Alone

He was envied by his colleagues and loved by his friends. His presence made any party more fun to be at. His was one of those charming personalities you read about in books and success stories. Wherever he went, he left behind a trail of unbridled laughter and fond memories. Everyone he met believed they held a special place in his life. Over the years he'd become, for a lot of his acquaintance, that one constant in their lives. He was their anchor, their shoulder to cry upon, the one person they knew who could be counted upon. 

And yet, he was alone. Disconnected from everyone around him. Sure, he knew a lot of people. But did anyone know him? Did anyone know who he was behind the smile and the one-liners? His fears and hopes? His frustrations and joys? Where could he turn to for support? Who was his anchor? On difficult days, where it seemed like all he ever did was help others through their problems, the weight of the world would descend on his shoulders and envelope him in a shroud of depression. The feeling of loneliness was never more magnified than at such times. Left alone with his thoughts, he felt he was definitely going crazy. The despair, the feeling of giving up, that gnawing sensation of having no one who cared enough. The morbidity of the situation came upon him like a hailstorm in June, leaving him breathless. No sane person would feel this way surely? 

But maybe it was normal to feel this way. Maybe he had to be insane to not want somebody by his side. to know him, not for his fabulous lifestyle, but for who he was once the parties were over and real life began. Maybe he had to feel this way so that he knew what he was missing. The one thing that would fill that void he'd begun to sense more often than before. The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle. The anchor in his life. The shoulder he needed. 

Being Multicultural

Growing up in Bombay, you take so many things for granted. Especially the food. And the people.

Only when i left Bombay did i realise how homogenous it is, how so many different cultures co-exist seamlessly. I never appreciated the fact that growing up in Bombay gave me an exposure to so many languages, foods and people. When i see the stereotypes that people not from Bombay live with, i have this urge to shake them and tell to not believe in what TV portrays. No, not all gujjus talk like that, just like not all their meals consist of thepla and dhokla. And no, parsis are not foreigners. And i may be marwari, but i dont go around calling people bhai sa and bhabhi sa. There is more to everyone and everything than tv and movies show. And Bombay allows you to be a part of that - of that tolerance and welcoming attitude (i'm not talking of politically driven agendas here, but of the common man in the local train).

So used to this multicultural living i am, that i find myself surprised when people don't know what dhaansak is or don't know how to make poha. It's also very surprising that the first thing people do on meeting/hearing about someone is to categorize them as belonging to a certain community and then acting on stereotypical assumptions. In Bombay, this difference in cultural background is just another opportunity to try new foods and celebrate yet another festival. Yes, the stereotypes exist, but just as a round of jokes. So christmas is about my friend's mum's whiskey cake and yummy marzipan sweets while Eid is about going to Mohd.Ali road and trying out everything (something i can't wait to do, now that i'm a meat eater). And come Navroze, all i can think of is caramel custard. My maharashtrian friends are good for yummy prawn curry and the gujjus keep me happy with enough junk food to last me a lifetime. Also, some of the most generous people i've known are sindhis and marwaris. And no, the sindhis dont walk around with a stash of papad in their pockets. 

Today, i'm as comfortable singing Christmas carols as i am humming garba songs. I enjoy roadside anda bhurji as much as i do fancy poached eggs at a popular brunch outlet. I'm perfectly at ease travelling in a local train or bus as i am driving somewhere in a fancy car. Everyday is a learning opportunity, new people, new foods, new cuss words.

And so Bombay may be crowded, polluted, noisy and generally unlivable to an outsider. But for me, it's the best thing that could have happened. 

Of That Smile

I’ve tried writing this post out half a dozen times. And there is just no right way of doing it. I wish I could find the words to express what I’m feeling, but each time I start writing, I don’t seem to be able to end it.

Unlike Rita aunty. Who hung herself three days back.

Rita aunty. The first neighbour I remember, someone who’d seen me as a 2yr old, and my sister as a babe in arms. A lady, who babysat us on numerous occasions and smiled her way through each of them. Someone who came to mum’s rescue when my sister locked the family (and guests) in the house when she went down to play after latching the main door from the outside. Rita aunty. Someone I always associate with ashtmi and halwa, puri – that loaded paper plate with a ten rupee note hidden under the puris which we looked forward to with childish excitement. A lady I never heard being loud, someone who always had a kind word and smile for anyone she met. And even though both families moved, we stayed in touch – weddings, deaths, festivals, random running into each other on the road even.

But somewhere along the way, unknown to family, friends and neighbours, that soft, shy smile became a mask. Something she hid behind. Till one day when it got the better of her and she succumbed to herself.

My sister and I weren’t allowed to go pay our last respects. But mum said she looked at peace. And smiling.

Of Grandmothers

The Fellow’s grandmother passed away last week.

I didn’t know her for too long, but I will always remember her as a woman of amazing strength, independence and foresight. At 80, she walked without any support, managed apple orchards all by herself and lived alone in a massive house, in the lap of the mountains, without any complaints, or indeed desire to live anywhere else (in fact, she terrorised the countryside and made sure not a leaf was out of place in her little kingdom). And this she’d been doing for nearly 30 years.

2 weeks before granny died, she had a cardiac arrest, the result of a renal complication. Since things were looking critical, we rushed home to be with her, and I think the presence of her favourite grandsons helped her much more than medication. In fact, it’s a tribute to how much she meant to her family that all her grandchildren, living all over the country, arrived to be with her when she was unwell. Just the sight of her grandchildren brought a sparkle to her eyes and a grin to her face. She couldn’t be happier than when the apple of her eyes were teasing her, tickling her and generally making all kinds of noise in the hospital room. In fact, in less than a week she was well enough to go home, where the noise just continued and she was kept in high spirits. Ten days later, she died.

It’s been a week since granny died and it all seems surreal still. At times when the brain is trying to rationalise what happened, it feels like she survived a massive cardiac arrest just to make sure she gave us all a chance to meet her one last time.

She died as she lived – on her own terms.

Married To?

For the one year and a couple of months I’ve been married, I’ve been getting all kinds of reactions to the fact that I have retained my maiden name. In some cases it’s become such a big deal - like my grandmom who thought I was doing something illegal by not changing my name. The same granny also thought to tell me of all the problems that can arise in a marriage by ‘small’ things like these (this she told me in hushed whispers and concerned tones). I tried explaining to her about how my identity is my own, and that getting married does not mean I change a name I’ve lived with and been associated with for 25 yrs of my life. I also had to tell her (hoping it would make her comfortable with the idea) that I had the Fellow’s support in this decision and that it wasn’t something he really bothered or even thought about.

But of course we had to think about it. In the organisation we are in, change is slow. Formality is abundant. And so if I’m married, I’m automatically Mrs. Last-name-of-the-chap-I’m-married-to. In the beginning, it irked me to no end, to be constantly referred to as Mrs. XYZ. Then I decided to not waste time getting annoyed since these people obviously hadn’t heard of retaining your own identity (and Women’s Lib, but that was asking for too much). But the more I saw around me, the more amazed I was. It was like the women didn’t want to think on their own really. They were mouthpieces for their husbands; their image depended on the rank their husband was at and his position in the larger hierarchical group. Everything they did was keeping their husbands future (and present) in mind, even if it meant not having a brain of their own (or using it). I don’t mean that anyone should go out of their way to prove a point, at the risk of someone’s career. But at least be sure of who you are, outside of your spouse.

Today I just got more proof of how the women around me have somehow lost themselves in their relationship, so much so that who they were or can be is pretty much forgotten - I was sitting in a school Principal’s office, and she was going through files full of CV’s of women applying for a teaching post. However, apart from the sheer number of applicants, the one thing that struck me was that along with their name, each and every one of these women had added “Wife of So and So”.

And I was left wondering - when applying for a job, unless you’re Rabri Devi, how does it matter whom you’re married to?

Grandma's Tales

(Day 102 of 112)

Q: If you meet me on the road (or anywhere else for that matter), how will you know I’m married?

A: By the fact that my grandmother will be with me, telling anyone who cares to listen.

Of course, if you stop to listen to her, you will probably end up listening to some serious Avantika-bashing (she seems to be doing a lot of that lately isn’t she?). This time the bone of contention is not my questions, but rather my defiance.

I refuse (vociferously) to walk around like a billboard advertising the fact that I’m a married woman now. I believe that I’m an independent person in my own right, who does not need to define herself in terms of anyone. Just like I don’t see the need to change who I am or how I dress just because I’m married. And luckily for me, the Fellow thinks the same way. And so you won’t find me ‘looking married’ the way that has, unfortunately, been made popular through the media. The Fellow even refused to let me wear those red and white bangles for more than a week after marriage. As soon as I got back into my jeans after several days of sarees and salwar kameezes, the bangles came off too. I mean, seriously, I don’t think there is anything more ridiculous looking than that horrible clash of ‘western’ clothes worn with bangles, bindis and all that paraphernalia. It’s like the person is confused about which way she wants to go, and ends up looking like a..a…monkey in a circus maybe?

And now, here is my grandmother cribbing about the exact same thing. Only she wants me to look married. She would love it if I walked around with bangles and a bindi everyday (the mangalsutra and sindoor would be a bonus she never even dreamed of really). So what if I wear jeans and tee shirts everday? So what if I looked like I’ve grown up in Hicksville, India with a negative fashion sense? And so what if I end up being the kind of person I laugh at and pity?! At least my grandmother would be happy right?

Hell no. It would be salwar kameezes and sarees next. Shudder.

So Much Food. So Much Noise

(Day 98 of 112)

All day today my ears have been assaulted with noise. And my stomach with food.

The aunts have been busy cooking all day today. So I woke up to the smell of frying potato and whatever anyone might thing, on an empty stomach early in the morning, it’s quite a difficult smell to handle. Then there was the fact that I was expected to taste and critique. Groan. In the afternoon the grandmother’s house was full of relatives who kept coming and going and of course, eating. And I would have been content watching them come and go, and of course, eat, except that I was the one who had to serve the food. Let’s just say that the path from the kitchen to the dining table is now marked with my sweat and deep grooves from the constant to and fro (and it has nothing to do with my weight so no smart ass comments PK). So what with tasting the food, serving the food and then eating it, I’m so saturated that I would be quite content existing on a liquid diet for the next couple of days.

And then there was the noise. Never have I heard so many people talk at such high decibel levels and at the same time and obviously not on the same topic. So there was the random uncle prosing on and on about the melanin on his face and how he would have to start using creams at his advanced age, an aunt who was hell bent on discussing her aching knees and rapid hair fall, a bratty kid who thought it would help his digestion if he banged the spoon and yelled no no no no before and after every bite, aunts who wanted to share notes across the house about how they made XYZ dish, mobile phones ringing on top volumes with truly terrible ring tones, taxis honking outside, wandering sadhus yelling in the doorway for alms (cash only, no food) and the grandmother yelling back, etc.

Add to this circus the aforementioned grandmother’s determination to get her daily dose of television drama, and the noise levels were such that even the squirrels in the garden scampered away with fright.

Change

(Day 22 of 112)

(Warning: Long Post)

I was never a very good student. Mostly because I couldn’t be bothered to try. My mother of course developed hypertension by the time I got to class 10. I blame my teachers. They would keep telling her I could do better if only I wanted to. At 15 I didn’t want to.

Somewhere between then and now I changed. Along the way I tried because I wanted to. And my reward was success. But what has been more rewarding is the pride I see in those who knew me as a bratty teenager. Those who struggled to make me recognise my true potential when they could have given up on me. My teachers. Actually this post is about one teacher.

No, this is not going to be one of those corny teacher adulation posts that make you want to roll your eyes in disbelief. In fact the teacher being discussed and I didn’t even get along when I was in school, not least because I apparently tested his patience beyond control and because he had very little control. And also because student-teacher relationships in school never extend beyond the classroom (except when being punished and made to stand outside the classroom)!

But somewhere between then and now this teacher too changed. I don’t know what brought about this change. I wasn’t even ready to believe it when I heard of it. And then I met him again. By a curious twist of fate, I was back at school. Only this time I was a lecturer responsible for training teachers, and he was now the principal.

After an interesting first meeting (where he seemed totally shocked that I’d managed to get through college and beyond), we started the process of rediscovery. While we would always remain student-teacher, something was different now. No longer were we in the classroom and no longer could the teacher scare me by simply calling out my name.

Over the year (and even after that), both of us realised how much we’d grown up. For me it was quite literal, bringing with it maturity, knowledge, self-confidence. For my teacher it was a growing awareness of anger and rage (among other things) which were being counter-productive (or so I conjecture).

This recognition of how much we’d changed forged a new relationship I think. I was finally able to accept that this was a teacher who only ever wanted to help the students. The manner of doing it may have been different (one not palatable to an adolescent’s hormone and rebellion riddled brain). My teacher was also able to understand that it was never my life’s mission to make classroom teaching difficult. It was just who I was, and still am (inquisitive, talkative and someone who can't hide what she's feeling to save her life!). With a changed relationship and changed outlooks, both of us were finally able to appreciate and more important, understand each other.

Interestingly, these changes have made me so comfortable with my teacher now that I find myself part of serious discussions, many of them ending with me emulating a motivational speaker and being all wise etc. Even more surprising (in a happy sort of way) is that he listens to me and maybe even remembers some of it too.

Today, I value this special student-teacher relationship, albeit formed much after I left school. I may not have handed out any Favourite Teacher trophies to my teacher when I was his student. But I know now (or rather hope) that he knows that trophies tarnish. What we share now is much beyond any token of appreciation. It has its basis in respect, admiration, pride and above all, change.

Drying Up!

(Day 9/10 of 112)

Seeing as I’m alone (and bound to be missing the Fellow) my mother-in-law calls me everyday to make sure I’m ok and eating properly (well knowing that in all probability I’m not).

Today however, our conversation moved away from my eating habits. Having locked up the house, I’m currently sprawled at my aunt’s. This made my mother-in-law very happy since it meant I was at least being fed several times a day. I of course, had another reason to move here. There was a mouse in the house - under my bed to be more specific. And while I’m not scared of it really, the very thought of stepping on it when I went to the bathroom at night totally freaked me out.

The Fellow told me (during one of my more freaked out moments on the phone) to put out rat poison for the mouse, telling me confidently that it will go outdoors to die. I checked. It wouldn’t have. All that would have happened is that instead of dying in some corner or concealed behind a cupboard, the mouse would have come out of its hiding place and died. This I couldn’t have because my maid was on leave and I really couldn’t stomach the thought of being in the room with a dead mouse on my bedroom floor. And picking it up to throw it out? Shiver. Shudder. Goosebumps. Instead I spread liberal amounts of rat kill before I locked up the place so that any mice who have to die do so in my absence. A day later it struck me that I do have to go back into that house, and if there are dead mice in there…ugghh.

All this I discussed with my increasingly amused mother-in-law who couldn’t help but laugh (lovingly I like to think). And then she told me “Don’t worry beta. You’re in Rajasthan. Even if the mouse dies, it’s so hot that by the time you come back it would have all dried up and you’ll only be left with the skeleton.”

Huh! Doesn’t help ma, doesn’t help.

Damn Generalisation!

I’m so furious right now that I’m almost bursting with indignation. The Fellow, knowing that I need to talk my rage out listened to my tirade for a good 15 minutes before returning to his ‘rajma chawal’. Since I no longer have a captive audience, or at least one that isn’t bonding with his favourite food, I decided to spew all the venom here.

Men. Hmph. What is with them and generalisation? Just because you have the misfortune of being married to a stupid woman who wouldn’t know the difference between a comma and a full stop doesn’t mean that all the women you meet have the same lack of grey cells.

Ok so maybe I’m generalising here and including all men in the above statement. Let me be more specific and mention that I’m talking about one man. One moron who wasn’t smart enough to get out of marrying the bluntest tool in the shed and now believes that all females are like the pain he has to live with.

I’m not this judgmental and critical of others as a rule. However this man’s wife is someone even the Dalai Lama would lose patience with. She deserves an entry in the record books for being a textbook woman - the kind of woman men have nightmares about, the kind of woman that legends talk of in quiet, warning tones. Unfortunately, this doesn’t bode well for the rest of the sex. Her husband is so convinced that like his wife, all women fight at the drop of a hat, cry at the sound of a ‘no’, are hopeless with math, can’t follow instructions and make life generally miserable, that he refuses to treat them as equals who are capable of having an IQ more than 90.

What put me in such a towering rage is the fact that this seemingly intelligent man (I have my doubts about that now) treats me the kind of condescension and smugness that makes me want to punch his nose or knee his tenders (whichever I can reach quickest). I mean just because you can’t have a minute’s intelligent conversation with your wife, doesn’t mean you can’t with anyone else’s wife. There is nothing more annoying in life than being treated like a dimwit simply because of a generalisation. - and nothing more expressive of the other person’s stupidity.

Aaaaggghhhh. The next time I meet this chap, the Fellow better be at hand to hold my arms and tie my knees or I’m going to do some real damage. Seriously. 

Ice Cream Eating, Pepsi Guzzling Granny of Mine

So my grandmother isn’t the kind you get in Enid Blyton books or stories written by R.K. Narayan. She doesn’t sit us down and tell us stories on end (Dadaji did that). She doesn’t show us how to make birds and rugs from scraps of cloth (my great-grandmother did that) She doesn’t call us into the kitchen and sneak us hot mathris fresh from the kadhai ( both chachis do that).

What she does do is eat ice cream and drink Pepsi.

I haven’t yet come across a grandmother in the same age bracket as mine who does that (no offence to those with a better knowledge of their own grannies).

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has enjoyed ice creams more than dal-roti. I remember her licking a candy stick with such pleasure on her face that it made you want to smile. And for as long, I remember her fighting with us over the ice cream too!! She isn’t like any other adult in the house. It wouldn’t be too wrong (although a teeny bit inappropriate) to include her with the children of the house. She develops stomach aches when she has to eat healthy nutritious food. But ask her what ice cream she will want to eat and her eyes light up (the little bit they can through her cataracts!!).

She will, from a choice of fruit juices, water and soft drinks, choose the one that has gas bubbles in it and then sip it with every evidence of extreme pleasure. She can compete (if goaded into it, which isn’t too difficult) with my younger cousin brothers in drinking any caffeine loaded, sugar spiked, and definitely not healthy aerated drink. You should see her go! She drinks without stopping for breath! A seriously serious achievement for someone her age!

So my dadi may not spout wise sayings at the drop of a hat, or cook up a feast for us (not anymore atleast). But she does fight with us over the last bit of ice cream in the fridge and we love her for it.

A Tear and a Hug

A classmate and I were talking the day before the funeral, and both of us had still not come to terms with the fact that we wouldnt be able to talk to Fr. B again. There was so much we wanted to tell him, and i know for a fact that there was loads he wanted to tell us!!

In the beginning of the course we thought he was being a pain because he wasnt in the best of health. It took us only a few weeks to realise that health had nothing to do with it!!! :D
There were times when we felt he took some sort of sadistic pleasure in sucking the joy and dignity out of us in class. But now we know (actually now we accept) that he knew what he was doing. I for one am a much stronger person because of what i went through in his classes.

This course has taught me almost everything i know about counselling today. It has taught me who i am and what i want. It has taught me how i try not to be who i am and deny what i want. It has taught me the most important lesson of all - being honest to myself.

Fr. Berkie helped me deal with my own personal hells over all these months . In all his ramblings in class, there was always a personal lesson for those who wanted it, and knew what to listen to! :)

I once had a long talk with him about things troubling me. Today im glad i did that (even though i was miserable and worried about how he would react). Im glad i got a chance to see a different side of him. A side that listened to me. One that did not judge me. A side that helped me think about and deal with my thoughts. A side that showed humour. Laughed with me. Showed interest in what i had to say about how i felt. A side that hugged me.

Of all his classes, there are two that I think about the most, and everytime i think about them i tear up.

One time is before christmas. I'd brought some brownies and chocolates, and along with a card, the entire class wished him a very merry christmas. He sat down in his chair and smiled. And talked. And was sorry that he wasnt having a celebration and a party like every year because of his health. He was sorry that we werent getting a chance to party!

Then there is one of the last classes he took, during which he told us we were all good students and that he was knew he was always sounding rude and not smiling at us, but we should not feel too bad about it.
I know that this was the closest Fr. Berkie would ever come to say that he cared for us.

Thank you Father Berkie for caring.

Do It Now

In one of the last classes he took, Fr. Berkie told us (not for the first time) that over the years students have not liked how he has treated them, how he has graded them, assessed them. He told us how these students would not even talk to him or acknowledge him because they thought he was unfair. He said that it is all that negative energy over the years that has probably caused all these health problems for him. He sounded disillusioned and defeated at times like these. He would aften tell us that he should shut the course because no one appreciated the effort he put in.

I remember thinking then that i would come back after the course to meet him.
I remember thinking then that i want to thank him for everything he has taught me.

I remember thinking that when i would come to collect my diploma from him i would tell the next batch not to get too bullied by Father.

I remember thinking that even though he was in excrutiating pain he was coming to class for us and that he should be appreciated for that.

Today im thinking that i should have done these things when i thought them.

I missed out on so many opportunities of telling Father that he was not unappreciated.

Of telling him that even though we might appear fed up, we were glad he was there and telling us off.

Of thanking him.

Over the last week, apart from realising what a big part Fr. Berkie was of my life in the present, i've realised that anything i want to do, i should do it now. To use a cliche which rings true in this contexr, time and tide wait for none.

In Memoriam

I read Tuesdays with Morrie a few months back. Apart from being one of the best written books i've read, it touched a chord in me somewhere.

I too was seeing a teacher battling a serious illness, and living on sheer will power and determination.

Reading a book it all seems unreal in a way. Its difficult to imagine someone dying to be so full of life and so insistent on being independent.

But seeing my teacher doing it made it all so real.

At the time i didn't get how he could still continue taking classes and insisting on conducting all aspects of the course when he was so obviously in pain. He would be on pain meds, sometimes to the extent that it affected his memory. He would lose track of what he was talking about. He would repeat the same things over and over again.
But through it all he never once gave up. He never took the easy way out.

Reading Tuesdays with Morrie i realised that sometimes lessons learnt in a classroom arent as important as the ones you learn outside of them.

Spending 9 months with my teacher i realise that sometimes lessons learnt in a classroom arent as important as the one who teaches them.

Just by being who he was, my teacher taught me more important things that theories and therapies. He taught me how to take charge of who i am and what i do. He taught me to be responsible for what i think, say and do. He taught me how easy it is to let an illness become an excuse for mediocre performance and how difficult it is to perform no matter what the condition. He taught me that i really am in the sensori-motor stage.

My teacher was incorrigible, difficult, stubborn, opiniated.

But then, he was the only one i knew who couldnt care what anyone thought of him. He was the only person i knew who truly made choices he wanted to and lived with their consequences.

He lived life like he wanted to.

My teacher passed away yesterday.

This is in memory of him.

Good night Father.