ready for the funny farm!

Well its official now. I am ready to be committed. I have become that breed of person I cannot stand and never sympathise with: a hyper-mom. Let me tell you how it happened.
My daughter's sitting for her first ever final examination from Wednesday, the 15th.
Now, not being a phenomenally remarkable student, there is some tension about this.
First she has no concept of studying for an examination which has a extensive syllabus of eight to ten chapters for each of nine subjects thanks to the bright educationists who have decreed that there should be no examinations till class six.
Then she is the kind who reads something and then promptly forgets it. Unless it is set to music and sung by a high falsetto voice claiming to be male. A la Justin Beiber.
Thirdly she needs prodding. “Isha you have your exams coming up, there are only three days left. Go study.”
And lastly she is confident. " Chill, Ma, I have it under control.” (While it is also a fact that she has lost her science text book and all my hair is standing on end trying to procure a copy before the exam. She told me this last night.)
So horror of horrors when, last night she declared that she would 'study late'. I went to bed, uncertain of what I should do. The dear spouse said I should relax and promptly regaled me with gentle snores. The lights blazed in the next room. I hesitated. I decided she was old enough and I should "let go".
I “let go” all right. Only to wander into her room half a dozen times. Twice to comb her hair, thrice to ask if she was sleepy or needed any help and a few times just to see. (I shudder at the fact that she listens to music too)!!! Okay, so it was a few more than half a dozen times. So?
Now I admire those mothers in the ads who set an alarm and wake up, every hair in place, to hand a steaming mug of Complan or Horlicks or whatever to their children who smilingly drink it and declare their undying love for the milk and the mother. I am not so lucky. I followed the scritch-scratch noise and trail of blazing lights to the kitchen and found her gorging on bhujiya and sauce accompanied by a glass of Tang. I almost fainted. She shooed me away. “But I will clean up, Ma, don’t you worry. Its late, YOU go to sleep.” Sigh.
It was well past one. I resigned. I thought of myself sneaking about the house at all hours at that age and went to bed. Ah, but sleep is so elusive when you want to sleep. I shut my eyes and tried counting sheep.
Scuffle-scuffle. The bathroom lights go on.
As she exits I whisper, “have you brushed your teeth?”
“Ma, you scared me!” She whispers back.
“Whatever….”. I mutter.
The light in her room was on for another 30 minutes or so. Then the bedside lamp for another ten. I lay silently in the dark wondering when I had completely lost it. Was it right after she was born or has it just crept upon me slowly?
Of course I fell asleep after all the lights finally went off. At my own risk and cost and expense. So that explains the circles under my eyes, the bleary look on my face and my grunting. . while the daughter in question chirps about the house in the morning having slept till eighty thirty.. Take me away, keep me in a padded cell or I may permanently damage something here.
Till that happens, however, I have thought about it and I have a plan to tackle the situation so everyone will come out it alive. Tonight, I take a sleeping pill!

Whatever.

I learnt a new Bengali word today: “ucchhed”. It means ‘eviction, I have been told. Each day on our way to court outside the PG hospital there’s this silent line of people bearing placards that say something “ucchhed”. By the time I read that word (printed extra large, of course), we are past the place and try as I might I cannot seem to get the rest. So today I dared break the sanctity of the serious silence in the car in the morning and ask my husband:
“what is ucched?”
He didn’t growl, not then, but he came close, “eviction”
“Of?”
“Hawkers,” he was frowning but I decided to push it.
“So they want it or no?”
This time he growled. “ why don’t you read the thing? It’s obvious.”
Well I am not completely daft, even I know obviously hawkers do not want to be evicted, but if I was to read that whole thing on the placard I would have to stop the car, disrupt the rush hour traffic and actually ask one of the guys to stand still so I can read the placard. Then I would probably ask the chap what it meant! (Why don’t they just have a translated version, in English, or am I the only one with this problem?)
I decided to push my luck and went on to explain why I did not “read it”. I also tried to add that I had been trying to read it every morning for more than a week and could never get past the “ucchhed” part.
But I was not allowed to complete. I bristled for a while when I was told to shut up. Then, another though struck me. After what I felt was sufficient time, I raised my hand to ask a question. (Yes, sometimes I am suicidal.)
Hubby grunted, “now what?’
“So what is bicched?”
“Separation.”
“Ah yes, as in marriage separation, ‘bibaho bicched’, THAT, I understand.”
But then, since the words sound similar, should they not mean something like each other? I muttered under my breath, ensuring hubby did not hear me. He would not take kindly to any further discussion, his face told me that. And we had reached Court.
Time to think of serious things.
But the thought stuck.
And I have figured that the words’ meanings do have some level of similarity, eviction, separation from accommodation and separation….as in separation…you get the drift? But I am digressing.

Thing is, I really couldn’t be bothered with the plight of the hawkers. A lot has been said and done. Politicians have changed their policies faster that their starched dhotis and things remain the same. Peaceful or loud, a demonstration is a demonstration and a strike is a strike. Today’s leaders are yesterday’s protesters, the one advocating peace is the one who rioted in the first place, the one quelling mob violence is also the one who used mob violence when it was useful.

Politics is a strange place with no principles. That’s the only rule: there are no rules. I do not understand it nor do I want to. We all know of many lawyers who make a smooth transition from law to politics to law, alternating between the black coat and the khadi jacket effortlessly. No such career options for me, i'm afraid, I am ill equipped to deal with these things, my ideas of how things should be do not coincide with the vote bank.

Like the men who spit in public. I think they should all be sent to jail. Or made to clean the spit with a toothbrush.

Like the taxi driver who violently waves his hand indicating he is going left and then startlingly zips off to the right unmindful of the fact that you have screeched to a halt and are praying the guy behind you will not ram into you. I think he should be whipped on the hand as soon as he dares stick it out!

Like the driver who honks for no reason in standing traffic, just because. I think he should be locked in a cell with only the high pitch sound of the blaring horn for company. For at least 24 hours.

Like the litter-bugs. Specially the housewives who slyly throw a plastic bag of smelly trash out on the street when they think no one is looking. They should be made to carry it about for a week, tie it round their necks so the rotting smell does not leave them!

Like the pedestrian who cannot walk on the pavement but insists on sashaying on the road headphones stuck in the ear oblivious to traffic signals or pedestrian crossings. They should be hung upside down from a traffic light on a hot summer day!

Like the guy who stands on the corner and liberally douses the wall with expletives from his urinary bladder because he can. He should be dunked in the vile stuff for a week.

Like the hawkers who take up more than half the pavement and thrust their wares in front of your face in the hope that you will buy something you do not want to buy in the first place. The guy who sits on the pavement and insists his mehendi is the best, the one who chases you with a remote controlled feathered toy (?) till you are safely inside a shop, the one who hangs female innerwear strategically on the roadside like some horror display. Yes, since they are demonstrating against their ucchhed (eviction), lets be kind here, I think they should all be sent to the Sunderbans to help build the embankment which the government has unsuccessfully been trying to build for almost three years since the “aila’ struck! You don’t believe me?
Check today’s Telegraph. Front page. Or try this link: http://www.telegraphindia.com/1120201/jsp/frontpage/story_15077234.jsp

Alas. Not quite cut out to be in politics, am I?

Santanu Chatterjee

Santanu Chatterjee, 22 November 1943 - 9 January 2012, Executive Director, CESC Ltd, Working President of the Global Alumni Association of Bengal Engineering and Science University, Shibpur, blah, blah, blah.... was quite a well-known figure in Calcutta. He touched the lives of many people, a lot of persons in the city can lay claim to have interacted with him in his professional capacity, whether with the Loss Control Cell of CESC or as working at its various facilities, including law.

But that is not the man I came here to talk about. That is not the man I remember. The man I remember is lolling on the beach at Digha, smiling at the stars at Murari Pukur, laughing, joking and talking to us for as long as I remember. Santanu Chatterjee was a colleague of my father’s. A colleague who became a friend not only of my father’s but of the whole family so that the lines blurred and he became part of our family. He never tired of telling us stories as we were growing up, always finding time to talk to us even when there was a ‘boroder party’ at our place and the rest of the house just expected us to stay out of sight! Accompanied by his wife, Amita, a dignified, accomplished lady, Shantanu kaka was part of growing up, a part of our lives.

He is the man who took me to see the fountain of lights in the Maidan even before it was open to the public, the one who laughed with us and never tired of berating us with stories of my father, of Court, the legal intricacies of the Electricity Act and some of the top-notch lawyers all over the country. Now when I say it, it seems dull and boring but he had a way of holding your attention when he told you a story, so you never tired of it, even if you had heard it before. He came into our lives and stayed. He stood by us though my father’s illness and stayed with us even when he was gone. He never pacified us with false hopes but he was just there and that was enough. I remember kaka as the man who went with us when nervously I went to officially meet my would–be in-laws, effortlessly slipping into my father’s shoes. The man I remember is the one I ran to late one night asking him to be my father and ‘give away’ the bride at the time of my marriage. He is the one who often invited us, shared time and space with us, ever smiling, ever helpful, eternally kind. He is the man who developed my interest in serious war films, his stories of the Desert Fox and General Patton were more interesting than the movies themselves. His interests ran everywhere, his anecdotes held me enthralled. He is probably one of the few people I know who did not judge me and always treated me, not as an errant child, but with respect, as an equal. Though I was never worthy of being his equal.

Yes, unfortunately, over the years I had been seeing less and less of him. Though we spoke very occasionally on the phone and promised to catch up sometime soon, time passed, lives carried on and we did not get around to that “hoi hoi”. Life has a way of doing that: spins you in its web and by the time it spits you out, you find you are older and often, have not been there for the things that were important. The last time I met him, about three months ago, I had gone to invite them for my book launch. He was happy I had written a book and promised to read it. I am sure he did too, only I blame myself for not having found the time to call and ask him about it. That day, he seemed lonely for company, he asked us to stay a while longer. But we had other obligations, I excused myself, saying, even believing, I would be back another time....not knowing that time was the only thing he did not have.

Santanu Kaka suffered a massive cerebral stroke on Friday, 6th January. The main artery went and burst in his brain and the CT scan the next day showed extensive internal bleeding. The doctors all opined that surgery was out of the question and if he lived he would be in a comatose and/or vegetative state. They refused to say anything for certain before 72 hours were up. But kaka did not give them a chance. He passed away just around his allotted 72 hours, he would never have wanted to live the kind of life the doctors had said he would. It was so against his spirit, against all he was and stood for. I heard about his stroke and went to the nursing home only to hear them say he was no more. I stood by his bedside and almost told him how sorry I was that I had not been by his side, but something made me stop. For in my mind I could hear the laughter of two friends who are together once again; two friends who would never want me to back down or surrender to fear.

So, peace, Kaka, wherever you are. Rest in peace.

Enigmatic 2011

So. Another year is over. 2011 has stretched and twisted its tentacles in our faces and passed us by. And it is time for me, once again, to recapitulate the year that is gone. So sit back, gentle reader, I shall try not to bore you for too long.
One thing that has struck me about 2011 is that it has had more than its fair share of misery and deaths. Everywhere, people we know or know of, have passed away, leaving our lives just that much emptier. Far too many visits have been made to the crematoriums and funerals; the year has been pockmarked with them. And yet, life too has triumphed, joys have walked hand in hand with sorrow, and the children’s laughter has found it’s way into my darkest dreams…..
The year, if you really think about it, passed by in a flash: a flash flood of work and routine that increasingly seems to become overbearing at times. In it all was the usual medley of Isha and Amisha’s studies, their exams, their class work, their projects and all the assorted paraphernalia of two unruly tween girls! I laughed, cried and as usual muddled my way through the trials of parenthood: screaming my head off one instant and teasing them through another. Yes, the girls’ year passed in a cacophony of noise and colours: Isha has made it to the school choir and she wears her badge with pride. Amisha is engrossed in her craft and even I have to admire her very creative creations from time to time! The rest of my children are thriving and well, my nephew left for Canada to study, leaving more space for us in the car when we go out on our mad excursions but he is missed.

And there is always space in our lives for him. My nieces are well and my youngest nephew who turns all of two this month charms everyone with his smile and baby talk.
One of our holidays took us all the way to Kashmir, which was, truly, paradise on earth. This was my first visit and the raw beauty of the place swept me away. I found myself confiding in my husband that this was one place I could actually live in. And that is a feeling that I rarely, very rarely, have for places I visit. We also had two amazing trips to Bandhavgarh-Panchmarhi-Jabalpur and to Guwahati-Kaziranga. The jungles left me wanting more of that birdsong, the stillness, the monkey chatter, the solitude of the setting sun…. but it also made me realise I have become that much older, the dust made me breathless, the cold entered my body and chilled my bones!
And although I never mention politics or world events at these annual diaries, this year I shall make an exception. For the year also saw the deaths of quite a few well-known personalities, Jagjit Singh, Bhupen Hazarika, M.F.Hussain, Pt Bhimsen Joshi, Steve Jobs, Amy Winehouse, Liz Taylor, Shammi Kapoor and Dev Anand, to name a few. No I did not know any of them personally although I had on occasion listened to Jagjit Singh live on stage, but somewhere in my mind forms a picture. It figures all these personalities, jamming and dancing together and having a hell of a party where-ever they are, forever reminding us that life’s too short for hang-ups, life’s too short for grudges.
And of course in India, when you say 2011, you cannot but mention Anna Hazare. The self proclaimed leader of the people who seems to have captivated the hearts and minds of a million Indians the world over. Initially I too listened. For who does not want to eliminate all forms of corruption from our lives, who wants scandals and scams? We are just peace loving individuals and want peace. But then I turned away. I too want a corruption free nation but I am not willing to sacrifice my freedom and democracy for it. I do not agree with Anna’s means, his autocratic diktats and his attempts to hold the country to ransom. On many social networks many of you have asked why I dislike him. I shudder to think that the common man supports him! It will indeed be a sad day for our nation the day Anna Hazare (or someone like him) leads us.
And I cannot help mention the AMRI tragedy, at a hospital right up our street, one that I have visited on multiple occasions, one where Amitesh has stayed twice. Somehow it was too close to home. All that day I remained glued to the news in shock and horror and the next day, for the first time that I can remember, the newspapers made me cry.

Amid all that, Amitesh has become exceptionally busy, I see him less and less as his work hours have increased thanks to his appointment as a government lawyer. Ah yes, I forgot, we have thrown off the yoke of Communism, that too was in 2011! (Though, frankly, if you ask me, the more things change, the more they remain the same……don’t tell hubby I said that!) .
On a personal front, 2011 saw my first book being published, yes, I hope there will be more! It was a moment of joy and pride, especially at the book reading in October. I sat there and gave a silent thanks to all of you out there who believe in me, all you who read through my ranting from time to time and most of all to my dad, who, I still believe, watches over me! And I have been busy too. Not just professional work but also other filial and maternal responsibilities, in fact it got so bad at times that I wished I could just leave it all and run away where the jack hammering of duties and responsibilities could not follow me! (And who knows, maybe someday I will get rid of this Maya lady and just dive into the depths of indifference! Hah.)
Anyway, so while I have been living my sterile life in my sterile tower and being content in my discontent, the world carries on, presumably exactly as it should.
That’s one thing the year has taught me: we are all individually too insignificant to matter. And yet together we make the larger picture. So lets broaden our horizons, stay alive, stay interested and may the new year that stretches languidly in front of us hold joys that we never thought possible. Let’s reach out, share, give. Not of money or wealth but of ourselves.
And yes, in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr., “in the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Quietly.

This business of death.

“..That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh, keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!” T.S.Eliot. (The Wasteland)

Lets talk about death. And fear. And why we do not talk about these things. Although they walk hand in hand with us every day and smile back at us each time we look into the mirror. Chilling, isn’t it? The eyes that smile into your eyes also holds the cold glance of death, the haughty tilt of your head also hides a dying bent frame. For what else is death, where else is it, except with us, rising awake even as we sleep? Waiting, forever waiting, in the wings.
And it is not just our own deaths I’m talking of here. Death has an uncanny way of sneaking up on you and snaking into your routine, when you least expect it to. Relatives, friends, relatives of relatives of friends of friends, the list is endless and the duties manifold. Possibly not every one takes the business of dying with some quantum of seriousness, however, speaking for myself, possibly I was among the few who grew up learning to attend to the dead. Oh yes, the dead have to be attended to: the preparation for that final ride to the crematorium or the burial ground is a fussy matter indeed!
When we were young, my father never shielded me from death. Other relatives would look at him aghast: “too young”, and “but, she is a girl”, but my father was unperturbed by the flack he got, preferring instead to let me see things for myself, as they were. Sometimes, in my silence, I wonder, did he then maybe somehow suspect that he might not be around as I grew older or was he only ensuring I stayed strong when it was my turn to prepare him as he left on his final journey? Whatever, it does not matter. Thing is, somehow we grew up taking death as a cranky relative, not one that you particularly like or invite to tea, but one who does turn up uninvited at your doorstep now and then. For while death and misery lived nearby somewhere, so did life and love and laughter. We had no time to stop and think and worry about relatives we did not like when friends such as these surrounded us!

Which brings me to fear.

“And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
T.S. Eliot.
One of the most enduring images of my father is of him striding in a dark room, torch in hand, striking the beam to the darkest corners, yes, even under the bed daring us to find a tiger! I was scared. We had returned from a cousin’s place where every step of the way we had been assured that if we were naughty there was a ‘joojoo’ waiting to grab us or a tiger lurking behind the curtains. Yes we had been assured that these creatures lay in wait for us even in the safety of our own homes. When I returned home to announce this newfound discovery, I'm afraid I didn't quite expect the effect I received. For one thing, my father was hopping mad! “Nonsense,” he declared and as he dragged us from one dark room to another to prove us wrong! He was adamant, “and don't let anyone tell you otherwise, he said.
I learnt the lesson that night.
We were never taught to fear creatures that existed only in story books or our imaginations, we were not taught to fear the unknown. We were taught to fear more tangible things, like the disapproval of a parent. Or the result of not trying.
And so whenever any maid or relative has tried to frighten any of my children, no matter how innocuously it may be, I have protested. But nothing frightens like fright. So when they were small, late in the night sometimes I was quietly asked questions. l realize now that all they wanted was the assurance that these creatures, these ghosts and their ilk did not exist. No, I was not as dramatic as my father but one day when my elder daughter, who at age 6 used to be very clingy shyly confessed that she was afraid that I would die, I realized things were maybe going too far. Gentle prodding revealed that someone had actually told her that I was ailing and would die. Now THAT is wholly unfair, for who does not fear the death or the loss of a loved one? And how mean and heartless would you have be to say something as traumatic as that to a child? And it took me a good year or two to convince her otherwise: gentle explaining and love were the only tools I had for the purpose.
No, I never let unknown fears unnerve me, Baba never taught us to shy away or back out. I have no sympathy when someone exclaims she is afraid of flying or of the dark or of sleeping alone at night. But that does not mean that I do not know fear, I've tasted it's metallic tang often enough, I’ve walked in it’s shadow, I’ve come out of it alive and stronger. Yet, despite all my bravado I too fear loss and death. Not my own, but that of people I love and care for. Isn’t that the most common fear going around?
I too wake up sometimes near morning, heart thumping, face wet from tears of a nightmare I dare not remember and lie awake waiting for dawn. I too am afraid. But real bravery, as they say is not the absence of fear, it’s carrying on despite it. And that’s what I try to teach my children, that’s all I really think they need to learn in life. Once you learn to face your fears and meet them head on, life takes care of the rest.
No matter what.

A hairy story

There IS one place on earth where I feel humbled, humiliated and inferior. My usual self-confidence goes for a toss and I feel not a day older than an errant five year old. It’s the local beauty saloon. From the minute I enter, I look around me nervously. An immaculately groomed lady smiles and asks if I have an appointment. Obviously I don’t. She asks me what I would like done and I state my required objective. She sighs. It’s a very sad sigh, if sighs can be made to sound sadder than they are supposed to be. She comes out from behind her desk and smiles. “Your hair is too dry and there are split ends.. yes,yes, for you a shampoo and a hair spa would be good, pamper yourself and then we can give you a trim.” “Bu…but I shampooed in the morning, I stammer,” “Yes, yes,” she waves an immaculately manicured finger at me, “but see how your hair looks dry and lack luster, your shampoo must not be suiting your hair ….and, she looks at my hands in horror, “your nails!” she picks up my stubbly digits and disapprovingly looks at my toes which I am trying to hide under the top of the sandals. “A manicure. And a pedicure too. Don’t worry, they’ll do it all,” she peers into my face, “and are those blackheads? We have this amazing facial to remove blackheads and tans and it’ll leave your face fresh and glowing with health. Shall I schedule one of those too?”
“No, no,” I finally find my voice, “I have to go, only a trim.”
“Come on,” she puts her arm around me and draws me aside, ‘you are so busy, I know you don’t have time, but one needs pampering. Give me an hour, everything will be done.”
I look at my watch, “okay an hour.” After all, who does not want to look nice? I am whisked away upstairs. Within moments a lady is dipping my hands in soapy water and my cracked heels have been dipped in another vibrating bowl of luke warm water. I decide to settle down and enjoy it.
Only the guy at my feet has determined otherwise, after viciously scrubbing my feet he takes to scraping it, yes, SCRAPING it with a knife blade. Oh horrors, it tickles and I have to squeeze my eyes shut and use all of my will power to stop myself from squirming. The ladies (there are two, I’m in a rush, you see!) in the meantime are pulling at my fingers and have contorted them to impossible shapes, soapy water trickles around and basically I feel cloistered. Is this pampering I wonder, is this what Cleopatra felt like, when she had her milk bath? Then just when I feel like I’m getting used to all this snip, moisturize, knead business, it stops. Just like that. The bright faced attendant shoves peculiar nail paint in my face and looks most disappointed when I want a transparent colorless lacquer. She does not know that no matter what, it will not last me even one round of dish washing!
I do not bother to explain, I am busy looking at my watch and having kittens. In the meantime the phone has vibrated silently against my thigh a half dozen times and you cannot explain to an irate husband that you could not take the call because your hands were dipped in soapy suds!! I insist I have no time for a haircut, not any more, and run before I am sold yet another salon treatment which costs the earth and promises to make my hair sleek and shiny and straight. The receptionist looks disappointed as I make my clever escape after tipping the ladies and having paid through my nose for a manicure and pedicure I did not need! Back in the car, I settle into the driver’s seat, turn on the AC, chip a nail trying to pay the parking attendant without ruining the fresh nail paint and realize I still have not done what I came here to do in the first place: have a haircut!