consoled Kevin.

Jennifer, had withdrawn quietly from the father-son duo and decided to make herself busy in the kitchen. As for John, it was an interesting house. Perfect place for a game of treasure hunt. He was sure none of his friends would find what he hid in a mess like this. He was excited as he climbed upstairs and checked-out every room.

The small room with the bunk-bed and un-painted walls was quite fascinating . The wall paper had peeled off but there were still remains of cartoon characters on the walls. Sitting in dust under the bed was a toy train. John excitedly pulled it out, pressed a few buttons, and to his surprise the train jerked into motion and made a sound like a whistle.

Martin, Kevin and Jennifer ran up on hearing the sound, fearing something had broken. Martin rubbed his eyes at the picture before his eyes. The boy kneeling beside the train was his little son Kevin.

He remembered he had got the toy train for Kevin and before they could assemble the track, he had got orders to leave with the ship. For a second his son's disappointed and sad face flashed before his eyes. Kevin never played with the toy train again and it lay abandoned in one corner of the room.

In the emotional encounter with his son, he had not noticed his grand-son, John. Martin smiled at the boy, knelt beside him, unmindful of the dust on the floor, and started building the track he had left unfinished. He knew this was his last chance to ensure that the track was restored, for the train to run smoothly, despite lying neglected for so many years.                

She studied her face in the mirror.

Writing prompt: She studied her face in the mirror.

Asha studied her face in the mirror. "Why did it look so different?", she wondered. She still had the same dark complexion, small black eyes and not to forget the double chin that made her neck disappear inside the collar of her shirt. But her face was shining and eyes were sparkling, and she could not help smiling in front of the mirror.

Everything had changed for her in the last couple of hours.

Asha, who was the oldest amongst the Mathur sisters, was always reminded of her plain looks by everyone around her. Mrs. Mathur, her mother, looked a wee bit uncomfortable when she had to introduce her in her fancy social circle. Asha, purposely stayed away from these gatherings allowing her younger and prettier siblings, Abha and Nisha, to hog the limelight. While her sisters would spend hours getting dressed to please their mother's friends and receive compliments from them, Asha would sneak into her father's study and pretend to be studying for her college exams.

 Mr. Mathur, was the only one in the family who did not care about Asha's dark complexion. "Even Shanti, my sister is no beauty but look at her brains. She has studied at Oxford and is now teaching there. My daughter, Asha, is brilliant like her. How can anyone  miss her intellectual spark," he apprehended his wife, whenever she cribbed about Asha's looks, and how difficult it was going to be to find her a groom.

 Asha was sitting in the lawn with a book from her favorite author when Anant arrived unannounced. He had come to drop a package which Shanti had sent from the US. With no one else in the house, Asha had no choice but to entertain the guest. The discussion started with the book she was reading to the courses he was pursuing in the US. Somewhere in-between their animated conversation the Mathur family arrived and found Asha completely engrossed, chatting with a stranger. Something they had never imagined in their wildest dreams.

Anant, had been taken by surprise. He had lived abroad most of his life. He had never expected to meet an Indian girl with so much knowledge and intellect. There was an unusual honesty in her opinion, she spoke her mind with ease and what a lovely smile she had, it made her eyes sparkle, he thought to himself. Anant seemed to be completely under her spell.

Mr Mathur was quick to notice the change in Asha too. She looked radiant. He smiled quietly to himself. While his wife fidgeted around Anant, confused seeing Asha so confident and charming in the presence of a young boy, he sent a message to Shanti, "Your mission has been accomplished". He knew Shanti had set the stage for Asha to find her groom.

   

Red beads bracelet

Another story created on one of the prompts.

I saw the box in the corner and the red beads bracelet with a little metal hook. The old woman saw the curiosity in my eyes. "Do you want it?" she asked, taking it out of the box and placing it in my hands. "The family across the road  were vacating and they left a dresser for the garage sale. I found this in one of the drawers."

For a moment I had goose bumps. Weren't those the beads I had given to Rani,  my seven-year-old playmate,  when she moved out of Delhi. She loved the red color and the smooth shining texture of the beads. She would borrow it when we enacted the little skit, "Lal Pari" and it was her turn to play the Pari.

Rani had promised to write a letter to me once a week when she left. The yellow postcards with barely legible scribbles came regularly for the first couple of months, then the frequency decreased and slowly the letters stopped completely. I continued writing but got no replies. Though I missed her terribly I was lucky to find new friends. But no one played the same games with me anymore. No one wanted to jump over the gate or walk on the pile of pipes lying in the vacant ground or enact stories made-up  in flat five minutes. "Who wants to decorate an ugly tall cactus plant on Christmas", I was told. But my argument that this is the one we have decorated for the last two years fell on deaf years.  

The red beads had brought back my childhood and my friend whom I had loved so dearly. But look at fate, she lived across the road, in the same neighbourhood, and I had never met her. Perhaps, met her but did not recognize her.

I put a hundred rupee note in the old woman's hand. "If anyone comes to claim it send that person to me. I live in the last house down this lane."

The sun was setting behind me as I walked away with the red beads bracelet in my hand and a little hope in my heart.              

Speaking doll

A couple of months back, Sonali discovered "online writing  prompts", an interesting way to let your imagination run. The prompt gives one line of the story and allows you to weave a story around it. Hope you enjoy reading it because I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. I felt as if I was back in school.

    
Speaking doll

I was in downtown one summer morning looking for a few pieces of antique furniture for the new sitting room I was redecorating. Anita, my interior designer, friend  had suggested, "Magical Collection", a new shop that had opened up recently and had got raving reviews in all magazines.

The shop was like a small museum. There were beautiful pieces of old furniture and other antique pieces on the shelves. Surprisingly, the collection had something for all ages. I was fascinated by the old toys lying in one corner. "Are these also antique pieces?" I asked the old sales woman.

"Of course", she replied. "They have been collected from different countries. look at that pretty doll with dark brown curly hair. She has travelled all the way from London. The collector got her from an old English family, he was closing shop so I bought her from him. An ideal gift for a small girl if you have one."

I thought about my five-year-old daughter, Shubhi and all her dolls in the pink doll house. But none of them looked like this one with the brown curly hair like a Golliwog.

When I got the doll home, as I had expected Shubhi was thrilled and she quickly gave her a name."I want to call her Brown Curls", she told me. The doll had a fair and pretty face with little red on her cheeks. Her mouth appeared to be big as if she had opened it to say something and it had frozen.  

For the next few days I saw little of Shubhi. She spent most of her time in her playroom with Brown Curls for company. Infact, I even found the doll snuggled in her bed one night. This was surprising because Shubhi never played with a toy for more than a couple of days.

"Why don't you watch some cartoons for a change. Aren't you bored with your new doll by now"? I  asked Shubhi one morning after she returned back from her nursery class.

"Why should I be bored. Brown Curls tells me better stories than you", she replied angrily "So your doll talk to you also", I said teasing her.

"Yes she does I know all about the English girl and her family that she belonged to earlier". said Shubhi without batting an eyelid.

Knowing Shubhi I knew  she could weave stories within stories. Not wanting to curb her story-telling ability I pretended to believe her.

However, I was in for a surprise the very next day. I was knitting a yellow sweater for  Shubhi sitting in her playroom when Brown Curls suddenly said "You knit so well!" She was in the little bed Shubhi had tucked here into.

"Please make me a wig with the yellow wool. I too want golden hair. I hate my hair. In the toy factory where they were assembling me this stupid and silly old woman stuck Brown hair on my head instead of  golden by mistake. I think her eyes were bad. Betsy that little English girl never played with me. she got all her other dolls new clothes but never for me. None of the other dolls liked me. They called me Golliwog and teased me. I am happy that Shubhi loves me even with my ugly hair and so I tell her stories."

I could see her eyes brimming with tears  and her mouth drooping. Now I was not prepared for this. Shubhi's endless chatter was enough in this house and now her doll turning into her clone.

"I will knit you a golden cap and stitch you a new dress if you promise to stay quiet , " I said pacifying her.

Shubhi was delighted to see Brown Curls in her new polaka dotted dress and her hair in the yellow wool cap. "Wow mom she looks amazing. Just like an English doll now". she squealed.

However, next day she had removed the yellow cap. "I  love Brown Curls with her brown hair. We discussed last night and Brown Curls and I decided that with her brown hair she looks even better."

Brown Curls continued to be in Shubhi's life forever. She even accompanied her to the US when Shubhi left for her undergrad.

Interesting, the doll never spoke to me again and Shubhi never mentioned any of their conversation to me either. I often wonder whether the doll really speak to me or was it my own imagination running wild. But even now I give myself the benefit of doubt for finally I did pick her up from "Magical Collection".                

Do I need to justify?

Every morning I tell myself that I lead a semi-retired life. I do not have to send children to school nor leave for work at nine in the morning. These little thoughts help me relax. Of course over two of cups of tea, I read six newspapers including the magazine editions that they carry, before I leave for work.

Today I read Namrata Zakaria's article on staying slim. She admits how everyone around her comments on her being thin." Being slim does not mean you are sick or anorexic, "she says. Yes, it is un-nerving when those around you start chasing your weight. We have all gone through that uncomfortable feeling while growing up but as adults it is embarrassing. Specially coming from people you barely know.

Recently, one of the most awkward questions I have encountered is "at your age how do you stay trim? I could be at a wedding, at a friend's place or a formal get-together, the barbs continue. And often my inquisitive audience goes into a clucking session, "very well maintained ...must be spending a lot of time in the gym.. must be dieting". The answers come without me getting in a word.

Now, do I need to respond to these! I did earlier, looking unsure because my doctor still thinks I need to lose more weight. "Being a diabetic it is important to protect your organs and weight can cause havoc on your system", repeats my diabetoligist each time I visit him.

After two babies my waistline did increase by four inches and weight went up from a mere 48kg to 72 kg. For a five feet, four and half inches tall person it showed in all places. I stayed like that for a long time till I turned 40+ and was thrown into an exercise regime by my daughter. More to keep her happy and less for myself I fell into it quietly. It is easy to lose inches, do away with water retention but that is only one part of fitness. The most important I feel is keeping stress levels low.

When in my early 50's I was detected with diabetes, I was in for a rude shock. I had done everything right so how did I get into this. But frankly had I really? A sweet tooth that runs in the family added to the stress of being an entrepreneur's wife, was my undoing. Mid-night meals of chocolates, Indian sweets, pasties is what led to my ailment. It is two years now and after giving up sugar, my diet has changed completely. It has helped me lose the extra pounds gradually. Proper meals and regular exercise is what has resulted in this trim look.

As Zakaria says in her article, they criticize Aishwarya Rai for being fat after delivery, and compare her with Lara who is back in form within two months of giving birth to her baby. The whole conversation is about weight loss. Yet, thin women are looked at with suspicion.

I wonder, whether I am thin or fat. Do I really need to justify my weight to all and sundry..

Musing to find a muse

Does every writer need a muse?

It was Shovana Nararayan's ballet "The Poet's Muse" that made me realize that even Tagore needed a muse to become a prolific writer.

The performance by Shovana and her team of dancers was wonderful but the story of Tagore and Kadambari, his elder brother's young wife is what got me thinking. As the story goes, both were only a few years apart and Kadambari was very fond of poetry and literature. She edited every piece that Tagore wrote while her husband was desperately working away to bring out a newspaper. It was her loneliness, or perhaps her thirst for literature that brought out the best in Tagore. Yet, it is surprising that she never wrote herself. Perhaps, she too needed a muse.

When Sonali, my elder one was around I wrote so often. There were so many little incidences. Either she was arguing, lecturing me or fighting with her sister, Shubhi. In short she gave me lots to write about. It was an exciting and interesting phase in my life.

Then my muse flew off to America but surprisingly, Shubhi and my niece, Tuks continued providing me with masala . The former was an interesting subject, totally disorganised, lacking in any kind of normal perfection. For a mother it was discomforting to observe her, however i could have written a blog on her every day.
Tuks was another interesting subject. A gentle and kind person. You can put her in any situation and she will come out a winner. Her positivity made me look at her cousins differently and that too helped my writing.

Shubhi went off to Upenn, Tuks got married in Bombay and Sonali and her cat, Noami, live in New York. I now talk to Shubhi's answering machine and Tuks regales me with her stories from Mumbai.

Surprisingly, Sonali and i have started chatting again and we have a lot to share. She adores her dad, calls him Cute, ofcourse I have not told her that i have nicknamed him Mr. Fuse. She has Noami and her ailments and I have Mischief my dog's endless trips to the vet to discuss. She finds it difficult to leave NY because her cat suffers from separation anxiety and I am stuck in Delhi fearing Mischief might succumb to some infection. I call it the fear of the unknown but finally my pet does keep me engaged and I owe him this much.

At the end of the day, I find it difficult to accept but I might have to manage with a "no muse" situation in my life.

 
 

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.

A Wife's Conviction

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.