Dystopia (Micro Fiction)

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“I mean, I don’t know but our girls are really crossing all limits these days,” Namita’s pride in her two sons had dimmed a bit lately, what with the girls topping national exams and storming every male bastion in sight. “Have you seen how they walk and talk these days? So much aggression and impatience!”

The group sat nursing their drinks under a mirror work garden umbrella. The delicious winter sun and some well-groomed horses cantering a mere length off on the polo ground, the restful air sidestepped Namita’s discordant observation. “I am a guilty party, I will have to admit,” Bhavna broke the wary reverie with an admission, “We have raised our girls to be self-respecting persons. They will probably assert their ideas and not be afraid to have their needs met.”

“But why get them motorbikes Bhavna? It is a bit inappropriate. Our Kush kept begging for one but we refused to give in, he rides a Vespa now. Two wheelers are so dangerous in this horrible traffic,” the rest felt safe nodding their assent on this one. There were other mothers of girls sitting quietly there, assessing the flow of the conversation so as to judge when to dive in.

The ladies stirred their mocktails, looking out for the mini luxury coach that would take them on a select shopping trip. They made for a fetching picture, their Fendi and Persol and Rayban sunglasses contrasting with the colourful beverage parasols. Outwardly successful and in their prime of life, they were struggling in fact, to come to terms with the global culture that was inhaling their children like a giant anaconda. “Children are hooking up these days, they are starting to drink alcohol and use marijuana much younger and don’t even ask what the girls are up to,” Namita carried the generic unease forward.

“Nonsense, this is only a metropolitan trend and only in ‘those’ sort of families,” Kavita slapped the idea away hastily, too scared to permit it any closer. “And what is this Hookah Bar all about?” she directed the question at Bhavna, as though to suggest that of course, her daughters would know.

Without waiting for an answer though, she jumped ahead of everyone into the coach pulling up. It took all of fifteen minutes for the group to settle in comfortably with the complimentary shopping bags, the refreshments and the product brochures. As the young company hostess bent down to begin handing out the water bottles, Namita’s eyes snapped with alarm, “Look at that bum cleavage. Do her parents not object? I would never let my Luv and Kush wear anything like that.”

The vehicle came to life, its well-oiled engine softening the animated squawking  of women seeing their heaviest investments threatened, “You people come from those typical middle class backgrounds, just get a copy of Ira Trivedi’s ‘India in love’ and read,” Manika spoke with the finality of a Supreme Court Judge.

“I caught my son surfing porn the other day. I have told him he cannot lock the door anymore,” others strained to catch the sheepish admission made in a lowered voice. “I believe Vanya’s daughter is not getting married because she is seeing a girl,” some shook their heads helplessly. “These kids are putting themselves out there, they are moving too fast, I don’t know if our society is ready for them. It would be a tragedy to have them fall through the cracks,” Bhavna voiced her concern.

“The mothers are to blame. They should bring up their girls to believe that the genders are essentially unequal!” there was no abating Namita’s skirt censure.”

More voices joined the chorus. “Have you seen the i-pill panels in the DLF Promenade washrooms? It is accessory to mischief!”

“The sex was consensual in that Dimapur lynching. My son has to fight this girl off, would you believe this? He finally had to block her on his FB and email.”

“It is a shame baba. My Luv and Kush, 1992 born but I still buy them their boxers,” on a note of pride from Namita.

The free flow of revelations was arrested at the Hidesign Boutique in Connaught Place, “Ma’am, we are going to the parking, I will be back soon. You all could meanwhile begin walking under the marquee,” the hostess drove off in the bus.

The group were almost past a youth clothing store when Namita did an abrupt about turn. She stood paralyzed at the entrance, eyes unblinking. Narrowing them a little, she tried to focus. It was! It was indeed her Luv, trying on frilly tops and lacy stoles. The culturally imperious lady shopkeeper was sitting as though turned to stone, watching him with distaste.

The women! Thanks heaven they had ambled ahead. Namita scampered in their wake, “You know, our kids are just being reactionary. You know how they want to be radically different at their age, create their own identity, claim their uniqueness. It is natural, this individuation. I appreciate Bhavna’s views on giving them space,” the covey halted in surprise at more than the breathlessness in the tone.

Options (Micro Fiction)

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“I love you baby; you come first for me; there is nothing more important in my life” Suheena’s head fell back with fatigue at this exhibition of relentless assurance. She watched the earnest young mother from her TV recliner, hovering and fussing over her primary school kids. “Oh, you are trying hard Tina” her tone was sardonic “treat your children with respect, do not baby talk, appeal to their sense of reason, educate them on options, offer choices and let them make the call…..your parenting tenets are clearly in line with modern theory and thought.”

“Harrummph!” The dismissive sound came from the master bedroom. “What’s gone wrong with my family, they are forever minding their Ps and Qs? It is not our way in India to be so apologetic and grateful all the time. There are some things owed, expected and given without a thought, you don’t have to keep thanking and saying sorry” their grandmother ranted from her invalid bed, clearly offended at the excessive and unfamiliar social graces in the air.

“Nani, it is all right…..they respect each other in their country. We presume a whole lot here, in ours. Neither is right or wrong, it is a cultural thing” Suheena watched Tina lead her children into the kitchen for a discussion on the day’s menu. “This is going to take time” she chuckled to herself, leaning forward to get a good view of the anthropological drama about to unfold. The young mother began soon enough.

“How would you like your milk today kids? Cold or hot?”

“I want it cold, Devi will probably drink hers warm” little Karan cocked his head at the sister.

“Sure, would you like to try chocolate Horlicks in the milk? It is a popular brand in India” the mother began to warm up to the decision making process.

“Mom, it says here the product is for women. Devina can use it, I refuse to!” Karan’s voice went up a sharp.

“Absolutely, that’s fine” Tina acquiesced  soothingly.  “Would you like your milk in a cup or a glass? Here, take your pick? Don’t hesitate.”

“I like the tumbler, Devi likes that Twilight Forever cup.”

“How about you dip your Oreos in the milk, dunk them like I do?” this was one parent eager to lay it all.

“I’ll pass; just the fluid please!”

“Hey kids, look…..Nani has arranged to have all three available…..there is toned, double toned and full cream milk. Isn't she considerate?”

“Mum, you know I am allergic to the fat in a hybrid cow’s milk….they have withdrawn it from our school meal plan too.”

“Well, you both returned negative for the lactose tolerance hydrogen breath test. It means your bodies can break down and absorb lactose. Now shall we drink it here or out in the garden?” the mother was certainly eager to please.

“I don’t care Mum, let’s just pour the double toned!”

“How hungry are you? It is getting close to breakfast time. You want to drink the milk now or keep it for your toast and cereal? You have options.”

“You know what Mum; options spook me. No milk today, no way!”

Dilemma (Micro Fiction)

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“Where will I learn the most Dad? I want to do great things.”

Sandeep stared at the young face, fearful at this talk of life and passion and motivation. “This kid is setting himself up for disappointment,” he thought gravely, casting about in futility for something, anything to help him base his castle upon.

“The National Defense Academy is a great institution Sonny, you would be our third generation graduating,” he made another, half-hearted attempt. “NO way! Never!! Too much discipline and structure for me. I want to fly. I want to do what I love,” the young voice rang resolutely.

“What is it that you love son?” Sonny fell silent before admitting quietly, “I am figuring that out. I am only seventeen, remember!”

The liberal, modern parent that he was, Sandeep walked Sonny into the city’s foremost college, a day later, togged out in their crisps, the two. They walked through the color and splash of dreams beyond the high gates, “Yes, German would be a good option, let him take Statistics as well,” they struck off the subject options at the academic department.

For days after, the father would search his son’s face on his return from college, waiting for the rays of knowledge and inspiration to light up. 

Sonny hung on for three months, believing the fire would find him eventually. He had made friends yes, but he was also fighting fatigue with the omnipresent academic indifference. “No one cares if we learn anything at all,” he admitted to his friend out of earshot of the parent. “My science practicals are antiquated; the lab assistants help with precipitates and residues. I am not sure the reagents are pure.”

Sonny watched his professors busy themselves with petty staff and administrative politics, wondering when they would turn to nurturing his spirit of enquiry. No one had spotted his desire to know, his ability to reason, his stamina for the good and the just. “If this is among the first ten science colleges of the country, what intellectual mayhem must there be in lesser portals!” He flopped down in front of his laptop, clicking on the link reading:

http://www.upscexam.com/upsc_examinations/national_defence_academy_nda/nda-na-examination-i-application-form.html

“Dad,” he called out with urgency.

Separation (Micro Fiction)

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Cataract surgery does that to a face. It takes the character and substance away. The eyes that appeared bigger through powered glasses all of a sudden look shorn and two dimensional, the face somehow seeming flatter. 

Meha looked away, reluctant to acknowledge the welling shimmer in Vani’s eyes. “You need to sit down,” she gently lowered her friend onto the bed.

The untidy apartment bore signs of a departure. There were old baggage tags strewn around as also discarded packages of newly bought goods. An untidy heap of processed food and toiletries laid in one half of the sofa, they had to be shed so as to account for the baggage weight, the weighing machine had not moved back to its designated slot in the house yet. And there was that pall loved ones leave when they bid goodbye, that heart wrenching vacuous hole in the space they until recently occupied.  Vani was beside herself with grief and guilt, “He is gone. I was so, so harsh on him! What a terrible mother I have been. Oh God, I told him once I wished I had not given birth to him. I am downright evil. Cruella, I am Cruella!”

Meha dunked the tea infuser in a big pot, turning to get some fruit from the refrigerator, “Don’t be silly Vani! Get a hold on yourself. Nobody is a perfect parent ever, it is too difficult a task. You have poured yourself into this college admission of his. It is time to look at yourself and get your strength back. Let’s rustle you some nutritious oats.”

Vani sat vacantly, eyes glossing over at the memory of his packed luggage along the wall. Her moist eyes paused at the corner where his guitar had stood, the “fragile” label dangling from the stem cover. His folder of travel documents had lain right where her hand rested on the bed today. She clenched her fist, feeling the onrush of another panic attack. A claustrophobic sensation seized her, making it difficult to breathe. “Meha,” she croaked, flopping back on his bed.

Meha hurried back with the two cups of steaming tea, “I made Kahwah, it will soothe your stomach. Do you smell the spicy aroma?” Vani was not listening, “I was a very demanding and impatient mother, always criticizing him, calling him a duffer even, hammering at him to become self-sufficient. Oh why, why, why did I use such harsh words, berating him for not scoring as well as my cousin’s daughter? He’s gone now. Too late!”

Meha punched the power switch on the brand new laptop, “Here, let’s get on with our Skype lesson. You have to let go Vani. He is on a journey you cannot follow him on anymore. I bet he barely remembers any of the horrifying past you are kicking yourself for. Here, give me your phone, let’s place a call to your Mum. Talking to her will help ease your mind a bit.”

As Vani held out the instrument listlessly, it stung. A sunny envelope lit up the screen. There was a message. “Ma! Thank you for sending me to such a great school. I love you. In class right now. I am at the right place, just as you always dreamed I would be. Don’t worry. I am telling you. Will do you proud!”

The mother sat up with renewed vigor, holding out her hand briskly, “Would you hand me that cup please Meha?! What were you saying now about the skype lesson?” 

The risk

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My forefathers tilled the land.

My dad’s father was the first generation learner and he studied up to “matric”, the term in use back then for Class 10. His medium of instruction was Urdu. I remember leafing through his account books in wonder. The letters he wrote us began with the standard and never changing form of address for my father, “Barkhurdaar Harnek Singh”. His dream was to see his two sons through the Punjab Agricultural College (now University), Ludhiana.

Papa Ji must have had visions of his sons returning to the soil at the end of their agricultural degrees. My father instead joined the Army Education Corp. As we moved, nomad like, from one cantonment to the other, there remained a constant. We three siblings were placed in the best schools available locally.

But I grew up with an acute sense of the lack of educated units in our family. There was hard work; you saw enterprise, even the smarts of the street but no weighty professional degree in the immediate vicinity. I remember the wondrous amazement I felt, at acquaintances that seemed to have sprung from a lineage of professionals, creative artists, families that had learning as their grammar, their history, their geography.

And soon enough, it was my turn. I had wanted to become a full-fledged journalist.  But in the India of the late 70s, anyone who scored decently took up the Science stream in senior school. I did not risk that beaten track even though life gave me my second chance to swing back to my original love in the Vice Principal’s office at Fergusson College, Pune in 1980. Dr. Pathak was looking at me, pen poised over two boxes: Chemistry or English Literature? I mumbled feebly, “Can I do both?” He shook his head and marked the Science swiftly.

That decision became my personal red light, a betrayal of the self almost. Little wonder that its aftertaste coagulated over the following years, into a concrete resolve to help my own daughters identify their core interests first. And that is how it came about that an arduous and busy process of raising them to experience a range of fields ended the day we stood at the gates of the National Law School of India University, Bangalore with Aqseer. Round one had clicked!

It is hard to describe the emotions of middle class Indian parents leading their child into one of the country’s premier and coveted schools of learning. There is awe, there is pride, there is gratitude and most of all, there is a sense of validation, of having done the right by the young.  I was like Mrs Bhamra of Bend it like Beckham, “At least I taught her full Indian dinner, the rest is up to God”.

It wasn’t long before the talk of graduation date began doing the rounds. The campus placements however, came and went; Aqseer did not register for any. Why deprive someone else who is really keen on a corporate job? Ditto for the “Teach for India” platform which glimmered one instant, pausing briefly but only to whizz past. There was a lot of thinking and agonizing and analysing afoot and more and more, the house was reverberating with two words, “Public Policy”.

The futuristic images that had taken shape in our minds over the five years of law school gradually began to dissolve at the edges. It was getting increasingly clear that the beaten track was going to be given the miss this time in my life. We stood by, her father and I, and watched the mental upheaval involved with a mix of concern and pride.

More and more, I was beginning to understand the rationale of the paths most taken. Of course, there is the security of the known, the comfort of crystal clear directions, and the certainty of cruising home. But what do you say to this, “Mom, I am twenty two years old. I spent five years at India’s best law school. The serve is mine to return. We have to stop fearing failure. At my age and with my degree, if I don’t take a risk, who will?”

Note: All pictures of Aqseer doing the Macau Tower Bungy Jump, 61 stories, 233 m high.

Self before service

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Most Indian parents follow a religion of making available to their kids all they missed out on. Some go a step further; wanting to give their kids all that they did not have plus what they think the next generation should have.

A sport was on one such wish list for our girls. We were clear that they would grow up learning one game at the least. The play field would teach those valuable lessons they would have no opportunity to learn in the classroom, we mused; out there in the rough and tumble, they would learn to stretch and push themselves, was our idealistic rationalization for throwing them into a murky cauldron called Indian sports.

I remember their first swimming trial at the Talkatora indoor swimming pool. The lights were not functional and it was a 50 m pool. We watched the two tiny capped heads, pulling away in the distance, it was a huge expanse of water for them at that young age; Aqseer mentioned years later that she imagined a shark would rise from the depths any moment to set upon them. They cleared the test that day and it was the start of a foray into a world that existed primarily to serve itself.

There were other stadia and a range of sports. The National Stadium, Nehru Stadium, Indira Gandhi Stadium; it did not matter whether it was swimming, gymnastics or boxing….the pattern of self before service remained more or less uniform. The coaches did not teach much, they barely went through the motions of instruction. It was a mass hoax, faintly legalized, thanks to the venues and the stamp of the Sports Authority of India association.

We were in the company of co-sufferers. There were fathers and mothers, so fired with zeal for their children’s sporting dreams that they went beyond the call of duty, becoming a gofer for the coaches, providing administrative and moral support to the stadium community. They drove huge distances on scooters and in buses, waiting long hours outside the games area, planning their child’s diet and training schedules. Many devoted a disproportionate amount of their modest salaries to the needs of their budding champions. They gamely put up with mismanaged competition trips that are a part of the sporting culture in our country.

I have sat there on the hard benches with them, buoyant on the surface but with a sinking feeling of grasping at straws inside. We put up brave faces to the kids as they struggled on their own to make sense of the game someone was being paid to train them in. But the writing was on the wall. The giant edifice, the huge, high roofed spaces, the battery of officials, the VIPs who surfaced during meets, the entire machinery of sports was focused on something other than the sportspersons and their promotion. Themselves!!  

I have known “bhai bandi” to be a given in many fields in our country but the depth it touches in the world of Indian sports is unparalleled. The sports biggies are like family chiefs, ruling a selective fiefdom. There is a corrupt, office for profit brand of symbiosis our sports arenas breed. “You become the Bowling Federation President and we will make my daughter the Rowing Federation Secretary”, is the vein the free for all goes in . Talent and aptitude be damned, international competitions are opportunities for sports heads to take the families on  fully paid for jaunts.

Every time India performs poorly on the field, experts rue the lack of a sporting culture, blaming your typical Indian parents for discouraging their kids from taking up games. Which father or mother would have the heart to put their children through what our Paralympic athletes are suffering currently in England? 

Whose dreams?

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The world stands in judgement of mothers far more than it judges fathers. Perhaps the differential stems from the order of nature. In the animal as well as the human world, mothers remain the primary incubators and nurturers. Their bodies, emotions, thoughts are invested to a greater degree and in more immediate ways. Motherhood transforms their lives in a far more essential manner than it changes a father’s daily routine. Of course, there are demands on him to provide and protect but the degree….it is a matter of degree….

And then along comes the judging, following either of the two trajectories. If their children mess up, the Moms did not guide enough and should their kids shine, they are living their dreams through the children. I have never been able to make up my mind on which of the two views is more unfair.

For the sake of argument, let’s base the unfairness on outcomes. In other words, let’s presume that criticism when kids go tangential would be more acceptable than judging Mothers whose sons and daughters end up authentically autonomous. Why would people accuse these proud mothers of fulfilling their personal ambitions through their children?

It is true that a sizable animal population does not care for their offspring once they have been given birth; some species are born independent but the female cobra, mammals and birds care for their young until they are able to strike out on their own. This nurture ensures the survival of the species. It is owed by one generation to the other. I would go so far as to call it moral parenthood.

The level of nurturing would rise with every step up the biological kingdom. At the sophisticated stage of mankind, parental responsibilities ought to go far beyond the basic provision of food, clothes and shelter. In a complex and conflict ridden world, who else but the parents will primarily ensure the right software programming in their children’s hearts, minds and souls that will keep them safe and growing in the world outside? Granted that parents make mistakes but so long as there is love and desire for the young’s welfare, it all pretty much falls in place.

Recognizing and acknowledging and showing the kids that they are worthy of harbouring a dream is step number one. Next comes the path to realizing those ambitions. With so much information clutter swirling in their spaces, a little bit of filtering does no harm, it is in fact critical for some clarity and focus. It is the modern parents’ responsibility to be well informed and socially savvy enough to be able to function as a sounding board for their children. They are certainly not stoking their own embers by facilitating the path ahead for their young.

I would challenge anyone who says it is all right to leave the children to figure it all out for themselves today. These are tough times. Never has a generation been so far out and so in need of an anchor as this one. It would be too dangerous a waste to leave them without a moral compass and a clearly outlined work ethic they can use to climb a ladder they have defined for themselves.

Modern parents cannot use the excuse their own parents did viz. that they knew no better. It is not about living one’s dreams through the offspring. It is about placing your own dreams on hold until you have brought up your kids to nurture theirs and be well on their path to realizing them.

Letting go

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I hear it a lot.

“You have sent such a tiny little girl all that far away!!” 

The refrain comes from various quarters, family, close and extended; even friends and those seeing her for the first ever time.

My reaction is uncertain. I am never able to pin the proportion of concern, blame or awe in that phrase. Is it an exclamation? An accusation? Or plain, good old disapproval? They could even be marvelling.

It is true that she has flown a distance and most certainly, her frame might be called petite. Add to that her chronological place in the family; being the younger will always peg her as the junior, the little one, the kid sister, and the smaller, irrespective of the passage of life she might be traversing at the time of these observations.

She has been travelling yes, living with strangers, moving over unfamiliar territory, discovering her pace in alien cultures, sustaining on exotic fare and foreign air. I have gone over the map of strangeness she must have to traverse over and over. Are there moments of crushing loneliness that first night in a strange bed? How often do the bouts of anxiety strike over the local security systems and formal procedures? What is the degree of denial that takes place in situations she is not at ease enough to seek help? How wholesome and healthy are her emotional negotiations in spaces she has no prior knowledge of?

It takes a lot. There is the pre-departure preparation. The mandatory drill of Visa acquisition, pondering over luggage content and weight, airport transit Visa where needed, currency exchange, baggage tags, first aid box, online familiarisation with the country she is approaching, establishing some form of contact with what will be her nodal host agency, working out her international communication protocol over differing time zones….it is unending. 

 

Would it have been easier to have her closer home?  For the family, most certainly, that would have given us a greater degree of control and ease of operation.  Her cheery, tongue-in-cheek presence would have buoyed up the evenings. There would have been the joy and pride in her steady growth and accomplishments. One doesn’t need J K Rowling’s imagination to fathom the bonus reason there would have been to spring up from the bed each dawn. But the thing to ask is, “Who is this about?” Is it about the child and her unpainted canvas or the parents who would be wary of risks? What is owed, how much, by and to whom?

What will it be for our young? Order, safety and convenience or lives free of fear, guilt, shame and self-doubt? Years lived inside high walls of custom and tradition or the core autonomy of being? The excuse of having borne external decisions or the consequences of one’s personal courage and conviction? A morbid hark- back to what might have been as against an edgy touchdown amidst unfamiliar challenges?

It is the reason I go clinical on the drive to the airport. There are the constant backward glances at the passenger seat, in vain attempts to frame imprints of her face. The goodbye hug is over before the mind is able to record her aura sharp enough to last until her next visit home. As we re- enter the silent home, echoes lunge out from spots she has just vacated. There is nothing left to do but to track her flight. It is only when she lands safely that the slackness comes.

It emerges all over again that parenting really is in letting go, in allowing them their spaces to evolve, in making it possible for them to meet life at the front door, in acknowledging that flesh of your flesh they might be but they are individual persons with a life map their own. Attachment, need, togetherness are merely the illusory fuels that crank the business of living. Truth be told, there is a song that they hear in their heads, a path uncoiling ahead. There should be happiness enough just over some shared notes. Not to bemoan or sigh therefore, but to cheer and whistle them on!

Raison d' etre

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I have been watching the skin on the back of my mother’s hands very closely! In consonance with the changing texture and folds of that organ, there has grown in my head a sketch of what it means to watch one’s parent get on in years.

There was a time when the hand was smooth and unblemished. It would deftly, with one quick sweep, craft a long bindi on the forehead; Mom used a “jooda pin” and lipstick! Blessed with an insistent industriousness, those hands rustled up an astonishing range of magic in the kitchen; her imli chutney, dahi vadas, red garlic chicken and missa praunthas came flawless, off those very grips. Her squeaky clean work surfaces continue to baffle guests. Be it the cooking range, the utensils or the utilities, everything gleams and winks! And woes betide anyone who dunks a bowl uncovered in her state of the art refrigerator!

There is a fan following to rival Rajesh Khanna’s. Her painstaking handicraft adorns a multitude of family homes. It is her energy, her thoughts, the beats of her heart, her occasional fatigue, her self-discipline, and her intense desire to make us richer, this entire maternal cocktail that toasts us from our walls and windows in colourful macramé and crochet marvels. Before the ready-made garments hit the Indian markets, she would crawl the corridors outside many a high end store, drawing inspiration from unaffordable kids wear, beckoning from the show windows. Patching, repairing, darning, altering, and beating stubborn stains…it is all in a day’s work. 

I must not leave out the drill of the milk that has been handed down the generations! An assembly line chain of setting the curd, portioning some for buttermilk, churning a part for the wholesome white butter which is then heated into desi ghee; there is religion there!  As for her knits, they are indisputable wonders of yarn.

I recall with a smile, my parents returning from one of those regular Army parties, there she would be, carefully folding away the saree no matter how late in the night it was, Dad accompanying the winding down process with a narration of the evening’s highlights. Having inherited the gene for cleanliness from her own mother, to the point of being finicky, you can always tell her pillow from the extra little towel cover. And I have not seen anyone else slough and scour and cream their feet with the vigour she does.

Kartar Kaur and Sardar Jarnail Singh Brar

Brought up by a stern and disciplinarian mother in the India of 1930-1960, I think my Mom learnt early on to hide her strength and keep it firmly out of sight. She had a parent who considered her craft work a waste of precious time, better spent on good, solid housework. While our daughters today, roam the world as free spirits, my mother had to account for every extra minute she spent out of home. There was no other way. Her silence had to become her armor.

I have witnessed as a child how she rarely protested excessive imposition on her personal space and time and internalized the need to keep peace, at all costs. Some may say that it is a form of escapist evasion but having lost a father she was very close to, at a critical juncture  in her life, who is to say what the voices whispered in the ears. I suspect they said, “What for? What for? What for?”

We talk today of having our own lives, beyond and away from exclusive parenthood. The theory of personal fulfilment views a desire to stay connected with the children through some furrow of the brow. There is the doctrine of letting go, of a love that is completely unconditional and space friendly. Modern gyan also extols the virtue of not living through one’s brood.

I am glad my Mom defies it all in her own unique way. Her parenthood remains the axis it was, it has just wrapped in grand-parenthood as well. A huge chunk of her fulfillment comes from the trials, travails and accomplishments of her progeny. She is like the sun, visible, life-giving but never close enough to burn.

Does she control her children? As much as an anchor does, yes! Is there fear in her love? To the degree that empathetic pain causes, perhaps. Did she ever cut the apron strings completely? In the manner of the cords metamorphosing into lifelines, of course.  Does she live through her offspring? Well, they might even qualify as the raison de’ etre.

And I am afraid, no one is complaining! As a matter of fact, I might be emulating this example of letting go in a manner that has them connected and coming back!!!

The real tragedy

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Something about the Aarushi Talwar case tugs at my heart. I feel transfixed every time the TV splashes Aarushi’s childhood pictures and videos. The normalness of the images is chilling in that they bear no hint, not a shimmer of the terrible fate that awaits this family round the corner.

The clips reveal a regular, attractive young girl celebrating, dressing up, posing; laughing and generally being her own self.  She is quite obviously a child, well cared and well provided for. The vignettes are of regular domestic bliss; a birthday party in one, a ceremonial function in another, a shopping session with her mother in the third. There is a lovely, vulnerable, slightly self-conscious smile on Aarushi’s face in most of the shots. She bears an air of being at ease in secure surroundings. There is also a certain sense of style and self-awareness in her bearing.

I remember the one frame though, that struck a jarring note in this otherwise idyllic visual stream. It was a clip of Hemraj braiding Aarushi’s hair. I could never make up my mind whether it was a slightly off key degree of familiarity there or just the usual comfort level between a family loyal and the teen whose childhood he has been a part of. It is not unusual in Indian families to have a steady and consistent domestic over several years, someone almost at home. Even so, there was a dissonance in that space, perhaps it had to do with their respective years. I am unsure but there was that care in the gentle manner he was folding her hair with that belied what should have been to me, a strictly no-nonsense and business like chore. But it might just have been the affection of an old retainer.

There were other punctuation marks in this story that winked at me. Aarushi’s school; my kids attended its namesake at R K Puram. The Talwar family lived in a Jal Vayu Vihar flat, that could have been us, and we did own a home in a similar society once. I thought of the couple, coming from this milieu, working to give their daughter the best possible life in their power. They would have laboured over her inoculations, her nutritious diet, the milk and non-veg protein routine, her school paraphernalia, research on personal gadgets such as phone and camera and the iPod. They would have had plans for her, on what she would be when she grew up. I would certainly have identified with their agony over her fevers, allergies, the invariable indispositions. They would have harboured fears over her security, worries about her being eve teased or threatened in any other unsavoury way.

This frequent and on-going empathetic reverie of mine is what is intermittently and  rudely interrupted by the media accusations of public voyeurism even as they bang out the “in your face” coverage and go to town with their distasteful allegations and theories.

Am I being intrusive, morbid, and salacious in associating with the Talwar story in thoughts?

Oh no, my conscience is clear. There is no guilt because I know the tragedy’s hold on me arises out of its incongruity, the bizarre and tangential turn of events as they happened, so out of character with a seemingly ordered configuration. I admit too that there is a deeper sense of identification owing to the demographic commonality. There is almost a need for personal validation; to have it proved beyond doubt that there is more to it than a mere twisted and sensational spectacle created by the TV channels and newspapers, lending itself to an impatient dismissal at the most.

It cannot be! There are flesh and blood humans involved. Surely it is more than a fluke tragedy in one of its kind accidental mode? Is there, in all of this mess the germ of a lesson for us, a mirror and a wakeup call; the reflection in fact, of our lifestyle choices?

If a healthy, educated child of a professional couple living the comfortable regular, ideal life meets this end, do we not owe it to ourselves to examine the incident in broader, universally applicable terms?

The middle classes’ antenna is forever quivering in anticipation of any threat to their heavy investments; the children in short. What must the couple be going through since her passing away, I shudder at that thought?

There are other related reflections that come to mind. It is clear that one really doesn’t know what is going on behind closed doors in civilized neighbourhoods. The family had to have been in extreme and extraordinary pain to have manifested this dreadful event. One wonders too at the strange connections and dynamics that can arise between people in a group, occupying that space called modern living, and irrespective of their status or position in the group hierarchy. Can one turn a blind eye as well to the natural tendency of teens to dive into whirlpools of attachments that no one can see them in, let alone extricate them from. And most tragic of all, that as a society we do not have the emotional wherewithal to survive any errors of judgement by our children. 


Where was the extended family while some dreadful mishap was taking shape in this small band of members? What happened to the buffers when the fear got out of hand? How did the Talwars get so alone and lonely in their hour of need?

The tragedy that is the Aarushi Double Murder case is a mirror to us, the Indian society. It is the very same conservative anonymity that we take pride in, that proved fatal for this family like ours.                        

Fledgling

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Come June and my once chubby, toasty, gurgling, burbling baby will be joining the Indian workforce.


This will be the grand finale to five long years of mandatory work at the leading law school of the country; five long years away from home, evolving in her own world of events and people; five long years of self-analysis, self-awareness and self-direction.  It truly will be that momentous pause, the hard earned intermission in the reel of her life and ours.

There has been frenetic discussion and engagement lately, over her future plans, through all of which, snapshots have lunged at me, unbidden, unsought…there we are, her father and I, purchasing a Kurlon mattress for her. I recall our walk about town, buying the green blanket and other domestic necessities. It seems as close as yesterday; we were at the Officers’ Mess and preparing to leave for the law school orientation day. I have a clear memory of her school structure, the gate, the library, the canteen and most of all, her room. How we agonized over the upper berth being too close to the ceiling fan and its debilitating effect on her predisposition to cold. There was the cell phone to organize, the bakery we checked out, the chemist that stocked her specific shampoo!  

A pair of baggy grey Capri, black T-shirt and her heavy hair looped in a loose pony… that was my last image of her as we bid that first goodbye, on way to the airport for the flight back, without her. I had such a crushing sense of leaving behind an entire chapter of our lives together, the terrifying realization that while we kept a hound’s nose for her security at home, here we were, leaving her behind in a strange place, completely on her own; the tears refused to stop.

My memory of her first visit home and the subsequent return are the sharpest. From then on, the arrivals and departures merged into one serial flash. She was growing up in multitudinous ways, acquiring her own, personal frames of references and traversing both her inner and outer milestones. The rapidly growing separation montage filled up with safely reached messages, touching base on health and money and the all well calls. I began a daily good night message ritual that gave me a reassuring sense of connection. Come to think of it, there shall be no more exits and entries from the NLS gate soon though, no more cocking of the ears every time Bangalore figured in news within earshot.

It is time to celebrate. The small, compact, struggling bundle I held in my arms is setting sail into the real world. The skin on my arms still feels her trusting, wriggling weight. My ears will always resonate with her baby chatter. To me, her abiding visage will be the tiny, freshly massaged and scrubbed Bushka lying next to me, mouth half open.

It is with pride that I wait to see her start out on her first, completely independent chapter of life. And what is charging at me is Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull; when he discovers the technique of flying, he says, “How much more there is now to living! Instead of our drab slogging forth and back to the fishing boats, there’s reason to life! We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to fly!”


Time to fly Bushka! It is time to fly!!

The Gift

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I am the seventies generation. Childhood entertainment consisted of movies and Sunday trips to children’s park. Our eating out was made up of the occasional softie in Civil Lines after the matinee or a rolled newspaper cone of murmura and matar at the park, where our favourite swing was the concrete elephant you entered from the tail end and slid out along the trunk slide.

My memory insists that Nutties came in a plumper, richer, weightier version and that the choc-bar tasted heavenly, what with the thicker layer of brown guarding the languid nutritious creamy white, inside. It was only during a particularly extravagant stretch that one bought roasted peanuts with the accompanying packet of “masala” in the winters. Mangola, Fanta and Campa vied with milk-soda for our attention. The rare shopping for ready-made food articles consisted of hard core sweets such as jalebi or besan ka ladoo.

Another delicacy that springs to mind is the huge, pale green, juicy, slightly tangy “peru”, sliced in four quarters with a rusty looking knife that had obviously been busy during the day. A dash of “chatpata masala” and we would be walking off, the happier and the richer. Idli dosas came much much later, pizzas and burgers were iconic events and as for French food and Chinese fare, well, unheard of in those days.

But there was the first Phillips Turntable model, brought home triumphantly, one particular ambitious day in Allahabad. Not to forget the 33 RPM, 66 RPM and 75 RPM discs of “Shor”, “Khel Khel Mein” and “Caribbean Music”. We also went with Beeji for the religious rage of those times, “Jai Santoshi Maan”. The orange lick lolly cost 25 paise and homemade egg ball and sponge puddings were our manna from heaven. Golden red “paranthas” with mango pickle and a glass, not a cup, a glass of hot tea was my idea of a gourmet meal.

Dad would drive us to Kathak lessons and sit out that one hour in a Russian language class closeby. I was in College when he took us out for a family meal at a restaurant, just for the feel! There were the calling ons, the birthday parties, the Club evenings, the festival celebrations in the Officers’ Mess, the cultural shows and the picnics. 


It is now, that I am more than my life’s half way home, having done with my own active parenting, there is a break; long enough to muse over the phenomenal gifts our parents gave us.

The conclusion is that by far, the most precious, priceless, worth a King’s ransom gift they gave us was their love for each other. It is this mutual respect and support that found reflection in our happy memories. It gave us a tremendous sense of security to know that our parents were committed to and cared for one another.

That’s really it then. To all parents and parents to be; there is no greater favour you can do your kids than to love each other.