LIFE IS COOL

"This puja I'm planning to buy a pair of jeans." I mused to Devi.

This came to her as a shock as I had never in my life invested in a Levi Strauss' and Jacob Davis' creation . Although, no sooner were they launched they had caught the fancy of the young and the old and had become a rage all over the world , I never actually did contemplate wearing one . Perhaps I never found a conducive break.

"Old age hath yet her folly !" Devi counter- mused in an admonishing tone. Then bracing herself for a more graceful reprimand she said,"Yet what makes you to host this out- of- the -box desire, sweetheart?"

"Well, nothing phenomenal. Just that I do not want to kick the bucket with the feeling that I did not taste the delicious feeling of slipping into a pair of jeans and in the process also lost the scope of assessing my own physical symmetry. You know Devi, I finally realised that a pair of jeans actually has many merits, quite contrary to my primeval sententious sentiments!

Devi was reprovingly all ears, as if to say ,"Let's hear it , baby, let's hear it."

"Did you ever think that a pair of jeans can be worn for as many as ten days at a stretch without having to be washed or ironed? Look at our saris. They always wait to be pressed after every use. Our salwars and churidars need a dupatta for extra coverage ! Not so for a pair of jeans and kurti. In the monsoon this scores better than our good old saris. In a sari we juggle to lift them up very cautiously to negotiate puddles of water, which is always so complicated. In jeans just fold the ankle-end as required and your job is done.

"And Devi dear ", I was now quite infused with all it's goodness and felt a strange surge of bravura overpowering me, "Have'nt you noticed the span of time needed to don a sari ? You have to be ever so careful to wrap yourself up with this 9 yard long unstitched dress material. The pleats and the dangler must have a uniformity which is so time consuming. While just slip into your jeans and 'Presto', you are ready for the occasion...."

At this point Devi cut me short . She was too confused at the vicissitude of my loyalty which had so suddenly shifted to a less nobler more avant garde apparel. She took out her right hand, poked out her index finger and said, "Had your say? Now hear mine."

I seemed to have opened the sluice-gates of her fiesty declamation.

"Sari is our national attire. Stalwarts like Indira Gandhi, Sarojini Naidu vouched for it. Women of substance today like Sonia Gandhi , Sushma Swaraj , Renuka Choudhary wear nothing but saris. Saris exhume a dignity which nothing else can. Never can a sari offend the propriety of an occasion- formal or informal. It's comeliness is versatile ingenium. There is even a rare decorum in the diplomatic exposures, which assuage the beauty and sensuousness of its wearer. They range from Rs.200 to Rs.2,00,000 or more, meaning it caters to the poor and the rich suitably. There is no danger of looking crass in a sari. Have'nt you ever noticed the distinctive ways of wearing a sari? Each region in our country has a discreet way of wearing it. Is'nt it unique ? It is always so easy for me to pack a suitcase with my saris. Just fold them , stack them strategically and 'Voila' (!) my saris far outnumber Nikhil's , even while he struggles to keep the right crease of his shirts and pants !

Now my o' my ! That was some silencer !

There invariably was veracity in everything that Devi had said. I could not but endorse with her opinions. And I remembered my maid too.

For my maid has all the good reasons for wearing a sari.Each nook of her sari has special value for her.With the alacrity of purpose and celerity of her nimble fingers , her sari serves the refuge for all the disappearing items from my shelves and racks. They are so tactfully placed that whenever I point my suspicious finger here or at a projection there, she draws out a harmless miniscule tin and says nonchalantly-"Khaini hai bhabi" !!!

[ Yet I must state that I am sticking to my initial decision. I am buying a pair of jeans. Only time will tell whether it will be any other Denim or a Levi's ].

Happy independence day to me and to all.

Happy Woman's Day !!!

I hate it when the time difference between two blogs gets stretched to more than a week. It stifles me. For one, the thoughts that are cooking in my head desperately wait to be served. For another, my conscience which suddenly becomes proactive, nudges me, and says, "Hey hello, what happened to your panache for writing? You did begin with rave promises, did'nt you? Whatever happened to your word of honour, my ever enthusiastic, propitious lady?"
I have no excuse to offer as I have none. Does'nt my own soul know about my handicaps? Does it have to nag me everytime I am late for my blog?
Why are consciences so heartless, I ask myself.
These are hard times. Times, when even our own consciences will not spare us.

So how do you expect your mother-in-law to spare you, especially when it's her birthday and you have forgotton it? I was so clumsily lost in the mesh of my other duties that I forgot to wish my mom-in-law a 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' on her D-day.
"This is profanity", commented Devi, when I shared my blunder with her . "You should jot it down in the first page of your favourite diary, write it on the wall, not your Facebook's, silly, or at least note it in your mobile's Reminder." Then after a contemplating pause she added, "Technology should have made you smarter."
"Et tu Devi?" "Yours is the unkindest cut of all." I said, giving an ostentatious, histrionic twist to my words, - our role play of 'Julius Caesar' at school had lingered indeed ! - at which we both fell to squeals of laughter. She then narrated to me how she too had been in the same predicament as mine, some time back . And worse.

"My mother-in-law is one who does not acquiesce in to excuses hands down. " Devi began, "You know her well. Last month I forgot her birthday. Now stop squinting at me derisively. Okay yes, all those manouvres and hints about 'technology' struck me much later. . .So what ?
The point is I FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY.

Nikhil called from Toronto that evening, to wish her. Thank God I picked up the receiver. He said, 'Hi honey, where's mom, got to wish her a quick " Happy Birthday".' It then struck me like a thunderbolt. But I hurriedly gathered my wits . I said,''Listen sweetheart, I'm planning a grand surprise for mom, so I have'nt wished her yet. I know it's already evening, but that's part of my plan . Just hold on, while I call her."
I called her.
Now I realised why she had been sulking since morning !

While she spoke I committed another sin. I eavesdropped. But I had to know the details of the burden that she was carrying in her heart. Was she lamenting? Was she bellyaching as if her convent nun stood in front of her?
"No, not yet." She was saying, "What gifts? No, no, no,...." This was all I managed to hear.
I stopped eavesdropping. Not because I was struck by remorse, but because I had to think of the grand plan I just promised Nikhil. I was at first restless. What would I plan? I was always such a lousy and lazy planner. In less than a few minutes I had begun to hear the pounding of my heart, or was it the thundering brain? I thought this, I thought that, but nothing grand occurred to my dull, feverish mind.

Finally, a feeble idea did raise its head amid the plethora of ludicrous ones. This one was feasible and might even lift her sagging bravura ! I immediately called the nearest florist and placed an order for a nice, sweetly-scented bouquet and perked him to deliver it in less than fifteen minutes time. I took a deep breath and waited. As soon as she replaced the receiver, which she did not after less than half an hour, I fell to action.
I started to sing to her her all time favourite song, "Kisi ke muskurahaton pe ho nisar, kisi ka dard mil sake to le udhar, kisi ke waste ho tere dil mein pyar, jina isi ka naam hai. "
Singing thus I did a little waltz , during which , the flower-man rang the timely bell. I heartily thanked him and paid him the additional perk, for crowning my grand surprise. Then most theatrically, like a thespian, I offered her the floral tribute. There was finally a glow on her face. She seemed happy and what more, I too felt strangely happy. We sat down beside each other. She said, "So this was your grand surprise Nikhil was talking about. But tell me Devi, how was my grand surprise? I did fool you with this sullen face that I put on me since morning. Tell me , haan, I can give Nirupa Roy a run for money, eh? I had checked your diary yesterday and I did see that you had noted down May 8th in a separate page." She had a glint in her eyes.
But mine were as round as panipuris. So she also keeps a check of my diaries? This was alarming, to say the least.
The only consolation was, for the time being my face was saved. I completed the rest of the formality by driving us to the nearest restaurant and ordering a sumptuous dinner.

"But you listen," Devi now moved closely towards me threateningly and added, " NEVER wish her a"Happy Woman's Day" in the coming years. How I thank myself for not adding WOMAN'S DAY beside that ominous 8th May !! There you wish her exuberantly and here I am doomed. Let her blissfully forget that her birthday coincides with Woman's Day.
Just as I had forgotton.

Life's like that only

I am overwhelmed and overjoyed by the concern shown by each of my readers for my blog or for the lack of it ! I also apologise for this long hiatus which stemmed out not because I was undergoing a period of the writer's hibernation and successive germination but because I was visiting different ailing relatives. But now I am back in Jampot, sitting in front of my p.c. and it feels like heaven to be able to write again. During my fortnight's tour to Koltata I finished reading Paulo Coelo's 'The Alchemist' and Jahnavi Baruah's 'Next Door'.

Things happen when they are destined to happen.
I had been contemplating to read 'The Alchemist' since a year. I knew from different media that this book of Coelho's was recorded in The Guinness Book Of World Records for being the most translated book by a living author. Like Santiago, the protagonist, I too have had interruptions between my desire to read the book and to actually read the book. But I only managed to buy a copy of this 1988 published bestseller on 7th May 2009, after a chance discussion with my very good writer-HR-professional-RJ- friend, whose books 'Mediocre But Arrogant' and 'Married but Available' are a current rage in all the leading bookstores of India and abroad.

So, is twenty years a long time to learn and enjoy something which more than a millon people have already learned and enjoyed ? I think not. For one, the book gives you direction. It gives you faith and reaffirms your confidence in yourself. It gives you the hope that " ...when you really want someting, the whole universe conspires in helping you to achieve it." It establishes a direct link between omens, signs, dreams and the Soul of the World, that is ones' deepest desires.

The hero's name Santiago, is used only once, which is a striking feature. In the entire story he is referred to as the boy. But Santiago, the name appears two more times : Santiago Matamoros the Saint and the alchemist who looks like the saint Matamoros. It is interesting therefore that a whole story can be narrated even without repeating the name once. What is however more fascinating is the journey of Santiago.

The journey of Santiago will metaphorically coincide with every man's journey, if he is a forsighted visionary and if he has a dogged and inflexible desire to translate his visions into reality. I have seen and met people - some my own, some not my own and some though not my own, with my very own predicaments. They give me the zing to live. I choose to write about them in the next blogs.

Meanwhile, let this piece just be the starter to my forthcoming writings. Let this be the 'I'mPresent, if you please' call in the attendance register of http://nicheofgems.blogspot.com/ !!!

A Voter's Dilemma

Some time back Devi made a comment. She said, " India is a land of past glory, present uncertainty and future mayhem." What made her make such a sorry statement is not totally unjustifiable.

We were talking about elections. The country is currently reeling under two spells. The heat spell and the election spell . Anyone and everyone who is some kind of a celebrity is jumping into canvassing and campaigning for some party or the other. But how do we , the totally confused electorate, place our votes amidst this plethora of contestants ? Will they deliver at all? I was strangely reminded of George Eliot's words , " An election is coming. Universal peace is declared, and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry."

Only during election time do we see our politicians making patriotic outbursts and rave promises . Although their credibility may stand on flimsy grounds, none shirks from giving hopes, however high, however false. The louder the claim, the more dangerous - as most of them are a pack of thugs. Some are verbally volcanic, some poetic and a few yet too downright arrogant. In skills of oratory we do have quite a handful of leaders who indeed are blessed with the gift of the gab. But the point is, how can this particular skill deliver our nation? How do we choose from this jamboree of specimens ? I for one , along with Devi, did not know a single party that was taint-free, honest, bold, firm and could steer us to our cherished idyll.

To dispense my confusion I decided to visit some sites like http://www.jagore.com/ , http://www.lkadvani.in/ , www.google.co.in/loksabha2009 and http://www.indianelections.com/. I did a study of these sites back to back. Yet I confess I was none the least enlightened in any singular upright man. I was aware that our country had a history of promising men- but promising men with a difference. They drew a line for themselves. A line that demarcated their duty before and after elections. Before election they showed great fervour, zest and vibrance. And after the ordeal of elections was over they became like 'deceitful jades' and sunk in the trial.

I remembered some famous words again. This time Adolph Hitler's : SOONER A CAMEL WILL PASS THROUGH A NEEDLE THAN A GREAT MAN DISCOVERED THROUGH ELECTION. ( I must mention here that although I am not exactly a great fan of Hitler, this quote of his caught my imagination to a great extent ! ).

"Is election required at all ?" Devi pondered loudly. "I mean look at the amount of money that is spent. Don't you think if all the money were to be utilised in the right channels most of our problems would have been solved automatically , without any leader to boot ? How money is drained to the gutter ! " She moaned pathetically.I then told her that notwithstanding all her good intentions, election was essential in a democracy.

After some sigh, a long pause and then a frown that spread to her temple, she remarked with effort, "India is a land of past glory, present uncertainty and future mayhem."

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".