And then they said...

I once had a simple life,

And simple did I eat,

My food was cooked in an iron kadhai

And was served to me in steel.

Chapatis lay wrapped in a muslin cloth,

Always smeared with ghee,

My school tiffin box was steel too

An uncomplicated life, you see…

Then one day they said “Stop eating ghee!”

You have no idea what it’s doing to you,

No Dalda, no vanaspati

Switch to a healthy oil, you better do!

They said it could be sunflower oil

Then said make it vegetable or soya bean

Polyunsaturated, omega 3 fatty acids blah blah

Your good health is what we mean.

Rice bran oil they came up with,

Then said olive oil was the best,

Oh, olive oil? No, that’s just a fancy foreign entry

It’s truly mustard and coconut oil that beat the rest…

Then they said get rid of all the oils,

As oil can never be nice

Buy these non-stick pans they said,

So what if you have to pay a higher price?

They came to me and lured me again

With colourful plastics and melamine

Aren’t they so handy, they asked me,

Chuck the steel they said, it’s time!

They said the muslin cloth was smelly and sick,

And told me about the aluminium foil,

Food stays fresh when wrapped in it

And lasts longer too, without getting spoilt!

I threw away my iron kadhai

I threw away my steel,

I threw away the muslin cloth

I threw away the ghee.

I hoarded my house with plastic

And four types of “healthy” oil

Non-stick pots and pans et al

And a long-lasting stock of aluminium foil

Now they come and tell me,

Discard the plastic right now!

Nothing can harm you more, 

It’s killing you and how!

Else get plastic that’s BPA free…

So I looked for the BPA-free one

Then they said the BPA free had BPS

Which was as bad as the former one…

Throw away these Teflon-coated pots and pans

Now they come and say,

Switch to cast iron or regular iron for cooking

That’s the healthy way.

Ghee is so important, they tell me now

And switch to the good old copper and steel,

Look at what’s entering your body,

Through the poisonous plate in which you eat!

Foil is the worst thing to use, they tell me now,

Aluminium seeps into the food wrapped inside

And hampers your zinc absorption,

Use butter paper or muslin cloth, they confide.

So once again I am shopping for more, 

Searching for stuff they asked me to throw away…

Trying to make eating and living healthy for my family

Buying back all the things I once threw away!!

The smartphones, the pesticides, the disposables and more,

I’ll keep them for another day,

I’m afraid this ranting’s already too long

To hold your interest anyway……

P.S. Don't ask me who the 'they' are 😊!

Freedom - It's all in the Mind!

Repeatedly crossing, while on my morning walk  ̶  a sticky, vine-coloured patch on the walkway, painted by jamuns that have fallen from the jamun tree, crushed by the impact of their fall, and perhaps, inadvertently trampled upon by walkers, awakens memories of the mulberry tree that stood in my parents' house when I was growing up. Right at the entrance of the house, the tree caused a similar red and violet chaos on the floor, which greeted us each time we entered the gate.

Today, as I walked by this red patch, I was reminded of an incident that my mother had narrated to me several times. It had taken place shortly after her marriage and her arrival in this house from her hometown. One day, she climbed up the mulberry tree, the शहतूत का पेड़ as we used to call it, to pluck mulberries, and was merrily at it when she suddenly spotted a neighbour passing by on his scooter. She immediately jumped off the tree  ̶  embarrassed, reprimanding herself silently and making herself the promise of a more appropriate demeanour in the future  ̶  one befitting a married woman.

For a girl born and brought up in Dehradun, growing up amidst nature, in a house surrounded by trees bearing mangoes, litchis and peaches, climbing a tree came effortlessly to her, and so did some inconceivable feats, like grabbing a rat by its tail and hurling it out of the house and in the open. She lived in a large joint family. Climbing those trees with cousins of all ages, plucking fruits and then eating them together  ̶  my finite imagination renders me incapable of measuring the joy she must have experienced doing that. Why then, could she not do the same, in her new home? Why did she jump off the tree? For years, I lived under the notion that she did so, on seeing the stunned look on the neighbour's face. I was convinced about her being called on the carpet later to be told that such an act was not expected of the daughter-in-law of a highly respectable man that my grandfather was.

Today, I asked her what the neighbour had said to her and her response left me dismayed. "Nobody said anything!" she explained. "I jumped off due to my own doubts and fears. वो Uncle सोच रहे होंगे   ̶  देखो, दुआ जी की नई बहू पेड़ पर चढ़ी हुई है!!”

For that girl who grew up climbing trees, this was probably the last time she ever climbed one. That moment of assumption was the silent death of the spontaneity of her spirit. That moment of assumption that arrived because gender roles and expectations are defined, as is the code of conduct for a married woman  ̶   no, not in a manual, but in our minds.  Gender stereotypes, though a by-product of the patriarchal society that we have always lived in, are now so intricately woven into our conditioning that despite our progressive thinking, we are unable to break free from them. The solace in this 45-year-old story is that although she never climbed a tree again, the years that followed were some of the best years of her life, again in a joint family where fun never ended, albeit in other ways.

This was 1972. Four and a half decades later, I wonder if anything has changed. I can climb a tree on a holiday, or on a picnic, but can I do it otherwise, without glancing around to see who is watching?  The fact is that we, as a society, are still bound by an intrinsic need to adhere to norms. We live our lives the way others want us to, conduct ourselves the way others expect us to and try to fit into roles that others want us to fit into. And so, we don’t do the things we want to because of the self-inflicted burden of conforming to societal norms that leaves us so dissatisfied!

This Independence Day, besides the many other ills that we seek freedom from  ̶  as a nation, and as humanity,  may we also, on a personal level, break the shackles of our own mind, and learn to liberate ourselves from expectations, assumptions, boundaries, forced codes of conduct and anything that does not make us happy!

A Never-Ending Love Affair

It’s not always new experiences that exhilarate us. Sometimes, a recurrence of what we’ve enjoyed several times in the past can drive us to the same state of euphoria! One of such love affairs for me, year after year, has been the Surajkund Mela. The same month of February, the same dates, the same place, the same dusty parking lot, the same madness at the ticket counter, the same stalls, the same artisans from across the country, the same jostling crowd, the same food and the same scampering for a place to sit while we eat. Yet, I love it; yet it gives me a high! The splash of colours, the reverberating amphitheatre, the resounding ‘nagada’, artists and people dancing with joy, couples holding hands and walking, husbands looking on as the wives bargain, fathers walking with their kids on piggy back, women from neighbouring villages dressed in their finest jhak-mak sarees for a day out at the mela – this annual festival is a complete ‘joie de vivre’; a celebration of life!

But for now, I sit here brooding; reliving this two year old memory, mollifying myself that it’s okay for not being able to make it this year!

The Humble Landline

1981. I was in class 1.  

Recalling dates can be an effortless task as long as they don’t belong in our history books! Of course, some dates remain ingrained in our minds if they have extraordinary memories associated with them; and I have countless ones from my childhood that can never, by any means, ebb away. Coming back to that morning of 1981. The phone rings and I answer. A heavily accented, almost incomprehensible ‘hullaao’ tells me it’s from an uncle, a neighbour- the only one in our extra wide circle of family and friends who had made it to the US back then and had thence been the talk of every conversation in my house, even remotely related to America.  The theatrical extravaganza that ensued in my house with the advent of this call was a spectacle that is worth writing about. The noise levels in my already noisy house (I grew up in a joint family :) ) would rise further because each one present there would be shouting … “America se phone hai. Bas hello bolna aur humein de dena!”(The call is from America, so just say hi and pass on the phone to us)! The commotion, confusion and the hurried hellos all attributed themselves to the exorbitant rates for international calls made from India. Calling from the US was nominal but nobody in my house seemed to get that.  Everyone would be scampering to get hold of the receiver of a not so sightly-looking phone, a regular 1970s model, now spotted only in plush living rooms of some Indian homes as an ‘objet d’art’ along with the other antiques on display.

The amusing part is that the call was not meant for us. It landed in our house only because ours was among the few houses in the neighbourhood that had a phone back in those days. Somebody had to rush to convey a message to my uncle’s family that lived two lanes away that they needed to drop everything and run to our house, since he would call again soon. Uncle’s family would come rushing and would be treated to chai and biscuits; even samosas (if the samosewala had his big, black kadahi heated by then).… only because they had come to attend a phone call.  Post the call, every time, there was an interesting exchange of views about the cleanliness in that country, the no-maid concept and the stringent laws. Uncle’s family would mostly be persuaded to share a meal with us before they left.

 Cut to 2015.

Whatsapp, skype, viber, gtalk, facebook- names synonymous with communication. They’ve made this world a small and easy place to live in. They’ve brought parents close to their children, grandparents close to their grandchildren and connected everyone to each other. Lost is the mystical aura of the humble landline, the only mechanism to a quick and smooth verbal communication once upon a time. Lost along with that landline are the umpteen conversations and cups of tea that I was so accustomed to, considering calls from Dubai and London from neighbours’ kids were a norm in my house.

Technology is good. It has made everything faster and easier. But what it leaves me wondering with is, that when daily chores are completed quicker in our fully-equipped kitchens and homes, with our laptops, our application-enabled phones, the cars lined outside our houses….then why are we so rushed? Why are we left with no time in spite of gadgets and appliances taking over banal tasks? What happened to those lazy afternoons spent doing nothing; those holidays with cousins rolling in the grass or star gazing; those evenings and Sundays spent bonding with neighbours and extended family? How did these neighbours, whom I referred to as chachas and buas, and who showered us with exceptional love, metamorphose into uncles and aunties? With lesser means and a lower dose of technology, we made time for everything and everyone. Now with technology claiming to make human labour redundant, why are we left with no time? What happened to that modest piece of machinery that kept us closer and more connected than we are today in this age of connectivity?

The Untold Story

Every book tells a story. But at the same time, the same book also has a story of its own to tell. 'The Heat and Dust project'  for instance, will always rest on my shelf as a reminder that I bought this out of wanderlust; lured by the synopsis, and secretly hoping to embark on a similar journey of eccentricity, like the couple in the book, who decided to travel the country on an unrealistic budget of Rs.500 a day. But more than that, it will remind me that I bought it using a Flipkart voucher (one of the many that Meher won in school for academic excellence). As I sat looking at the Flipkart screen and all the vouchers, partly with pride at her achievements, and partly making a mental note of what I wanted for myself (selfish me), she noticed me; and the kind-hearted princess that she is, handed over two to me, saying she was through with her list and that I could redeem them for whatever I wanted. So I bought this book and a hair-dryer :), from my 13 year old’s prize-money!

One day, when I'm gone, if someone finds this book somewhere, whether in a torn condition, or in a state intact, whether in a public library or at a second-hand book dealer's, he would validate, that every book, has in fact, more than a story to tell…….

The Couch Potato

This poem is for every couch potato in the world, who chooses dormancy and  the insubstantial over the extraordinary gift of a spirited life. 

He plops himself on the sofa,

like a dysfunctional car in the garage;

with his bowl of chips,

the size of a crater on the moon.

He sits there from dawn to dusk,

like a building that has been there forever,

like an immovable boulder,

like old, unused furniture lying in the attic.

He is a rusting piece of machinery,

a stubborn lid on a jar,

lovers’ names scribbled on a monument,

a dusty corner in the house,

a goal-post in a soccer field,

 a foot path on a busy road,

an old, unswept, crumbly wagon,

 stationed on a railway yard,

 a piece of barren land.

He remains unaffected by the bustle around,

like a holy saint in meditation;

but people around him squirm and squiggle,

fidgeting like souls unable to rest in peace,

vexed at his indifference and aloofness,

that are as exasperating as an ink blotch

on a crispy, new, white shirt.

An Epiphany

The month of April is rarely ever kind. It heralds an end of spring and a beginning of the harsh summer season.

One such April afternoon, I was sitting comfortably inside one of the rooms at the British Council, totally shielded from the crude swelter, and in complete oblivion of the hustle-bustle of the busy Connaught Place.  I looked out the window and for the first time, I noticed what had missed my eye in so many days- a wide, open courtyard with a small fountain in the centre.  Kalpita noticed me peering out and said, “That’s Charbagh. You all must go and explore the place today.”

 “Wonder why she is asking us to check out a courtyard in this sweltering heat?” I thought to myself.

We all went down nevertheless.

What I saw was a huge open area, surrounded by the red and black stone walls of the Council. It was an empty courtyard, with a small, square body of water right in the centre. It was probably a fountain that was not working at that moment. I instantly became aware of the change in my surroundings. I heard the cooing of pigeons and a faint sound of the heavy traffic on the other side of the wall. The thick walls of the building were perhaps designed to keep too much noise at bay.

I looked around. “Oh wow! Buddha!” I heard Ananya exclaim and I followed the direction of her eyes. There, from the wall on our left, it stared back at us- a colossal face. The oval-shaped face was carved out on a square, stone wall, taller than even the boundary wall of the Council.

It wasn’t Buddha. The face had a large pair of eyes, an over-sized nose, and big, wide lips. Its eyes were closed. What was staring back at us were not the eyes, I realized; it was the sheer size of the face that was, and it left us dwarfed in its presence. I wanted to feel the face now with my fingers. I went closer. Oh what was that? Next to the face, on the grey stone wall, I noticed more ovals jutting out that had a hand, a nose, lips, eyes and ears sculpted on them.

I was engrossed looking at the stone structure when I suddenly smelt food. It was 1.30pm. I sighed. May be I was just too hungry, but as I turned around, I saw students sitting there and eating. I heard the cling-clang of their forks and spoons and happy sounds of their conversations, and  was instantly taken back to my college days. There was a lone guy at a distance, working on his laptop.

As I looked around, taking in all the sounds and mentally absorbing what I saw and felt, everything suddenly started making sense. The heat was biting my bare arms and feet, like a sword slicing through my wounds, but the realization that had dawned was far too overpowering to let the heat exasperate me. I now knew why Kalpita had thought it would be interesting for us to see the place. The 'Charbagh' had awakened my senses and brought me in touch with the world beyond the closed confines of comfort. It reminded me that the calmness I had experienced inside the building was momentary; and while I was there, unmindful of the happenings outside, the world went on as usual…the birds did not stop flying or chirping, the people went about their daily tasks, the hundreds of ACs in the towering buildings that I could see, worked hard to bring respite to the people inside as   business went on as usual in every corner of the city.

The ‘Charbagh’ left me more mindful of things and activities that happen around. It of course left me disappointed for one reason though.  When the most predictable, four-garden (char bagh) definition failed as there weren’t any, I was anticipating it to be a haven for smokers; some of them puffing away the ‘Charminar’ brand, lending the place its name, but I unfortunately did not spot a single one!!