I saw her sitting in
the room, coiled up in a corner, while her mother wiped the floor of our house.
I was too hungry so I rushed to the kitchen, got myself some garlic bread with
jam and was about to get back into my room when I stopped.
She was a little girl,
barely nine years old. She must be hungry too. Thinking so, I got her a plate
full of bread slices with jam smeared on them. “Have it,” I pushed the plate in
front of her. She got up immediately, sprang to full attention and stared at me
like she had never seen me before.
“Don’t you like bread?”
I asked her to which she nodded, took the plate from me and began eating. It
made me really happy for some reason to see her eat.
After that day, I met
her again two weeks later when her mother brought her to our place once more. “Sit,”
she instructed her daughter, who crossed her legs and sat down on the floor,
staring at the wall as if it was the most interesting television show possible.
But as soon as she saw me, her gaze locked on me as if I was now the most
interesting phenomenon in her life.
I guessed she wanted
something to eat like the last time, so I foraged around in the kitchen and
arranged some stuff for her. She looked at me intently and then began to gulp down
everything on the plate. What a sweet hungry girl.
“Taaanku.” She said to
me.
“Thank you, you mean?” I
asked her.
She stared at me as if I
was speaking in an altogether different language, which I now realize I must
be.
“Do you go to school?”
She shook her head. I
frowned. How come her mother hasn’t enrolled her yet? She is young surely, but
old enough to be in a school.
But there was no point
in asking her why she hadn’t been put in a school.
“Do you know how to
read?” I asked her.
She nodded vigorously.
I was kind of surprised. I supposed she was being homeschooled.
Just then, she picked
up a newspaper lying nearby and raised it high in front of her. She then began
to speak. And speak gibberish she did. She pretended she was reading the
newspaper. She went on for about five minutes without stopping. She spoke
nothing of any sense whatsoever. I couldn’t help but crack up. She looked so
adorable, so sweet and yet so stupid. But what caused me astonishment was her
confidence. She was speaking like she was spouting some high-profile news items,
probably replicating people she had seen around her.
And then it struck me.
What was that advert I had seen regarding Nihar Shanti Amla Oil? I dialed 8055667788
and took the phone to her. It was Nihar Shanti Amla’s new concept – Pathshala
Funwala. As soon as she got hold of the phone, her attention was completely
diverted. It was as if I didn’t exist. After about three minutes, she handed me
the phone urgently, pointing to the buttons. I put the phone to my ear and
realized that the voice was asking for an option to continue the English
lessons.
From that day onwards,
whenever she came to our house, I would call up 8055667788 from our landline.
When the English tutorial by Shanti Amla called back, I would give her the
receiver. She would then spend hours listening to the lessons.
One day I saw her on
the street, walking with her mother. I had gone to the market for groceries.
“Hi didi! How are you?”
began a chirpy voice.
I turned, saw her mom
as taken aback by her words as I was. I stopped anyway and greeted her with a
smile.
“Do you go to school
now?”
I had talked to mother
regarding her schooling and it came out that they were not planning to send her
to an educational institution but after we coaxed her mom to do so by offering
to pay for her school fee, she had started going to school.
As they say “If you change nothing, then nothing will change”.
The sweet girl nodded.
“She is the best in
English in her class, her teacher told us that day. All thanks to you, bitiya.”
Her mother said to me, overwhelmed with joy.
I waived away the
thanks.
“She really loves the
fact that they call her Shanti Didi now!” exclaimed her mother happily.
Then it struck me. Her
mother’s name was Amla and hers Shanti. Talk about coincidences!
“I am blogging about Pathshala Funwala by Nihar Shanti Amla Oil in association with BlogAdda”
My granny is a typical Indian
grandmother. Refusing to go for anything apart from what she has been used to
since the beginning of time.
"It's not
possible. I have too much work."
I could have laughed at
the ridiculousness of her statement. Work? Really? She would give that lame an
excuse?
"And pray tell me
what may that be?" I turned to look at her, my face all smiles.
She gave me a stern
look and said, "You have no idea how much work a home requires. You won't
understand. You are way out of it all now. Always outside for work and studies.
You won't understand. "
"At least tell me,
no? I will try to understand."
I was so looking
forward to this conversation. It was going to be so much fun.
"Please, please,
please. Pleaseeeeeeeeee…" I began ranting the way I used to when I was a
kid and wanted some particularly stomach-upsetting delicacy.
"Well, it’s not
rocket science. The house requires maintenance. The daily puja, cleaning, washing,
cooking... "
"Which is all done
by the respective maidservants.” I cut in. “But go on.”
She glared at me.
"You leave them
women alone and they will flutter about, sit all day in front of the television
and do nothing. They are the biggest shirkers possible. They-"
"Okay okay! I
totally agree. But nothing will happen if we seal the house and go for one
month. No need for cleaning. You will be free from any responsibility. At least
for some time."
Granny clearly wasn’t
convinced. "Listen. I will tell you what to do.” She began. “You go to
Germany. Do that cun-convection-whatever thing and come back and then we will go to Sagar
Ratna and have a huge party.”
It was all I could do
not to burst into laughter. Only granny could place a meal in Sagar Ratna over
a Europe trip.
I knew this would be
both entertaining and exasperating. But I had only so much time. I had to get
my point across.
"Convocation,
granny. It is my convocation. And you know how much I want you to be a part of
it. I won't accept any of your reasons. You must come. You have to come. I assure
you, you will love it. I will be wearing the graduation robe and the special square graduation cap. Don't you want to see me awarded? In front of so many students and
teachers and their parents and well-wishers? Please please please don't say no.
I have been planning this for ages. And didn't you say you wish I hadn't gone
to Germany alone? Now I'm taking you. I wouldn't be alone anymore."
Granny's face was
working furiously. I knew in her heart of hearts, she wanted to be there. But
she just didn’t want to leave the country where our family had lived and
perished. She saw herself as a custodian of that legacy. And she wouldn’t give
it up. At any cost.
“You know I would love
to. But seriously I can't leave everything and just go. It doesn't work that
way. And you are talking about this chilly country. The temperatures go
negative. You yourself said that. How will I manage?!”
“Oh granny granny
granny! It will be spring this time of the year. It won't be cold. Winter is
gone. And summer will be here soon. There will be flowers and sunshine and
sparkling lakes. It is all very pleasant indeed. You will love it. "
"But beta... I'm not used to the environment.
I don't even know the language. What will I do there? "
"But I will be
there with you, all right? Just come. You won't regret it. I promise.”
For a long time, she
busied herself with putting things here and there. Cleaning the spotless vase. Wiping the photo frame and staring at the family photograph. Tilting the clock. Smoothing the cushions. In short, doing anything she possibly could in order to avoid answering me. There was no need for any
such work but granny has a habit of fussing about things. It was not that
difficult for her to come. But the real reason she didn't want to go was -
“I don't like the idea
of living in a foreign country. This is my birth place. I want to live here. I
don't want to live anywhere else.”
I knew this was the
actual reason. She just hated the idea of being in a ‘foreign’ setting. She was
a woman who was born in the pre-independence era. Although by the time she grew
up the tensions had ceased, she was still not very comfortable with the idea
of settling in a different country.
I respect her choice.
But I wanted her to witness my convocation and experience the joy and pride on having raised
her granddaughter single-handedly into a winner. I had just finished my graduation and had
come top of the class. And I wanted gran to witness this achievement and feel
proud of her own efforts. I wanted to tell her how much her toil, struggles and
sacrifices meant to me. Without a family and no one except granny to call my
own, I had never imagined reaching where I had reached and achieving what I had
achieved. To convince her to let me study abroad was a gargantuan task in
itself, but she had agreed eventually and had extended whole-hearted support. It
had been tough though to leave her here. All alone. But it was turning out to
be tougher to take her abroad. But then I had to give it a try.
“I am not asking you to
live there. We will come back next month. It is only a matter of a month. You
will see me convocated and we will tour a few places in Europe. Germany. France. Eiffel Tower, remember? And Italy too.The Leaning Tower of Pisa! It really leans to a side, you know! And there are beautiful cathedrals and so much more that you would love to see. It will be a
nice break. "
Granny's eyes were shining. She was feeling proud already. But the doubts lingered inside her. "But..."
"Let the butts go
into the ashtray. Here is your ticket. We are leaving next Friday."
There went my master
stroke. I had carefully chosen the date so she wouldn't have any cause to
protest. Only a stubborn unchangeable stance could help me win this battle of
negotiation with grandma.
And so on a sunny
Friday morning, I stowed our bags into the cab and waited for grandma to finish
staring at the door of our flat.
"It's locked. The
lights and gas are off. The maids have been informed. The milkman and the
newspaper guy have also been instructed. The neighbors have been told. It's done, granny. Time to leave."
"This is the first
time I'm leaving the house for so long." She said, staring wistfully at the boarded doors and windows.
"Oh heavens!" I sighed. "I
should have taken you away ages ago!" Saying so, I ushered her into the
cab.
As the cab zigzagged its way towards the airport, I felt light.
Much lighter than I had ever felt on leaving India. Because most of the times,
I felt guilt overriding me that perhaps I was selfish to leave granny all alone
in that flat. But then I had my ambitions. And I know granny wanted the same for me. But no such feelings that day. I was feeling happier than ever. I couldn't wait to take her to
my university, and sightseeing across Marienplatz and Deutsche museum and maybe
Lake Starnbeg where we could do some boating...
"I don't much like these
stuck-up air hostesses, acting all polite full of lofty words..."
There went granny and her complaints! We had barely gone through the security check when granny had come into her element. Oh well, it was just the beginning. I was expecting this.
"...and mannerisms
like some robots or dolls. No genuine feeling-"
"Namaste!" A
woman greeted us as we boarded the flight.
I almost choked with
laughter when I saw the surprised expression on granny's face. Despite herself,
she smiled at the air hostess. Being an Indian, you can't not smile or return
the greeting when someone says ‘namaste’ to you. It’s kind of hard-wired into
your being.
Thank you, Lufthansa. I
chuckled to myself.
We stowed our handbags in
the luggage area and sat. I made granny take the window seat.
“You will see Lotus
Temple from above.” I pointed towards the window. That cheered her up considerably.
"2 Veg meals," I
answered the air hostess as she asked for our meal preference.
She smiled and went
away.
Next time when she
came, I was ready. Our tables were down and I had convinced granny that if she
didn't like the food, we could send it away and get something else instead.
“What else will they
have? Apart from bread and cheese and wine?" she said aloud, rolling her
eyes.
I blushed a little,
hoping no one would think we are stereotyping Europeans.
"Here," the woman
came again and handed us our meals.
"Any drinks? Tea
or coffee?"
"One tea, and one orange juice," I told her.
She promptly handed out
the drinks, gave us a winning smile and went on ahead.
If granny didn't like
the burger, I had decided that I would swap it for some instant noodles. One
can't go wrong with noodles, you know.
Before I had finished my thoughts, a delicious scent
wafted up. To my utter surprise and delight, I saw granny uncover chapatti,
rice with palak paneer and raajma. A tiny curd sat in the corner as well.
Wow. That was decidedly
Indian. Since when though, I wondered.
"Indians have gone
everywhere, haven't they?"
Granny asked me while
mixing the rice and curd together, once she was done with the other dishes.
I chuckled.
“Was the food to your
taste, granny?" I asked her after she had finished.
“Not bad,” she said,
wiping her mouth neatly with the tissues.
“Well, shouldn’t be since
the likes of Kunal Kapoor and Vinod Saini prepared today’s meal.”
I gleefully watched
granny’s expression change to astonished admiration as I showed her the facts written in
the airline magazine. I had often seen her hunt for Kunal Kapoor’s recipes on
Youtube and watch similar cook shows on TV. She definitely held these culinary giants in high regard. After all, they were the pride of the food in Leela Palace. The best part was post this incident, granny was all praise. By
the time we land, I was sure she will give her best smile to the flight
attendants. Because, and I was so happy for it, she was really enjoying the
entire experience.
Her fears of everything
foreign had thankfully been hugely quelled, thanks to Lufthansa's homely care. Later, as we
laid back, granny watching a Bollywood flick on the entertainment TV with
earphones plugged in, her expression all serious and her eyes earnest, I
couldn't help but feel proud that the airlines and perhaps the world was
turning out to be more Indian than I thought.
Dreaming of the
impending graduation ceremony and laying my head on granny's shoulders as she
flicked back and forth through the various things to watch, I dozed off contentedly. The flight had been a good start to our Europe trip. It was then that I decided to write something for Lufthansa Airlines. After all, the airlines managed to cheer my granny up! What could be a bigger achievement? As my eyes closed of their own accord, I started dreaming of all the places I would be showing to granny- all the beautiful mountains, lakes, palaces, museums, castles and cathedrals in Europe. Aah...that was a pleasing prospect. Germany, wir kommen!
Satire is a kind of poetry in which human vices are reprehended. Or so John Dryden said.What I like best about satire and sarcasm is that they tell the truth, which is why anything even remotely connected to satire piques my interest.
Mock, Stalk & Quarrel, a collection of satirical tales, identifies powerful voices that can wage an ideological war against issues that matter. Twenty-nine voices, indulgent, tolerant, amusing and witty, were chosen to create this collection.
This is the book I am talking about:
https://www.facebook.com/MSQTheBook/
You might not want to miss the launch of this exciting anthology. So, those in Delhi on 25 November, you might want to drop in to the Indian Institute of Foreign Trade, New Delhi for the launch.
https://www.facebook.com/events/1310445652338955/
For those not being able to attend, do not despair! We are organizing a Kolkata launch on 26 November, 2016.
Tête-à -tête with Amrita Mukherjee
Dostoyevsky said, “Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.”
Let's hear it from one of the authors of the book- Amrita Mukherjee.
Something about our Author-in-Focus:
Amrita Mukherjee has worked in publications like The Times of India, The Hindustan Times and The Asian Age in India and she has been the Features Editor with ITP publishing Group, Dubai’s largest magazine publishing house. An advocate of alternative journalism, she is currently a freelance journalist writing for international publications and websites and also blogs at www.amritaspeaks.com. Amrita’s debut novel Exit Interview earned the tag “unputdownable” from reviewers and readers alike.
1.Please tell us something about yourself.
I
am a non-conformist, hyper extrovert and positive person. I take a keen
interest in other people’s stories and my friends often joke that you never
know when you find yourself in Amrita’s fiction.
2.When and how did you start writing?
It
was a strange juncture in my life. I had lost my brother to cancer, my son was
born 20 days later and I had quit my well-paying job after a few months. To
grapple with my emotional turmoil I started writing my first book Exit Interview. And my late brother
always said I would write one day. It was a way of honouring his memory
probably but I hadn’t thought so much then.
3.Any challenges that you faced while writing?
My
son was 10-months-old when I started writing. So the story had to flow between
diaper changes, bathing and feeding time. I was gone the moment I heard him cry
when I came back I had lost the plot. I had to start all over again.
4.What do you think about the future of
writing/publishing industry in India?
Chetan
Bhagat often gets the brickbats because many people claim he’s been selling
mediocrity but I feel he was the one who allowed Indian authors to dream and
opened up the market for Indian writing. Now publishers are willing to take up
manuscripts by Indian authors and with new publishing houses coming up the
possibilities are increasing. I particularly think Readomania being a
comparatively new publishing house is bringing out phenomenally good books and these
are the kind of books which you would want to keep in your bookcase and read
again and again.
5.What do you think is the need for satire
in today’s time?
The
times we live in we need satire to keep our sanity. We live in such insecure
times that we really don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow and hit us like
a bolt-from-the blue. Did any of us think that one fine day at 8pm our Rs 500
notes would become defunct? I guess that’s when you need satire to look at a
serious situation with a tinge of humour and survive through the process.
6.What do you think are the easiest and
the hardest thing about writing short stories?
If
you have the story figured out you can actually finish it in two days but you
haven’t then God help you. You might keep struggling with it for months and
still not get it.
7.Any writing rules/rituals?
I
try to create a structure in my notebook or in my mind before I start writing.
I also keep notes sometimes of incidents, happenings, research that I would
want to include in my future stories.
8.Tell us something about your story in
MSQ. How did it come about?
I
was working with Dipankar Mukherjee, the owner of Readomania for my next book.
He told me this competition Mocktales is on and asked me to send a story. I had
never written on a theme so I wasn’t sure how I would fare. But an incident had
happened in Kolkata around a woman in shorts when this idea came to my mind. My
story is named The Dress Code.
9.Tell us about your previous work.
By
God’s grace my debut novel Exit Interview
published by Rupa Publications in June 2015 was well received and critics and
readers said it is “unputdownable”. It
was on the Starmark Bestsellers List for months and did well in Dubai as well,
where I lived as an expat. The book is based on the life of a woman journalist
who moves through the ups and downs in her life as she travels from Kolkata to
Dubai to Egypt.
10.What is your current project or your
next release?
My
next release is a collection of short stories published by Readomania.
11. Trivia:
·
Favourite food: Crabs
·Fave books and authors: Keeps changing
but Chander Pahar and Hungry Tide are my all-time faves. I
love Ruskin Bond, O’Henry and Jeffrey Archer.
·What makes you happy? A hug from my son.
·What gets you angry? Disrespect.
·Your best piece of work till now…I guess
yet to come.
It
is wonderful people still read despite such busy and stressful lives that we
all live in. And I would want to thank my readers for all their appreciation
for my blogs and my first book that enthused me to keep writing.
Decide whether to rush to
class sans breakfast or get late after having some breakfast. Because let’s
face it, you are never going to have the best of both worlds. At least not I.
Not in this life.
Once you miss breakfast,
all sorts of cravings start sprouting within you. Although half your mind is on
your rumbling empty tummy, it is still better to attend the class and procure some
attendance, especially when it’s a strict prof you are dealing with.
Come the first break
and you start piling on junk, starting with maggi, and moving on to eclairs, patties, hotdogs, mouth-watering samosas and what not. By lunchtime, you are full of stuff that hasn’t sated you and yet, you
are hungry.
So, my first chhote kadam towards health was…yes, having breakfast.
Although it was a Herculean
decision to part with sleep, a little tweaking, a little extra prep at
night (setting my bag, clothes and doing all those things I used to dutifully
do while in school), a little will power (which is strangely difficult to
summon at such times) allowed me to somehow create a semblance of jentacular balance.
The second effort was not
an effort for me at all. I don’t particularly like elevators, being a big fan of
open spaces. So, choosing stairs over elevators came naturally to me.
The biggest challenge
though was eating better. If there is something I can’t compromise on, it’s
delectable mouth-watering junk food.
Patience. I discovered a
little workaround. And it’s on the very lines of the above paragraph.
Eat at the mess. Even if
the gravy seems full of water. Even if the chappati looks shapeless. Even if pizzas equate to heaven. Have the mess food. Choose health
more often. Reduce a lot of eating out. I know it’s easier said than done. I haven’t been able to manage it either. I am not proud to admit that. But trying does count,
right?
There is something though that I
did manage. It was to have meals on time. You see, skipping is a sin. Skip rope, not your
meals.
Now we come to the king
of hearts. :drum roll: The Happiness Quotient. How much is yours?
You know people have ample
stuff to say about happiness. They talk about it, discuss it and search for it
everywhere. But happiness is not a shirt button that has rolled under the bed. This
is something I remember reading a long time ago.
Happiness is really being
okay with everything. Those tales of it being a state of being are actually
true. You know the oil drops theory, right? Take care of the drops of oil while
touring the mansion. To make it clear, just chill. Whatever happens, all is
well. It will always be. Or at least that’s my mantra.
And if you wish to make your
heart go on and on, just like that famous Titanic song, then you must must must find your own
ways to revamp your lifestyle. If I can find these teeny tiny ways, you, my
genius friend, can surely come up with better ideas and ways of being active, healthy
and happy.
Dear heart, keep beating on...
~I am
joining the Saffolalife #ChhoteKadam initiative in association with BlogAdda and follow these small steps for
a healthy heart.~
Some would say that I
have gone crazy over autorickshaws while some might go so far as to purport
that I want to do a Ph.D. in the subject. But I feel that sometimes plain and
unhindered observation gives you a profundity of knowledge and insight that even
a degree would only theoretically claim to do. Add to the fact that there are
such a multitude of vehicles flitting about on the roads ( even on the
pavements as a matter of fact ) that I couldn't help but enumerate and curate
the kind of autorickshaws that most arrested my attention. Here goes my list :
The Bride
The Bride is not a
regular sight and I consider myself fortunate to have taken a ride in this
chariot of an auto. Well bedecked with sparkly lights such as those lit on
Diwali, its ceiling and walls are bedizened with white and fluorescent bulbs in
intricate patterns, some of which arabesque and some depicting birds. This auto
is best ridden at night when one can see it in its full splendor. I actually
requested the driver for pictures and managed to click a few for my albums.
Source: www.folomojo.com
The Posterboy
This is the most common
auto that nearly everyone, except those who have never stepped into an auto, (
do such people even exist?! ) must have seen or ridden in. This auto has its
walls covered with posters of actors, most of them belonging to Bollywood
beauties. I guess they are meant to be eye candy for the driver if not the
passengers.
Source: thehindu.com
The Rapper
Source: www.indianeagle.wordpress.com
One day, my brother and
I were running late for an appointment and started quarreling with each other.
As if on cue, an auto appeared and without another thought, we hailed it and
got in immediately, determined to reach our destination the soonest possible.
Just as the man revved up the engine, music began blaring from the speakers.
That’s not the wondrous part. Every driver listens to music; that is a given.
But the astonishing aspect of this one was the ambience. It was not just the
speakers that were effective (although the music was booming as if in a
recording studio) but the choice of music itself that most took me aback. I had
expected regional songs or old Bollywood numbers (of the time of one's
grandparents') or at best, recent Bollywood songs, but never did I expect him
to play the latest US top 50! My brother and I looked at each other, our mouths
hanging open in surprise. All through the ride, we sat enraptured, singing the
raps of Eminem and Snoop Dogg in our heads.
The Reader
This may not come as a
shock, for many people are spotted steeped into the pages of the daily papers
but what was bewildering was that the driver was reading an English daily and
that too none other than the Hindu! My respect for him instantly skyrocketed.
Source: www.westheimphoto.com
But then, considering the amazing stories of a rickshawwallah's
daughter cracking CA or an autowallah's son being enrolled in the civil
services, this should not come as that huge a surprise.
The Superman
It was one of those
days when I had taken a seat in a shared auto and had prepared myself to sleep.
Hardly had I slept a wink when a jerk jolted me awake. The auto I was in was
whizzing past cars, trucks and bikes. My eyes opened up a little wider. All the
vehicles were mired in heavy unyielding traffic and could only take tiny steps
forward but our Superman was weaving through the narrow passages between
automobiles, making ways where none existed. He went right and left, and right
and left, zigzagging and swerving with ease while we rocked on our seats,
holding on to the handles for dear life. At one point, I actually pleaded him
to go slow, citing the cliched phrase-’better late than never’. But the man was
on a roll.
Source: www.indiamarks.com
He gave me a funny look as if the word 'slow' didn't exist in his
dictionary and continued with his stunts (probably inspired by action flicks).
I think there was a certain moment when I was led to wonder if I was part of a
fast-paced action movie while praying fervently to the gods to help me reach
safely, even if an hour late. As if he had read my mind, the superdriver made a
dashing halt, almost with elan, nearly throwing me out of the auto, kind of
signalling that it was time for me to get out. I paid the money and quickly
crossed the road. I didn't want to be in Mad Max's way.
