Even The Darkest Cloud Has A Silver Lining

So I am back, but I chose to leave the bang behind.
The span between my last blog and this one is too long. I duly apologise to my patient readers. Yet I am sure they will bear with me after reading this piece.
All this while, time was healing my wounds which I thought would span for long. But you see I have bounced back to life !
This is what happened.

Piyush Pandey and Sushant Pandey are two brothers. The elder of the two , Piyush has been my student for three years now. He is in the twelfth standard. But Piyush is not my subject today. His younger brother Sushant, is.

Sushant is nine and very young for his age. He is an innocent and loveable boy. His mother often complains that Sushant is very finicky. About everything. For instance he does not like his tiffins dripping oil or his glass of Complan with the skin floating on it. It makes him squeamish. His uniforms have to be impeccably clean and if his socks sag even a bit, they invariably become his ayah's son's possessions , much to the ayah's pleasure , his mother's consternation, and his brother's chagrin.
If Sushant fell down in school all hell broke loose. Not because he bled or was embarrassed before the girls but because his dress became dirty !

This is our Sushant. And there is Piyush - his complete antithesis.
My proximity to Sushant has a reason. He is , in many ways, like my own nine-year-old son.

On 2nd April, a frantically panting Piyush reported to me over the telephone that his brother had gone missing. It took me some time and some more effort to arrest the news . After it had sunk in with its shock, I called his mother home to verify it, hoping that Piyush was playing a belated April Fool prank with me.
( I do not entertain such frivolous jokes normally, but that day I prayed he was playing this silly mischief ) . Their servant picked up the receiver. I was on tenterhooks. Shaky.
"Sushant kaisa hai (How is Sushant) ?" I asked directly without beating about the bush.
"Aap kaun ( Who are you) ?"
"Main Piyush ki teacher ( I am Piyush's teacher)".
At this the servant broke down to helpless tears. He answered in Bhojpuri.
" No one's at home. Master has gone to file an FIR. My mistress has gone to his school from where he disappeared, and his grandfather has gone to meet the commissioner of police. Sushant has not returned home since yesterday."
He spoke the last sentence in an uncontrollable and spasmodic outburst.

I was numb. So it was not a prank. Why was this not a prank? What was the family passing through? And why Sushant? Who could even think of kidnapping that cute little boy? What would happen now ? How could I help them? What did the kidnappers want? Could such a thing happen to one so close to me.............................................. ? Innumerable querries pounded my mind. I started praying fervently for the child's wellbeing.

Then the horrific thought dawned on me that Sushant was already missing for more than 24 hours !!! The thought of it gave me nausea. I retired to bed.
In the next couple of days , I kept myself updated about the latest progress in the Pandey family.

After four horrendous days, the family received a ransom call. Sushant's father is an industrialist and the family is thriving. Ironically, they had been waiting and praying for just this moment .They did'nt mind the bail amount. For the joint family of six, nothing was more priceless or irreplaceable than Sushant. So as per the instructions of the captors, on the fifth day they exchanged Sushant for money. No police, no C.I.D officers in plain clothes , no sleuths were allowed to juxtapose between the kidnappers and the family. It was the family's decision. They could not afford to put his life in jeopardy.

When they brought the child home I was there.

Sushant was dazed and appeared very placid . He struggled to walk . He did not jump into his mother's embrace or cry at his reunion. His mother kissed him, hugged him and wept inconsolably. His grandfather, grandmother and brother surrounded and tried to cajole him lightly to emote. The very thought how the poor boy must have borne their ill-behaviour made my eyes moist. But nothing they did could soften him . What had happened to make the little boy so stoic , I wondered . When everything to normalise Sushant failed, the mother turned towards me, sobbing.
"Teacherji, aap hi kuch kijiye na( Please try something, teacher)."
Sometimes , the pain of others inspires one to perform miracles.
So, I mustered enough courage, prayed to all my adorable gods and casually went towards him.I held his hand. Gulping down my own emotions , I touched his shirt here and his pant there.
"My goodness Sushant , you are so dirty! Look at your dress , and have you seen your socks ? Yak ! Go, run and take a nice cold shower after which we can talk."

It was the most inappropriate conversation I ever made in my life . But it worked.
Sushant took one long look at his dress reluctantly and looked at me. His eyes were teary now. Slowly, with great effort he spoke. His words were barely audible. I drew closer and knelt down before him .
"You know aunty, they tied my hands and legs apart. They always kept me blindfolded. I had to pee in my pants all the time.Only in the afternoon did they give me something to eat in a dirty plate and offered me water in a broken cup. I have not brushed my teeth for six days. I never opened these shoes or socks. Once they held me by my tie . I felt I would die. On the first day I threw tantrums. They slapped me. On the second day I cried bitterly. They laughed at me. On the third day I sobbed softly.They jeered at me . I only remembered my mother and prayed to god to help me out of this...................................."

He continued. But I was'nt listening. I could'nt listen. I do not know when I had squatted on the ground . In no time , Sushant's mother, Sushant and I had begun to whine in pathetic fits.

Later, although the family was grateful to me for making him speak , I cried horribly that night for the second time that day when I thought of the tremendous humiliation, agony and distress that was meted out to that poor boy for six long days.

Sushant's mother called me today. She said among many things, " ...The experience has done him one good. He is no longer fastidious with anything."

Seattle Calling

When Devi's parents set off on their journey to their only son's destination, Devi was overlapped by mixed feelings. On the one hand she was excited and happy, on the other hand she was niggly and jittery. She had her reasons for all these emotions that she harboured. Her parents are elderly (septagerian and sextagerian) . It 's their very first foreign trip, the first halt being London and then to Seattle by a different flight. That's where her brother , their son, lived.

Devi's brother has been in the states for more than six years now. Her parents have not had a glimpse of him since the past four years. They have not even seen their grandson who was born there. The infant is more than two years now .

In this empty span, her aged father fell ill many times, was hospitalised in the ICU once and suffered unending bouts of depression. He sometimes became vocal about how much he missed his son, daughter-in-law and grandson. Her mother seemed tougher . She had resigned to the fact that since they had given high education to their (brilliant, highly ambitious, always an academic-topper) son , who of course had struggled in his salad days, deserved to enjoy the best, now that he was working with Infosys , a much sought-after company, savouring a very enviable position.

"But does the best always lie in Uncle Sam's country?" Devi pondered.

For in the heart of her mother their was a burden, an emptiness which she would always shield with her smiles. None could ever gauge the enormity of her vacuum that sometimes enlarged and burst in the form of migranes, acidity, fever or temper tantrums. Devi tried her best to allay her void. She would pay them annual if not bi-annual visits. Being a mother, a wife, a daughter -in-law and a teacher had clipped her own liberty considerably .

In India, a daughter is a daughter . A son is a son. Their roles are seldom allowed to be reversed.

All Devi could do was to cajole her brother mildly, to show up, with his family, at least during vacations. But it did'nt work. Her parents were cautious not to go overboard with their actual feelings when he periodically spoke to them on phone. They must have nurtured some inexplicable fear themselves. Fear of losing that fragile touch .

Therefore the news one day that her parents were flying to their son's place , sounded great to Devi. She was happy that their parched eyes would now get a glimpse of their loved ones. But the flight ? Could they take it? The long tedious journey, could they endure it ?

But what can love not do ?

Devi was on tenterhooks still. She enveloped them with Reiki's protective energy , being a third degree reiki channel, plus a reiki practitioner . She further prayed to God for their safe landing. Her joy knew no bounds when the plane finally did touch the grounds of the Sea-Tac International Airport.

Her brother had come to the airport to receive them with his wife and son. Enroute home, sitting in his son's red sedan, her father called Devi , with his grandson on his lap, ecstasy in his voice and peace in his mind, " Bapi , amra thik -thak pounchhe gechhi ( Sweetheart, we reached here safely. )"

"Sneha nimnagami ( Affection always flows from higher order to the lower order)"- So says a popular Bengali adage. How true indeed it is, for profoundly had Devi's parents expounded it !

Room with a view

The flamboyant season of the colorfully splashy holi finally got over after much fanfare , here in Jampot. Holi is one festival which is played in this part of our country with much pluck.
But as I sat for my meditation yesterday, I realised that Holi - the man- made annual festival- was sure over (without doubt ) but in Nature's repertoire , Holi is eternal ; for there lies a wide spectrum of colours in its canister that will never replenish , nor lessen in vibrancy .
My meditation chamber which faces the east, has a wide glass window which is lined with a row of potted plants on the external buttress.
No sooner was I preparing to start my morning session of prayers than I saw a jet plane flying at a very far distance. The plane was scarcely visible. What was however visible, was the trail of silvery white smoke , resembling bold double - strokes, against the backdrop of the bluish, hoary sky. I sat glued to my floor-mat and began to relish the awesomeness of this simple yet delightful sight.
As the seconds ticked by, the straight bold smoke-line got dissipated, became broader and meandered into crooked, undulating fragments like long stretches of a cloud. Scarcely did I close my eyes in an attempt to click the moment in a niche of my memory , as a beautiful souvenir, when suddenly two more planes shot through the sky, leaving again the same trail of silvery white smoke. The broken serpentine smoke was now closely followed by four parallel straight pathways of smoke-lines.

It was 6:15 by the clock. A yellowish aura had begun to fill the eastern heaven with its glow and colour. All of a sudden as if from nowhere a flight of distant birds flew along the trail. The vision was purely enchanting. Pristine . Unfathomable.
AND I WASN'T DREAMING !
The background : the vast stretch of unhindered bluish grey sky ; An yellowish halo in the furthermost horizon ; the bulging orange-like flame of the rising sun .

The foreground : silvery white rows of smoke on smoke in straight and not-so-straight lines; a pod of birds following the trail in the formation of a perfect isosceles triangle .

And all this beauty viewed from the blessed enclosure of my chamber ! "If this was not a beatific, blissful sight , then what was ?" I questioned myself.
I would fondly love to call this morning experience : " Prelude to the perfect prayer".

Long live Mr. Hosseini, Long live women !!!

It will take another thousand years before I get to read a book as intensive as A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS.

I discern a deep veneration for the author, Khaled Hosseini , who has crossed all frontiers in sketching a beautifully sensitive, soul-stirring saga of the struggles of the Afghan women. The plight of the vulnerable women of Afghatistan is so pathetic that I feel divinely blessed to be born in India, a land where we have had women as a Prime -Minister, a President, Chief Ministers, Judges, Speakers, political leaders, not to mention the umpteen lawyers, doctors , engineers, CEOs, magistrates, bureaucrats, IAS officers , pilots.....the list goes on and on.
There definitely is an undercurrent bigotry among the two sexes in India , but where in the world there isn't ?

Returning to the crux of the story , I must say I feel humbled to even attempt a review of this splendid novel. The two dominant female characters - Mariam and Laila, whose two diametrically opposite destiny , bring them face to face , are hugely enduring and adorable. Their lives are scarred, shattered , tormented .... and yet they LIVE !

Mariam's life begins as a harami, [ that's what nana (her mother ) calls her] . Born on the wrong side of the bed from the influential and affluent businessman, provincial governor of Herat, Jalil - Mariam's childhood is one of constant humiliation and disregard . Her only tutor is Mullah Faizullah, a priest who infuses in her, faith in the Allah . Jalil loves her, but never acknowledges his fatherhood socially. He has other legitimate wives (three, to be precise ) and other legitimate children ( nine in precise ) to pamper. When Mariam goes to meet her father, Jalil, whom she loves uncompromisingly much against her mother's wishes, she faces disappointment because Jalil refuses to meet her . When the poor distraught girl returns home she finds her nana hanging from a tree.
From here Mariam's life takes many twists and turns - being married hurriedly to a man more than double her age, Rasheed , a chauvinistic demon in the garb of a man , who for the next two decades will rule her - bodily and mentally, battering her to the core - till Laila arrives in her life .
Laila's arrival is both astounding and accidental. When the war - ravaged kabul was firing rockets and bombs, one got hurled on her and she was , in a nanosecond, struck by a cruel quirk of Fate . She was separated from her parents (who too got killed in the bombardment) . And who should find her mauled body but the same demonaical Rasheed ? Yes, Rasheed saves Laila's life , but for himself.
It is shattering both for her and for us readers to see her rooted out of her familiar soil , like a raddish pulled out of the secured earth and thrown into some filthy debris . Even her faithful lover Tariq is not around , to save her !
The novel is an ode to human spirit in general and to women in particular.
I again humbly salute Mr. Hosseini for being so sensitive and perceptive in putting together the myriad emotions of the women protagonists: their subtleties ; their characteristic fragments of traits; their strengths and foibles ; their tremendous resilience and ability to weather all torture , persecution...call what you may ; and still they so profoundly retain their sensibilities and warmth.
But true it is that how Destiny can digress !!
Laila who was to live the rest of her life as the lover of Tariq , has to marry the same demon , Rasheed !
I swear I never felt so very relieved before , as I did when Tariq resurfaced in Laila's life !
For the sun's warm rays are always welcome in the darkest days.
Although it's very late for Laila, having lost her daughter to an orphanage and her incisor to Rasheed's atrocities, it's never too late to make amendments in life.
I will feel quite happy and blessed if my female readers pick up this book from the stores on Women's Day and read it . I am sure ALL of them will feel themselves blessed to be a part of this epic tale.
To divulge more secrets will be disastrous for anyone who is planning to grab a copy ofA THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS !!!

A Beggar's choice

I was sleeping in the train
When a beggar entered in pink,
I woke up, on hearing a noise
I thought, I heard a clink.
She looked at me with wilful eyes
Fanning away the heat,
She'd jostled past a horde of men
And stood beside my seat.

I gave the beggar a two- rupee coin
But she gave it back to me.
Alarmed I was and taken aback
By her alacrity.

I then gave her a ten- rupee note
Which she pocketed sprightly.
This made me smile and she smiled too
I asked her thus politely - ,

"You spurned my first and took my second
Was it for less and more?
Or to let me know the fact
That you're unworthy no more ?"

She was too quick to shoot at me-
( With eyes so sure and trite!)
"Coins are heavy, they're noisy too,
Notes are lighter and quiet.

"They don't bother you as you beg
Just press them in, (showing) as such .
But coins do let the whole world know
How many I have...... how much ! "

"Slim in worth, coins tell a lot.
They draw all eyes at me
They make me feel a cheat, a crook
For all my industry.

I would have paced here up and down
Or this bag beside you kept,
Had I but notes , no jingling coins
You would have blissfully slept."

THE P.C MAN WHO SAVED MY P.C AND MY LIFE !

Addiction of all forms is not conducive to good health.

Be it cigarrettes, tobacco, drugs........................................or blogging !!!

Since last Tuesday which was 3rd February , my p.c. was down with an attack of virus. I therefore could'nt work with anything on the computer. It was then that I realised how detrimental the virus was for both the non-living computer and for the living self. I immediately sent a call to my p.c. man to come at his earliest and fix it up. I was going bonkers looking at the dead, lifeless monitor.

The p.c man did not show up on the first day. He did'nt show up on the second day either.

On the seventh day he sent me his most courteous apologies saying he was already booked that day . But he promised to 'ddeffinittly' turn up on the following day.

BE IT THE FOLLOWING DAY ! I sent a silent prayer above.

The following day I began to wait for him as anxiously as a little child waits to open his birthday gift. I even felt so listless about his visit that I ran up to answer every doorbell . At one point, I felt strangely amused to equate my earnest jumpiness to my teenage days, as I had felt on my first date.

The whole morning he did not show himself. His mobile said, 'out of range'. My anxiousness knew no bounds when once my phone rang . The number was my p.c-man's but it was a miscall. I tried to contact him back but now his cell said, ' network busy'. I was bristling and fuming by now. I remarked sententiously how no one now-a-days was reliable.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. I scampered to reply. It was the maid. Then the bell rang again. It was the milkman. Then again..........it was the newspaperman for his bill . And again.............. When finally for the umpteenth time the bell rang , I gave up. I did not hurry to open the door. But this time it WAS my p.c. man ! He stood at the threshold with a broad grin and a look which stated , "C'mon be gratified, I kept my word."

And gratified indeed I was ! For, like a host who welcomes her most awaited guest, like a businessman who awaits to sign an important deal, like an anxious father who waits for the doctor visiting his ailing son - I hailed his visit and took him to the patient ! He said he had brought the antidote er.... the antivirus with him. I was relieved. The patient could be saved now.

It then took more than three hours for him to finally disinfect my computer .

I owe him my lavish thanks . He owes me a lavish treat. May god bless his holy soul for re-aligning me with this brainchild of Babbage! I feel like I got back my breath.

BUT ON SECOND THOUGHTS, MAYBE I NEED SOME REHABILITATION TO COME OUT OF THIS ADDICTION.

Life does not suck for Her !

A very close friend of mine works with a school for special children. I have great respect for her.

Like any other expectant mother she too had great expectations from her second issue, because it was conceived after some planning and speculation than her first-born . She did everything for the expedient of the little one. Be it doing light yoga or be it reading scriptures; be it drinking warm milk with a dash of saffron (to enhance the child's skin tone, as per her mother-in-law's advice ) or be it talking and singing to her unborn child. So infectious was her exuberance and enthusiasm that from time to time I could not but call on her, to discuss about the foetal development .

"Today it kicked me for the umpteenth time. This little brat is obviously in great hurry to see the light of the world. Or is it mistaking my poor womb to be a soccer stadium?" She would joke.

That was six years back.

Today she is the mother of an autistic child.

She realised her baby was autistic when even at the tenth month the infant did not respond to the love and affection showered on her .She would simply look at them blankly and blink. First they consulted an expert ophthalmologist to verify if it was an eye disorder. Nothing was erroneous. The child would simpy NOT react to either the mother or the father's touch. This was a heart-rending and a nerve wrecking phase. But in due course of time, my friend realised that it was nothing compared to what was ahead of them in future.

She would ask me, "Why me? Did I do something very terrible to deserve this?"

I would console her, "God chose you above us because He knew that , you and only you have the patience, resilience and courage to fulfil this daunting task of nurturing your sweet little one . We lack all that it needs to upbring a special child. We are perhaps worthless in His eyes, because if we can proudly call ourselves mothers , tackling our pretty little darlings ( and feeling what great jobs we were doing , when actually, all we do is Much Ado About Nothing ! ), I have no problem in calling you a supermother."

And indeed she is one. Besides looking after her two daughters and family, she has got into a school for autistic children.In this way she perceives and understands her child better . Here, she handles fifty more such children, fathoming to know more about this brain development disorder. Nowadays she even handles ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder ) cases with a few children who study at her daughter's school.

Today she is able to tell me that autism has :
*no cure
*no clear unifying mechanism
*no study focussing on midlife
*no chance of independent living
Autism is a communication disorder characterised by a child's inability to relate to the outside world. Such children are hypersensitive to external environmental stimuli. They love to remain withdrawn in their own world which is accessible only to them.
She now knows how to tackle her. She does it by :
*being consistent in discipline
*making frequent and mandatory eye-contacts
*doing her work in a routine or fixed schedule
*touching her frequently(earlier she was aversive to touch)
*calling out her name everytime she talks to her
*tries not to react to her tantrums irritably
Despite such bleak prospects she has indulged in the studies of this dysfunction which begins during the embryonic stages of development.

" Most children are undisciplined, rude ,erratic and very unpredictable.Acquiring language before age six and having an I.Q. above 50, plus having a marketable skill - all predict better outcomes ...." She tells me.

Her daughter fortunately falls in this category, to her and my great relief !

When I asked her one day what gives her so much enthusiasm even in the face of such adversity to slog on, she replied to me with a laid-back yet serene tone - "I have simply learned what I can do, and what I cannot do. With my elder daughter I can share a joke or share an emotion. And with my younger one I cannot share a joke or an emotion. With my elder daughter I can be angry, with my younger one I can't" .

Her words reminded me of Jack Canfield when he quoted Roger Crawford - who is a certified tennis player and professor of the United States Professional Tennis Association having everything except two hands and a leg ! - in his article, ' Everybody can do something ' :
" The only difference between you and me is that you can see my handicap, but I can't see yours. We all have them...I've learned that I can't play the piano or eat with chopsticks like you. But what I can do is play with my heart and soul."