Times are a changin

Come gather 'round people

Wherever you roam

Around you have grown

And admit that the waters

You'll be drenched to the bone

And accept it that soon

Then you better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone

If your time to you is worth savin'

For the times they are a-changin' 

Yes - times are changing.

I attended my first ever ladies' meet today. Well almost. A friend's husband graciously agreed to join us and thankfully break the monotony.

I was to meet a group of female friends for lunch with whom I have bonded over Facebook - a group where we share recipes and food memories. Strictly speaking, cooking is not a female-dominated area today. Just like all the top CXO positions, the world's leading chefs are also mostly male. Our group also has quite a few extremely talented male members - but not many from this part of the country. And those who are - were not interested to meet up.
So to sum it up - yes - I was headed for a women's meet.
10 years back - I would have scorned at the idea of going to a women's meet.
I remember, somewhere during the early years of the millennium, while I was still in the faculty of IIT, Delhi, the then Director's wife wanted to draw us - the female faculty members to the Campus Ladies Club. I evaded. Of course - I did not have the time. With a school-going kid, homework, PTM, preparing for lectures - and then all my extra-curricular activities like acting, writing etc. - I simply did not have the time.
But to be truthful - - I was positively repelled at the idea of joining a ladies club. I strongly believe that the idea of compartmentalizing the world into Ladies and Gents - should be strictly restricted to Restrooms only. And yes - I enjoyed the company of men - who unlike women, know how to keep their cool and joke even in the most trying situations - without getting flustered by any and every small things going wrong.
But the sad truth was - while I struggled with a demanding job and a kid - most of my male colleagues did have an easier life. What irritated me further was also that most of them would brag about their "highly qualified" wives who did not work on their own volition to take care of their kids. I felt like asking them - did their wives conceive a kid all by themselves like Kunti? But propriety overruled my curiosity.

I changed my job and went to the corporate sector. And now I met the other half. While the male-female ratio at the entry point of the IT industry is same, the number of women gradually reduces. I started meeting women engineers who choose to leave their jobs after a few years of working to take care of their family, in-laws and children. It was their choice - so I had nothing much to say beyond counseling. But I often felt like asking these women what made them feel that they were sole custodians of the well-being of their children. Did they conceive their children immaculately? But then again propriety ruled.

Time flies. Kids grow up even faster than we can imagine. Girls grow up into confident young women and boys grow up into - well - let me share now what led me to believe that boys today are growing up to be equal partners and not just men!
Lessons of life come not from the classrooms but from all unexpected corners.

The parlor that I visit regularly is manned by a bunch of youngsters - boys and girls - all in their early twenties. Anne is the oldest among the staff members. Last year - while a heavily pregnant Anne attended to me before an impending trip - I wondered whether I would ever see her again. Who would take care of her child? Obviously good day care was very expensive in the city and it was not likely that Anne could afford it.
To my surprise - Anne was back in four months with a teeny-weeny baby girl in a pram. While Anne took care of her regular customers, Polly, the cashier, would happily rock the pram with one hand - while calculating with the other. Whenever another girl was free she would run to relieve Polly. The boys also did their bit to keep the child entertained. I soon realized that it was just not baby-talking but much more than that.

One day - while Shivam was taking care of my hair, his phone rang. With a quick apology, Shivam handed me the brush, requested me to take a cup of coffee and rushed off saying that he would be back in five minutes. Five minutes later, Shivam came back carrying Caroline and her pram, while Anne followed with the baby's basket. I learnt that Anne takes an auto from her home to come to work. Her auto drops her off at the other side of the main road. One of the boys then goes to collect her and the baby and helps them cross the subway along with all the accessories. Later, late in the evenings I often saw the staff giving Anne a pedicure or a massage to ease her of the aches and pains of a new mother.
I was moved. These boys of twenty something were surely breaking the norms by taking equal part in Caroline's growth. They helped their colleague out of humanity, not compulsion. The young girls are also a part of the collective parenting process - which is obviously a much more serious journey than removing blemishes from oily skins of middle-aged women.

Time flies. Today morning while I dropped in to the parlor - Caroline walked towards me in her walker, greeting me with her toothless smile. The boys and girls fussed over her, tried to protect her from falling, yet lure her to walk for a chocolate.
I felt a stir deep within - while I have changed to willingly go to an all women's meet - the society has also changed around me.
Not all changes start at the higher echelons of the society. Some changes start out of necessity.
It gives me hope. It gives me joy.
I clicked Anne and her child and told her today how I liked the way her colleagues helped her raise the child.
Anne smiled.
Her colleagues were not her help - they were her life-line.

Come writers and criticsWho prophesize with your penAnd keep your eyes wideAnd don't speak too soon
The chance won't come againAnd there's no tellin' who that it's namin'
For the wheel's still in spinFor the times they are a-changin'
For the loser now will be later to win Come senators, congressmen
Don't block up the hall
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
For he that gets hurt
It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside and it is ragin'
And don't criticize
For the times they are a-changin'
Come mothers and fathers 
Throughout the land
Your old road is rapidly agin'
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command The line it is drawn
Please get out of the new one if you can't lend your hand 
For the times they are a-changin' 
 The curse it is cast 
The slow one now
For the times they are a-changin'
Will later be fast 
As the present now Will later be past 
The order is rapidly fadin'
And the first one now will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'

The line it is drawn

Come senators, congressmen

Reflections: Marriage feasts - then and now

Reflections: Marriage feasts - then and now: Come winter and there is marriage in the air. There are the marriage parties that have to be attended to remain sociable. Though not unsoci...

Marriage feasts - then and now

Come winter and there is marriage in the air. There are the marriage parties that have to be attended to remain sociable. Though not unsocial by nature, I was quite horrified to discover how positively derisive I had become of the food that is served at these large social gatherings. I had never in my life aspired to be a snob. But drag me one more day to this spread of Dal-Makhani, Veg Manchurian, Gobhi Adraki, Baked vegetables - to be replaced by Tawa vegetables in winter, Paneer Lawabdar, Nav-ratan Pulao, Chowmein, nondescript chicken or mutton dishes named Rogan Josh or Pasanda or Begum-bahar, naan or tandoori rotis, followed by Gulab Jamun and vanilla ice cream with a spoon of chocolate sauce - and I promise to walk out of my sixth-floor balcony - eyes closed - hands spreadeagled – into thin air - straight down to Mother Earth - no regrets! Though not one with a sweet tooth, five years back I would at least look forward to the Jalebis with Malai or Gajar ki Halwa in winter. But now – the predictability has killed the cat in me and I can walk past the sweet counter without casting a glance. 
That I am also positively scared of my 50 (+/-) enthusiastic teetotaler friends with their parlor-fresh backs in back-less cholis dancing madly elegantly to the tunes of “Lungi Dance” or “Char botol Vodka” or “Saturday Saturday”- just adds to the problem. I have a dozen left-feet. I can’t dance. I could never dance. And there is no way you can drag my copious self to the ubiquitous floor today - no not even the gyroscopic lights nor the handsome DJ can do that dear friend! Apologies to my host if I appear to be less participative than what you had imagined I would be from my ebullient self in office. I am also mad at my colleagues who conveniently avoid me on these occasions and gang up with Black Label or Antiquity in their hands discussing the Director or the CEO, the Chief-Minister or the Prime-Minister, Mangalayan or genetically-modified BT Baigan till their wives call them to help feed the young brats. The sole motivation to attend these parties has boiled down to the fact that they offer a venue to exhibit the latest handloom acquisition and acquire a bit of the latest campus gossip.
Of course I am talking of middle-class affairs - not the ones where loads and loads of money are spent to make the events “memorable and different”. And so – I was quite impressed when a reception party thrown by an ex-colleague on the occasion of his son’s marriage had a distinctly different touch despite its sobriety. The sprawling lawns of Delhi Gymkhana Club were very tastefully decorated with white and muted Rajasthani urns and vases. The snacks, which are the only unpredictable items of a party, were okay other than the crispy Paneer fritters with sesame – ostentatiously named as Thai Paneer – which were rather good. 
The dinner table was where the real surprise awaited us. Amidst the usual fare of sprouts, beans and other assorted greens – next to the pristine Dahi-vadas there was the name of the caterer – Kwality Caterer. For me the name Kwality conjures up magic. The rare ice creams that were an integral part of childhood pleasures symbolized the ultimate object of desire - its rarity only adding to its allure. The dreamy creamy spoons of the pink-and-white Two-in-one Vanilla-Strawberry Combo ice creams not only tingled the parched throats – they transferred me to the fairy-land where time stood still with the promise of living happily ever-after. Of the very few eateries that could be considered as a Restaurant in that small steel township of Durgapur – one was Kwality. The excitement of eating out was so over-powering that I can still remember the flavor and texture of the rich North Indian food though not any specific names. As it so happens even when I moved out of Durgapur, Kwality continued to play an important role in my life. For four long years, the Kwality restaurant at Ballygunje Phari not only served as a refuge on rainy Kolkata evenings for two souls in distress, but it also happened to be my first introduction to exotic names like Prawn Cocktail, Chicken Al-la-Kiev or Fish mayonnaise. With a princely scholarship of 1000/- per month there was a prince who not only promised me a life happily ever after but also introduced me to the esoteric world of fancy food. 
While I was lost in my thoughts, the queue moved slowly ahead of me. The usual suspects were all there. So was the elbowing and pushing for a second helping or the lunging for the awaited roti. Suddenly I spotted this table with quite a few samovars in an isolated corner. Usually such isolated tables are for non-vegetarian items but knowing that this was a pure vegetarian affair I was curious. And there was this Khazana. Puris were being freshly fried and served with Aloo ki subzi. There were also Gatta curry, Sindhi curry and steamed rice. And there was Paneer Launglata. If I was exulted by the Sindhi Curry the name Launglata absolutely floored me. It was a dish with thin slices of Paneer wrapped around to form a tube - inside which was stuffed what appeared to be a stuffing made of green-peas – held together by a piece of clove - the laung. The gravy was curd-based. 
Say Launglata to a Bong and I am sure she would immediately dream of Labangalatika – that seductress of a sweet – absolutely irresistible. I was intrigued – does it mean we have to now attribute the origin of our favorite sweet to Rajasthan? I know Rajasthan figures quite prominently in the history of “Rasagolla” – though this sweet is synonymous to Bengal. Is there something similar about the history of Labangalatika? Dear readers please let me know if you have any clue.
I am always bowled over by poetic and melodious names. I tried looking up Google for Paneer Launglata. For once Google has not been of much help. Other than one or two mentions of a dish named Paneer Launglata – the query mostly leads to references of a sweet – similar to the Bengali Labangalatika – but one which also uses paneer or cottage cheese for stuffing. The Bong variety uses “sweetened kheer” or khoya and coconut. 
The few mentions of the savory dish Paneer Launglata that I found did not mention any stuffing. These recipes referred to the paneer being sliced and rolled - to be held in place by a clove. I tried to recreate my own at home – with a green peas stuffing. I could not manage the tubular structure – so had to be satisfied with a sandwich version. Made a curd-based gravy with asafetida, white and black peppers as mentioned in those recipes.
Paneer Launglata – you not only rejuvenated me but also inspired me to once again be on the look out for hidden treasures in marriage feasts. May be one day I shall again find an oyster somewhere with a little pearl of golden memories frozen inside it. This is my little tribute to whoever created you with his or her imagination – folding in love and beauty into mundane layers of Paneer - sealed by the dainty petals of a clove.

The Waterfall

Five eventful years were about to come to an end. Batches were about to disperse, ready to take baby-steps into their career paths. Most of them would be flying abroad to join US Universities for a PhD degree. Few of them would be joining the Indian IT industry which had started making its mark on the global economy. Mila alone would be staying back here to join a Master’s program which she wished to convert to a PhD later. She wondered how it would be to stay back in this campus without her raucous batch-mates, without this group which had spent the larger part of the last year under this Banyan tree rather than in the classrooms. 

She was not strictly alone though. There was Rwik - her fiancee and mentor. Rwik and Mila were planning to tie the knot in a short while. Rwik was an engineer, a philosopher, a poet and a painter all rolled into that one serious frame. Mila was swept off her feet in their very first meeting. Rwik admitted later that though he was swayed by Mila's rendering of Tagore's songs, he had serious reservations about hobnobbing with a junior girl. It simply did not go with his image. But then, Que Sera Sera, whatever will be, will be!

“Hey Grannie, where are you lost”, Rohan poked Mila. Rohan Kapoor was the proud author of this nomenclature for Mila when both of them were in school at the steel township of Burnpur. Mila, the serious student who was also a teachers’ pet, was made fun of by Rohan, the frolicking brat. Mila used to feel so much more mature than Rohan and the other boys in her class that she happily conceded to this.

Mila was still in a trance. Shabnam waved her hands in front of Mila’s face. “Mila, Rohan’s latest passion is palmistry. We want to try him out. But he insists on starting with you, you know for obvious reasons,” Shabnam rolled her beautiful eyes which finally rested at Rohan’s face, complete with a wistful look.

Mila, though dazed, was immediately dismissive - “Rohan and palmistry! Why, he could not even master Linear Algebra in the last five years!”

“That’s half-truth,” Rohan protested. “The whole world knows that Ghosh fancied you and hence deprived others of marks. Anyway, life is a non-linear journey, in which Ms. Linear Algebras like you can hardly succeed. So just shut up and let me see what’s in store for you.”

Without giving Mila any further opportunity to protest, Rohan pulled Mila’s palms into his and peered over them with great attention. Mila protested. “Isn’t one palm enough?” Rohan appeared to be deeply pensive, taking turns to press the mounds of Jupiter, Venus and Mercury on both the palms. He traced the heart and life lines with his index finger. After a few more minutes of profound silence, Rohan declared “Look Mila I can see you will be blessed with job offers, wealth, love and children. However, I am sorry to see that you will never be able to go abroad. Please don’t mind my saying this - intellectual pursuits are also not for you. Not much by way of head-line there, all heart. Wish you a very happy and contented married life with at least half-a-dozen children.”

The others applauded at the end of this performance. Mila, a bit downcast, tried to put on a brave face. “Of course, that was obvious, isn’t it? All of you are flying to US Universities for your PhDs. I shall be slogging it out here for a Masters. That was easy, isn’t it Rohan? You fraud!”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………     

Rohan had not come to the airport to pick up Mila. Though it was a Saturday, he had booked the airport shuttle for her to travel from Toronto airport to the suburb where Rohan stayed in a small apartment. Mila’s flight was delayed at Paris. The shuttle had already left by the time she landed. She had to wait at the airport for more than an hour before the next shuttle came. By the time she reached Rohan’s apartment, it was almost dark. The main entry was locked and there seemed to be no way she could call anybody to open it for her. Her cell-phone had no charge left to make a call. Thankfully, most of life’s problems usually get solved on their own. Just when she was about to collapse, a man came out with two buckets of clothes, took pity on Mila and called Rohan.

The night was still young. Rohan and Mila sat on the balcony with chilled beer, enjoying the cool breeze. Though they had exchanged emails on and off, both of them realized how little they knew about the changes that had taken place in each other’s lives in the twenty odd years that had gone by. Both of them had lots to share, but did not know how to start. A bit of trivia - they asked about each-other’s jobs, the aging parents, the siblings whom they knew from childhood. None of them wished to touch the life in between. It lay like a huge monster on their minds, the foremost thing that was consciously pushed back.

 Rohan went back to the kitchen. He had loaded the refrigerator with exotica he assumed Mila does not get in India. She did not have the heart to disappoint Rohan, but felt too exhausted to appreciate the double-fried pork or the fresh blue-berry custard that Rohan had cooked specially for her. She inquired about the shuttle for her onward journey after two days to Regina for a conference.

The night rolled. Rohan had arranged for her to stay in the sole bed-room of the apartment. He would be sleeping on the sofa. Mila was aghast. But Rohan said that is what he anyway did most of the days. He fell asleep while watching one of his favorite Hindi movies. Mila did not believe him. This is what she hated about Rohan. Always trying to project himself as a stupid non-intellectual guy as far away as possible from Mila’s cultured intellectualism. The phone rang. Rohan quickly glanced at his watch and suddenly froze. Mila realized Rohan wanted to be alone. She withdrew to the bedroom without any further argument. In her dreams she moved between layers and layers of exhaustion and desolation. 

………………………………………………………………………………..............................................

By the time Mila woke up to a bright Sunday morning Rohan was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The warm aroma of eggs being fried in butter made Mila happy. Rohan declared that he did not want to take any chances and it being bright and sunny, he had arranged for a car to drive Mila down to see the Niagara Falls. Mila teased Rohan about the phone-call. “Hope your girl-friend was not upset with me!”

“She is. In fact all my girl-friends are a bit perturbed with your reappearance in my life. These Canadians are really very suspicious of Indian women. She thinks you are an enchantress! Wanted to come and see you. I had a tough time in talking her out of it. By the way - not all my girl-friends are like this though!”

“And pray how many of girl-friends do you have?”

  “Let me see. One, two,…Five. One Canadian, one Indian, one Bangladeshi and two American Indians. Good that you brought up the topic. I need some serious counseling to decide which one to stick to.”

“Numbers are impressive. But I have to say the variety is missing. Why not add some Red Indians, West Indians or French to the repertoire?”

“You think I haven’t tried. Hey listen - I am really torn among these five - need your help to decide which one to marry.”

“Marry?” Mila almost choked on her toast. “Are you planning to marry?”

“Well, sort of. You know - I am also growing old. And tired of cooking.”

“Why don’t you ask your Mom to send a certified cook from India instead?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Me? Jealous?” Mila was speechless. If there was a name for the jumbled up feeling inside her, she did not know its name. Mila clenched her fists and held on to the chair so that she did not pounce on Rohan to tear him into pieces.    

An hour later, while driving towards Toronto, Mila asked Rohan, “So tell me what help do you need from me. I hope you do realize that I am a bit too old to be the bridesmaid.”

“Well, the problem is as follows. I have to select a bride from among the following. A widow with a kid, a sinfully rich foreigner colleague five years elder to me, an aging Bengali scientist who can also sing, a Bangladeshi poet who works in the Embassy and a South Indian software professional who is also a serious animal lover. Tell me what would be my wisest choice.”

Mila, whose face was turned the other side, cried out in ecstasy as Lake Ontario loomed large outside her window. This was no lake! The serene blue-green water extended right up to the horizon. Rohan said, “This lake is indeed very wide. I have seen both sides of Ontario only once when I was flying to the US. By the way Ms. Linear Algebra what is tan 75 degrees?”

“tan 75?” to say Mila was bewildered, would be an under-statement. But she had to respond to the barb hidden in “Ms Linera Algebra.” “Well, if you had asked for tan 45 or tan 30, I could have rattled it off from the top of my rusted brain. But 75?  Come on!”

“30 and 45 will do. I can use the formula for sum of angles. See I still need your intellect for the basics - can manage on my own after that!”

The condescending attitude she hated so much! But Mila was tired of quarrelling. She decided to keep quiet and concentrate on the landscape. They stopped at a winery. Mila was ecstatic. She had not travelled much. The purity of the air, the freshness of the vines, the sheen on the grapes - everything exalted her. Rohan was clicking furiously - “Capturing your ecstasy for your children and grand-children.”

A glass of wine later, as soon as they were inside the car, Rohan exclaimed, “Done! The width of Lake Ontario must be around 82.5 kms. Thanks for your help!” Thankfully the wine had dulled her senses a bit otherwise Mila would have socked him on the eye! Getting no response from her, Rohan picked up his phone, called somebody and requested him or her to google the width of Ontario. A few minutes later he thanked the other end and turned to Mila. “See I was correct! Google says 85 km. 10% error limit is allowed for all calculations.”

 “Who ever doubted your capability?”

“No one! But I have always wanted to impress you.”

“I am impressed. Now how far are we from Niagara?”

“Half-an-hour. Why don’t you take a nap? You must be still jet-lagged!”

There was something inside the car that both of them were trying to fight. But none of them could fathom what it was. Mila had travelled more than half the world to meet Rohan. Rohan had waited so eagerly for her. Now none of them really wanted to acknowledge any hint of acrimony between them.

Mila waited eagerly for the falls. It had been one of her dreams since childhood. Sometimes a few childhood images get imprinted on the mind with indelible ink. Lessons from a Geography text-book had done that for Mila. From time immemorial she has longed to see the largest water-fall, the highest sweet-water lake, the land of the mid-night sun, the land of a thousand lakes and so on. Now when she was so near to one of those dreams, she did not wish to spoil it.

Rohan parked the car and led her to the boulevard. Resolute not to be disappointed, Mila decided to ignore the souvenir shops, the hotels, the crowded benches. Staring straight at the gushing grandeur, she tried to recreate the childhood magic inside her head. This was indeed magnificent. The richness of the molten emerald soothed her. She wished she could freeze a slice of the foaming white atop the turquoise green and take along with her. She enjoyed the droplets on her hair, her eyes, her burning skin.

Rohan chose this moment to ask her “How is Rwik?” Mila did not answer. She wanted to be alone in her dreams. None of these people were actually there when she had dreamt of visiting Niagara as a child. She would not let them in now when she was face to face with her dream waterfall.   

Rohan then took her to one of the green-houses nearby. With flowers and all around her, Mila turned into a child. Rohan’s camera clicked vehemently as Mila merged into the splash of colors, radiant in her gold and maroon dress. They walked along the river. Rohan showed her the rainbow. It was soon dark.

……………………………………………………………………………………..........................................

It was Mila’s last day at Ontario. Zach, a friend of Rohan was taking them out for brunch. After that Rohan would drive her down to see the countryside.

Zach drove them to a Chinese restaurant in his Cadillac. Amidst filling up their dishes multiple times, Zach quizzed Mila about how long she had known Rohan. Long, long time. He was not satisfied. So they counted the years - thirty years to be precise. Zach was still not satisfied. Something seemed to bother him. Finally, unable to hold himself any longer, he asked Mila, “Did you know Rohan before you met your husband?” “Of course!” Mila turned to find that Rohan had turned a deep pink!

Later when they drove through the country-side Rohan said, “Please don’t mind Zach. He loves me and wants to take care of me.”

“Everyone loves you,” Mila quipped.

They had reached the shores of Lake Eerie. The air was laden with the crisp fragrance of fir and pine. White clouds floated on the clear blue sky. The water was crystal clear. Mila ran into the water, balancing herself on the underwater pebbles that showed through the transparent surface. The azure water stretched as far as her eyes could see. Mila bent down to touch the water. She wanted to splash it on her face.

Rohan was standing afar watching her joyful face. He wished he could freeze this point in time and gift it to Mila. Mila called him to join her. As Rohan walked towards her, Mila stretched her hand. Rohan held it in his palms and looked into her eyes. The soft grey clouds played on the sky-blue reflection. Rohan asked again, “Mila, how is Rwik?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“What do you mean? Why are you being so evasive? You know I am a simple person. Can’t understand complex answers. Tell me if something is wrong. I can’t afford to see you unhappy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. But I do know that it’s the truth. And so does Shabnam.”

“Shabnam? Are you seeing Shabnam?”

“Yes. We might just get married provided you approve.”

“Why do you need my approval? And isn’t Shabnam married to Rehan? I thought they also had kids.”

“Rehan met with a fatal accident two years back. Shabnam was devastated. She has a teen-aged son.” 

 “The widow with a kid! My God, I did not know you two loved each other!” 

“Mila, love is only for dewy-eyed teen-agers and dreamers like you. For us, who stay in this cold and distant land, with all our dreams buried deep under the snow, all we need is a bit of warmth.”

“Who buried all your dreams deep under the snow?”

“Let’s say there are three of them – Tagore, Linear Algebra and a young handsome engineer who had mastered both. And now may I ask you for the umpteenth time, how is Rwik?”

“I want to do some shopping Rohan.”

……………………………………………………………………………………..........................................

Mila has left in the morning but the whole house still smelt of her. Rohan sat with the gifts that Mila had brought for him - a Johny Walker, a white shirt and some music CDs. Rohan put one of the CDs on the player. He sat on the bed clutching the shirt. He had waited for Mila for so long but somehow nothing seemed to go right. He had stuffed her bags with gifts, till Mila cried she would be in deep trouble trying to tug along the luggage for the rest of her journey. Rohan wondered whether Mila would come to visit him again. Mila had hugged him tight before entering the shuttle. She had paused very briefly before climbing the steps, as if she wanted to tell him something, but then smiled and sat in the van. Rohan was left alone once again. But life has to move on. Rohan sighed and proceeded to smoothen the sheets on which Mila had slept not so long ago. The pillow still had Mila’s head sculpted on it. When he picked up the pillow to fluff it up, there was a small note waiting for him -

“Rohan, Rwik is seeing somebody. I know this is commonplace and foolish of me to brood about, but I was shattered when I came to know about it. Though I had crossed half the world to tell you this, I could not. We have separated. But I can’t stop loving him. I sincerely hope that I have given you enough reason to loathe me from the core of your heart. Go out and enjoy your new life.”  

Confessions

(This short story was published in The Statesman, 3 April 2006)

SHAMIK’S mobile has been ringing incessantly. He has gone for a shower. Swati was cleaning up the breakfast table. She was enjoying the last few days of summer vacation before the new session began in the University. The phone started ringing again. Swati picked it up, but before she could hand it over to Shamik in the bathroom, it stopped. Swati decided to look at the caller id and inform Shamik that someone was desperately trying to reach him. Well the caller was “Rain”, short for FirstRain, Swati guessed, the company Shamik worked for. But then, the choice of id was a bit peculiar! Surely, everyone in the company had their own mobiles! Intrigued, Swati delved into the contacts. Nothing much to gain from “Rain” — no details. More intrigued, she opened the messages inbox. The inbox was flooded with messages from Rain. The first message was quite innocuous, though a bit vague — “I am sorry. Ravi left early yesterday without giving me the keys.” Which keys? Weren’t keys kept with the Security? Swati felt a strange numbness rise from the pits of her stomach and seep into her arms, her legs, her whole being. She was spying on Shamik! She had already reached the second message — “Good night with a sweet kiss. I am off to sleep, feeling u all around me.” Swati sat dumbfounded, Shamik’s mobile in her hand. She had not realised that Shamik had come out of the shower and was in front of the mirror now. Shamik’s eyes fell on Swati and the mobile through the looking glass. He rushed to her and snatched the mobile. Swati looked up — ashen. “What is this Shamik?” Her voice was from a far away land. “Well!” Shamik was taking time to compose himself. “Who is this Rain, Shamik?” Swati asked. But what she really wanted to ask was why did Shamik want to destroy 20 years of their life so abruptly! Swati and Shamik had known each other from their first day in college. Both of them were 18 then. They were an odd couple — very much in love all through their years of passing from adolescence to youth, from youth to graying, through romance and the mundane. A feeling of being with each other through thick and thin was what Swati always thought defined their marriage. “Well. You had met her once at a party. She had joined as an intern last May. Somehow she got involved with me,” Shamik blurted, eyes tightly shut. “What about you Shamik? Are you not involved?” “I am sorry, Swati”. “Sorry!” Swati groped her whole inner being. What does that mean? She looked up at Shamik. Her eyes fell on herself through the looking glass. An ashen face, a pale body with red hickey all over her wheatish throat — kisses that Shamik had showered upon her yesterday night!

It has been seven days since the mobile rang. Swati spent most of the time sitting in the balcony, as if trying to get all her answers from the blue sky. Was she depressed? Was she shattered? But is there really any reason why Swati, a professor in a leading university in the country, should be hysteric about a man who has betrayed her? To be fair, Shamik has been constantly sitting with her throughout the evenings, holding her hand, coaxing her to eat, begging her to forget everything and come back to normalcy. “Please forgive me Swati. I love you and never really thought of going away from you. You are my world. I can’t bear to see you in so much pain.”

But then, Shamik could not fathom her upheaval. For the last seven days, Swati was exploring within the depths of her soul. A thousand Swatis reflected there — as if she was standing in the mirror palace. She was standing there with Shamik, Rik, Mayukh, Neil, Prof. Sen, and all her friends and admirers she has ever known in her life. She was scanning the night sky for answers to all the questions that had haunted her for five long years now. But perhaps, unless she could communicate with Shamik, Swati could not really communicate with herself. And now Shamik has brought her face to face with her inner self. Shamik held her head very close to his heart, kissed her eyelids and said very softly, “Please open your eyes and look at me Swati. Nothing has really changed between you and me.” Swati lifted her face and looked at Shamik’s eyes after so many days. Shamik bent down to feel her lips. Softly, very softly, Swati said, “You know, I am being punished for not being able to love all the people who wanted to love me.” Shamik froze.

Swati cupped his hands in hers and went on. Her voice tingling — like the light rains that fell on them. Swati spoke as if a mountain spring was trying to find her way through the world — uncertain about the way, flowing through the pebbles, bruised but alive. “I have never been able to tell you Shamik of the bloodshed I have gone through the last five years. You knew Mayukh and I were good friends, but I did not tell you that Mayukh wanted me to leave everything behind and start life with him. I told him it was mad but then I know I drove him to madness. I enjoyed his company. When Mayukh sang for me, I rediscovered myself. When Mayukh praised me, I felt an immense power unleashed within me with which I felt I could heal this world. I was amazed that I could still light a thousand lamps, I could still raise a hailstorm! But Shamik I could not love him!”

 “If you have bled, it is because you loved. Mayukh was not your madness! So many people die in this world without knowing what love is all about. Aren’t you happy that both of us understand the power of love? We know now how much we love each other Swati!”

 “Mayukh was not mad perhaps! Madness was in me. I felt so rich, I felt so powerful, yet I could not tell Mayukh even once that I loved him. How he pined to hear that! He begged me to say just once that I indeed loved him. But I could not! I did not love him — and could not deceive him by saying so. All the poems that he recited for me, all the songs that he sang for me took me to another world — where I was alone in the infinitude of love. Overwhelmed, immersed in love — I pined for you! I wanted to be with you by the side of the sea, collecting shells, I wanted to be with you on the top of the mountains trying to touch the clouds — I wanted to become one with you, only you, in my infinite world!”

“That’s so very true! I have never thought of a life without you Swati. I talked about you, about us for hours.”

“ Is it? But when you lifted her face and locked lips with her, where was I Shamik?”

“You were there, very much there Swati. In my heart, in your own place.”

Shamik helped Swati get up from her chair. He pulled her to bed. They held on to each other — warm and soft, softened by the tears, softened by the pains. When the first rays of sun hit the bed, Shamik curled his hands around Swati’s face, “Have we ever loved each other more than this Swati? In this golden light of dawn — you look so beautiful! Let me die in this bliss Swati.”

“Do I stifle you Shamik? I die a thousand deaths when I see clouds of pain fleeting through your eyes. I can’t bear to think that I live to pain you!”

“No Swati, no. Never! Now let’s get some sleep. Both you and Rik have to start early tomorrow.”

As the day came to an end, Swati sat in her office. She could hear Mayukh’s voice from his chamber, talking to his students perhaps. It was getting late. Swati was waiting for Mayukh to finish. She wanted to walk up to Mayukh and say, “I know a sorry does not really mean much to you, but still I have come to say ‘Sorry’ Mayukh. Please let me tell you how thankful I am to you for preparing me to face the blizzard that is raging in my life today. Had it not been for you, I would not have understood Shamik. If I have hurt you, look my whole being is covered with blood today! I love you Mayukh but in my own strange way. If you can, please forgive me someday.”

Mayukh’s students had left. He was locking his door. Swati sat still in her office. Mayukh walked past her room.

Swati heaved a sigh of relief. She knew if she had walked in to Mayukh’s office – Mayukh would not have listened to her at all. He would see her quivering eyes and the tears welling up in them — ready to fall like drops of pearls. He would immediately pull her towards him to kiss her eyes, her lips. Swati would struggle, threaten to shout, bang the door, and run out — nothing conveyed. Let the confessions be untold, locked forever in one of her thousand selves!

 Shamik was about to leave his office. He picked up his mobile and before putting it into his pocket, glanced at it. Almost unaware of himself, he dialed “Rain”. “Hello!” Did he speak to her or did he disconnect? He could not remember as he drove back home. It was a difficult drive. It was pouring outside —the much-awaited rains were lashing at a parched earth, as if there was no tomorrow.

Me and my Drivers

After hiring the 11^th driver within last seven years, I decided that it is high time to chronicle my experience for posterity lest I forget the details. Strictly speaking it should be 12^th in sequence, if I consider two phases of employment of the same person as unique, but I have not done so. I am not even counting those who drove me to the office and left me with the keys in my hand, to drive back myself, if I wished to. Before you start forming an opinion about me as a monstrous employer - I hurriedly state that my cook has been with me for 19 years, gardener for 10 years and a multi-purpose handy-man for 15 years. In case you ask of what help the chronicle would be to posterity, I will simply say that I stand here to offer some solace and companionship to the tortured souls who are forced to repeatedly go through the rigmarole of interviewing, hiring, checking the backgrounds, and finally giving in to the vagaries of this special category of people who have taken up driving in Delhi and Gurgaon as their living - only to be deserted suddenly without as much as an "excuse me please".

My story was not really so pathetic to start with. I was quite happy and content to drive myself in and around IIT Delhi Campus in my first car, a very feminine, robust, a misty-lilac colored Maruti Alto - VX2 so long as it did not involve negotiating the mad rush of NH 8 - through which half of Delhi’s population goes to Gurgaon and an equal portion of Gurgaon’s population comes over to Delhi for work.  Those were happy days. Though the unique color of my car ensured that all my colleagues and students exactly knew when I was coming to or leaving office, I did not mind. Heard from a colleague, who over-heard a group of students discussing my car among them as follows - “Looks like Sir and Ma’am had a fight over the color. Sir must have said Blue while Ma’am wanted Red. Thus they mixed both.” Needless to say many of our students were common and this discussion later revealed to me what they thought about both of us.

The misty-lilac car did not go very well with my first two drivers, who stayed with me for 4 and 1.5 months respectively. The first one was unhappy but not very aggressive. He was unhappy to come at 8 am in the morning every day. A row about Diwali extras and before I could even make up my mind whether to give in to his demands or not, he was gone.  The second one, who took pride in driving a truck in the interiors of Haryana, prior to joining me, was genuinely offended by the pink beauty and broke the gear lock within a month. I bore the loss with a smile and changed it only to be informed by him the next day that he had secured another job as a truck-driver at some other remote part of Haryrana.

The next one in line - let us call him M, was a cute little guy who, I was told by the introducer, was a Commerce graduate and pursuing a Computer Course. It was mandatory to fill up a form for an I-Card to gain entry and park at our office building. Unlike my earlier drivers, M offered to fill it up himself. I was awe-struck by his hand-writing. Impeccable and neat - he was one graduate who justified his degree. However, my reverie was short-lived. One morning, M arrived late. When questioned, he simply resigned and left. He had served me for exactly three months.

The fourth one was God-sent or rather sent by M to replace him. He introduced himself as a native of Panipat, where M and he were apparently neighbors. He was also a cute little guy, but with no clue of driving or road sense. Though occasionally shoved to the navigator seat by my husband, who would simply become impatient if he happened to be in the car, he stayed.      

But all cute guys somehow mysteriously vanish from my life and this guy was no exception, though by this time he had become my longest serving driver with a little over a year to his credit. Thankfully nature abhors vacuum. So in came a guy with many references from neighbors' drivers. Here was a strapping guy - who was extremely humble and polite. Though I had trouble in correlating the appearance and behavior - I went by the references. The challenge with this guy was I would never find him near the car when it was time to come back home. Repeated phone calls later - he would materialize from somewhere - with absolutely no excuses to offer to my severe rebukes - just holding the door open for me very politely - thus shutting me up.  The situation became clear about two months later - when a security guard complained that he drank heavily and got into fights with them whenever I was not there. Only now I could understand his compulsion to not speak or retort. Of course this time I was the one who decided he had to go.

At this juncture M resurfaced again stating that his ventures in Panipat, whatever they were, did not turn out to be very successful, so he was willing to drive me around once again. Of course, he was reinstated without a second query. M was just too good. Friendly with my son, ever-obliging to my husband -  punctual and suave  - life was a dream, which lasted for about a year. Taking short breaks, ostensibly for Dadima’s precarious condition was one of M’s latest habits. Given my load at work and home, I could not remember Dadima’s medical history to great details. But when he vanished for a second time within two months, I sat back to think hard and realized Dadima had been in the death-bed four times and died twice within the last six months. Also, I remembered that the day before vanishing, M had been quarreling with a girl over phone for almost ¾ of the journey. I was not exactly eaves-dropping, but could not help notice the shrill voice that came through the phone and M’s anguish was also quite palpable. Well, M never came back. He did ring me up about a year later, to say that he had married and had to leave urgently for some inexplicable reason. He also mentioned the 2500/- he had borrowed from me just before leaving. I said he could keep it as a gift. And the chapter was closed.

Thus followed a period of one year in which I had four people driving me around. One of them for two days and another for five. Quite exasperated with the situation, my husband decided to step in and conduct an interview session for the next one who came. A short, thin Bengali fellow brimming with self-confidence was not one to be cowed down by anyone. So when my husband asked him in his deep baritone voice - “What are the models of cars that you have driven earlier?” pat came the reply - “To be truthful, I have never had the chance to drive a BMW or a Mercedes. Other than that I have driven every other model you see. What is yours?” “Alto - not mine, Madam’s”, quipped in my husband. This guy later confessed to me that he was from a traditional barber community. His heart and soul was in shaving and grooming men. He drove only to survive in this big bad world. Obviously he could not continue against his nature for long and left for home to pick up his family profession.

After another short ordeal with a very sweet-natured but hot-headed Haryanvi, who banged my cute little Alto into all kinds of vehicles, for the simple reason that they had dared to overtake our car, in came my longest surviving driver, another Bong fellow. He served me for three years. The major reasons for this long-service record could be attributed to the facts that he did not know the Delhi roads, did not know how to interpret road signals, did not know how to read or write - thus drove without any clue - simply following the instructions issued by the back-seat driver. This led to quite a few bangs - mostly from behind, but usually ended with my acceptance of fate, even though not exactly with a smiley face. The fact that I stuck to the car and the driver apparently was a point of discussion even among my son's friends - who would often be driven home from school in the pink Alto much against his wish. 

At last the car revolted and it was time to change the battered Alto. The driver was not happy with the new car. He preferred the small car. He did drive around for some more time but then three years seemed to have gotten on our nerves. Both of us were looking for new opportunities. We decided to part ways.

And thus begins a new journey with yet another new driver. 

Reflections: চাঁদ ও নারীবাদ

Reflections: চাঁদ ও নারীবাদ: সকালবেলাই বিপত্তি । বার বার কেন যে ভুলে যাই - লক্ষ্মী পূজো পেরোলেই দুয়ারে টোকা মারে “ কড়ভ্বাচৌথ ”! আজই ছিল সেই দিন । স্ব...