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.

Fasting or feasting

Just before Diwali we celebrated "Karvachauth". On this day most women fast without drinking water. I wrote this several years back.


The morning started like any other day. I had dropped my daughter to the bus stop. I was back home, ready to enjoy my morning cup of tea.

“Aren’t you fasting today”, remarked my husband in a sheepish tone, watching me merrily sip tea. “Ofcourse, I am. But what is the harm in drinking a cup of tea,” I retorted.

“You know, I don’t like all this fuss about karvachauth. Go out for a walk. You will feel more cheerful”; he said walking away with his golf bag and car keys.

But there was to be no strenuous activity. So no mornings walks. Even the gym instructor didn’t want us around. “Stay away and relax. All the sweating can cause dehydration,” he had warned us.

I was glad to see the newspaper man much before time. It could be my imagination but the man looked rather preoccupied. May be the thought of going back to a cranky, fasting wife was troubling him.

Indeed, with nowhere to rush to the morning stretched beautifully into mid-afternoon.

I was now ready for my appointment with Shahnaz, my twenty-one-year-old, charming beautician, at the SPA, in Saket. Not realising my folly, with a half-finished apple, that was to be my lunch, I walked into a room full of ‘Women in Red’.

“Didi aren’t you fasting,” Shehnaz piped from somewhere in the room. “Ofcourse, I am. But what is the harm in eating an apple”, I said, repeating my morning lines. I could see a few raised eyebrows. Ignoring them all, I settled down for a manicure.

“Guess what Kavita, this time my mom-in-law parted with her best diamonds. I had never realised she could be so generous”, remarked a girl, waving her hands to display the huge stone on her finger. “Lucky you. I got only a sari. But Kuku has promised to get me a gold kadda from Dubai”, screamed back Kavita from the other end of the room.

Another young lass with mehendi on her hands was avidly describing her evening dress, “I have bought this lovely lahenga-choli from the Bridal Asia fair. It is more expensive than my wedding dress. None of my friends are wearing saris this Karva. We want to do things a bit differently. We are all meeting at a farmhouse with our respective husbands in the evening. We have arranged a DJ so that there can be dancing later.”

Amid all the cacophony I heard someone say, “I had delicious gobhi parathas and kheer. It is going to keep me going till late in the evening”. Shahnaz sensing my anguish smiled naughtily and explained, “They get up before sunrise and eat sargi. It is auspicious.”

I did not like what I heard. So their feast was over and they were grudging me my 100 calories in-take. However, I had made a mental note of all the “MUSTS” for the next karvachauth. An expensive sari -a must. Gobhi paratha and rasmalai before sunrise– a must, must. And Kuku like indulgence – a must, must, must. My only problem is that the first two I can manage easily but for the last one I might have to adopt some arm twisting tactics.

Born free

Face Book has helped me connect to people I had lost touch with for so many years. Recently traced an old school friend Gitie Wiiliams. Interestingly, we were together from nursery till we passed out from school. Gitie an avid reader and writer had edited the school magazine in the final year and I had helped her put it together. She has moved on and now does "bird watching" and is writing about her experiences on the face book.

I wrote "born free" several years back. I don't think Gitie can relate to the latter part becasue she has moved away to Australia and life must be so differnet there. But the intitial bit is about our growing up years in school where we spent the first 12 years of our lives together.


Born Free

The fragrance of the sandalwood incense sticks still lingers and so does the soft humming of ‘Om jai jagdi sha hare.’ I often scurried out of bed when I heard the mellow sound of the small brass bell, well aware that Ma’s puja was getting over. Hell would break lose if she found me asleep. But this was only on weekends and holidays.

The other five days of the week, morning began with beautiful hymns. From the last row in the choir, I loved to watch Miss Harland’s deft fingers move on the piano that filled the hall with enchanting music. It was not just prayers but a feeling of one-ness with music and God.

Christmas brought more fun to the morning assembly; we spent more time singing carols and hymns than doing boring classwork. The festive spirit was evident everywhere; teachers became more tolerant, classrooms looked bright and colourful and small priceless gifts were exchanged. I still treasure the string of beads; a friend gave me in Class V.

Interestingly, Christmas didn’t end with classmates in school. At home, a group of friends would get together and decorate the Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve we sang and danced till late in the evening, eating cakes, pakoras and steaming idlis.

I remember, in all the growing up years we looked forward to each festival with the same enthusiasm. Durga puja brought new clothes and sweets. The ten-day festivity ended on Dussera with a visit to the over-crowded Ram Lila Ground. We chewed roasted ‘channa’ while the demon Ravana burnt.

Diwali followed with some more partying and firecrackers. Holi was the best. It was the only day in the year we could behave like hooligans. Also, I can never forget the taste of the ‘kada prasad’ we ate at the nearby Gurudwara on Guru Nanks’s Birthday.

By the time I came out of school we had shifted into a new apartment block. In the flat below lived Mr. Shamim. “Baji”, his old mother with a pan in her mouth and her glittering ‘pandan’ looked so much like my paternal grandma. She spoke the same dialect. I was terribly amused with the way she referred to mom as ‘Dulhan’. Mother, was often summoned in the afternoons for short gossip sessions.

A friendship that had started with a cup of morning tea by Uncle Shamim - had become a bond. On ‘Id’ we were served the best home-cooked Biryani, Kababs and Sivaya in town. Sabina, the young daughter-in-law, who prepared all these delicacies, was soon recognized for her culinary skills. In time, she was cajoled into starting a home-catering business.

Life was wonderful. We belonged to a generation that was born in free India. We had not witnesses the harsh realities of pre-independence era. The British rule, the freedom struggle and the Partition were only a part of our history curriculum. We had got the best opportunities; a good education, a modern lifestyle and a progressive urban society. Moreover, no one looked at our textbooks with suspicion or told us to guard against suspicious looking objects in public places or be wary of some terrorist lurking in the corner of a street. Indeed, we were fortunate to be born free.

Super mom!

Shubhi, my 18-year old is home for the next couple of weeks. After working hard for a whole year she is now relaxing. And I am trying to spend some "Happy Moments" (as I call them) with her before she once again has enough of me.

Wanted to share this "middle" I wrote when she was fourteen.

Super mom!
“Am I a good mom”? I asked my teen-age daughter, Shubhi, jokingly. She looked a bit confused and then replied cautiously, “I guess, you are fine.”

“You mean nothing great”? I said provokingly. “Any grudges”? I questioned further.

“Yes, you do not cook fresh parathas, in the morning. All my classmates carry something hot that their mothers have cooked for them in the morning. Also, you never listen to me,” she replied sheepishly.

“But you leave for school at 6.15 am in the morning. It is too early to get into the kitchen and cook hot food. You know I can barely keep my eyes open when I am heating the milk for you,” I said trying to sound reasonable.

“And you know with age catching up, my energy levels are a bit low to keep pace with your stories”, I added.

Shubhi was not too convinced with my explanation. I could read the look in her eye, that said plainly, “Mom you are just too lazy.”

In her own way she was right. How can I forget my mom’s lunch packets? Though, we carried just plain sandwiches, but a complete breakfast of freshly cooked egg, porridge and cut-fruit waited for us before we left for school. And I, remember, her eyes were always wide open and she managed to look tidy and alert all through the day.

I made-up my mind to change for Shubhi’s sake.

But to be a “super mom” was not an easy task. The hot food packet was the least of the problems. It entailed many other tasks like driving her to the bus stop in the morning, listening to mindless stuff on the stereo while waiting for the school bus to arrive etc.

Also, I had made it a point to be back home before she returned from school. Of course, that meant no leisurely lunches with friends. I even tried my best to have a friendly chat with her about her day in school. To keep her in good humor, I organized a snack for her every evening and sat and ate dinner with her, something I had not done in a long time.

By mid-week, I had dark circles under my eyes, my smiles were burning my insides, I was feeling frustrated keeping up with the “super mom” act and much to my chagrin dear daughter had shown no appreciation. Yes, this could not last forever!

However, it was Shubhi who pounced on me one afternoon, “Mom, are you not feeling well? Go and spend time with your friends. Why don’t you just leave me alone? You are constantly watching over me like a hawk. Do you have nothing better to do”?

I was shocked at her outburst. “But, I was only trying to be a good mom, the kind your friends have”, I said.

“You mean the hot-lunch-packet-kind. I can do without it. Please give me only sandwiches. With all the oily food you gave me last week, I am getting pimples”, retorted the ungrateful child.

So within a week’s time “Super mom” had to sign off and exit rather unceremoniously.






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