There comes a time when every mom has to give into it—a sleepover party. A code name is given to the party—so those not invited would not feel bad. How polished! Rooms are cleaned and loud but faithless vows are made that the room will be kept clean. Menus are drawn up by the host child and tailored to fit some if not all friends. Passwords are made to be whispered into each friend’s ear to ensure entry to the room. While board games are pulled out, they will give room to the ones born from their imagination. The mood is at an all time high and parents are given compliments that they are the best. The best is to bask in these compliments till the time you clash over discussions of the mundane clean-your-room, do-your-homework, be-responsible…etc.
So all the young ones make their elegant entrances with their overnight cases and favorite pillows or pokemons or bunnies or dollies—you would think the teddy bears have fierce competition in their work space these days. The first few minutes are always a little icy—sometimes uncharitable comparison of whose house, room, bed, PJs, etc are better. Then they thaw a bit, get off their high horses and get down to the business of having fun. Many tears are shed over the board games—everybody wants to win you see and they don’t. Paintings are drawn to wipe out the tears and then a movie accompanies the dinner. Everyone has to sleep in the same bed, so you let them lay as they want to on the bed or around it with barricade of pillows. Then you listen to the stories…of how there was a girl with a ribbon around her neck and how a chap kept asking her why she wore it. But she wouldn’t tell. He married her nevertheless and kept asking her as the years passed by till finally she undid the ribbon and guess what happened? Her head fell off!
As a parent, your role in the sleepover is to be at your ward’s beck and call, supervise that all the games are safe enough, be a fair mediator in case of confrontation which anyway don’t last long so it’s better left unaddressed, make sure that they are well fed, and of course once in a while try and get a bit of rest.
For me, during a sleepover that had begun the day before, the floor looked enticing enough to sleep on so I did. Besides, I was just too tired to haul myself to the bedroom. I just lay down on the floor, while the girls played a game. All that I heard came in surreal snatches but nevertheless were eye-openers. I believe the game was “Vet and Pet”, where one was the vet, the other thankfully was not a pet but a zookeeper (a welcome change from a game of yesterday where she was the pet and the other a dog trainer), and the third was giving all the animals and a mermaid a nice wash. From the corner of a tired eye I saw the miniature plastic animals, being examined and washed with a lot of care. The vet had come to assess the animals and came out with the following diagnosis:
The Lion was having dental problems that need to be dealt with. The zookeeper retorted, “You go and stick your hand in its mouth then!”
The second was that the Giraffe was lonely and should be moved to live with the Rhinoceros for company. The zookeeper replied, “But…but the Rhinoceros has suddenly turned carnivorous…”
The third was that the stones were getting into the paws of some other ambi-vorous animal but the big shock came when the zoo keeper was given a bill that went into a few thousands of…dollars!
Being fully aware of the exchange rates (they have been learning about currency) the zookeeper protested and launched a verbal attack on the vet, who solidly held her ground. Meanwhile the washer of animals had washed off the stripes of the tiger and was in tears now because the mermaid’s base had broken off! Now that was a crisis that got me to my feet and I hugged them all and we all laughed together over chips, juice, the mermaid, the lost stripes, the lion’s dental problem, the rhino who had turned meat-eater and the fact that the aspiring vet found out that you have to study really hard to be one. Said she, “I think I shall just be the vet’s assistant”!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Straw Struck!
There she is—look at her! Her hair flies out in jagged odds and ends making her look like a mythical Medusa, as the erratic breeze plays out its aimlessly ambivalent mood. She’s standing at the curb waiting for the bus to bring back her child at 2.30pm. Just that today her kid comes back at 3.30pm. She only realizes that as all the kids tumble out of the bus but her own. She sheepishly gets back in the car and drives off, with as much dignity as possible as the other parents look quizzically. Blame it on old age—blame it on the all the straws in her life. Straws…you ask? Yes all the straws in her life.
She’s clutching at straws now, hanging on to it for dear life. All the puny, dried up, dirty brown straws that you would throw away for recycling. And that’s funny because her eyes would be all but vacant hadn’t it been for those straws—it gives her hope. What’s wrong with that, she asks? There would have been no Shawshank Redemption without hope. Hope springs eternal and life is for living. So what if along the way, you meet men (and women!) of straw? They are not what they seem to be. But then none of us are what we seem to be, she says. Scratch under the put on airs and all of us will be like the people of straw we love to blame. I am like those straw men the military do their combat training on, she says. It’s hilarious how she stood her ground clutching at what she could, while her house of straw was huffed and puffed at. Build a house of bricks, you say? But this little piggy is incorrigible! She ran here and there clutching at all the straws around her and held on to all that she could. Why, you ask? Because you can’t make bricks without straw, or paper, or rope, or…even handicrafts for that matter. Besides, you never know when Rumplestiltskin comes around to weave the straw into gold, she says.
After yo-yoing between the to be or not to be, at the moment it looks like she’s drawn the short straw—the shortest possible. She knows she has the unpleasant on her plate right now. Sometimes she bawls about it shamelessly when no one is looking (and my, does she look ugly—like some water color set out in the rain!). Sometimes she laughs when her friend guffaws to point out the funny straw or two (and my, does she look a sight—like some unrehearsed comic sidekick!). Sometimes she’s angry to the point of mutiny (and oh boy, does she look demented—like the mad wife from Jane Eyre!). But most of the time she deals with it. Someone’s got to deal with it, it's like toilet-cleaning duty. Or would you rather the necessary but unpleasant tasks not get done? Hey no one is setting up a straw man argument but at least let’s not get to the talk of the final straws. Lets point her to the straws in the wind that isn’t just messing up her hair—it’s signifying a different future.
Let’s just leave her now. Let her be. She’ll be back at the right time. She’ll be there for her child. She’ll be there for those she cares about—the final straw might break the camel’s back, but let’s hope it won’t break her. You see the final straw, you say? Look at her—she just dodged it, again!
She’s clutching at straws now, hanging on to it for dear life. All the puny, dried up, dirty brown straws that you would throw away for recycling. And that’s funny because her eyes would be all but vacant hadn’t it been for those straws—it gives her hope. What’s wrong with that, she asks? There would have been no Shawshank Redemption without hope. Hope springs eternal and life is for living. So what if along the way, you meet men (and women!) of straw? They are not what they seem to be. But then none of us are what we seem to be, she says. Scratch under the put on airs and all of us will be like the people of straw we love to blame. I am like those straw men the military do their combat training on, she says. It’s hilarious how she stood her ground clutching at what she could, while her house of straw was huffed and puffed at. Build a house of bricks, you say? But this little piggy is incorrigible! She ran here and there clutching at all the straws around her and held on to all that she could. Why, you ask? Because you can’t make bricks without straw, or paper, or rope, or…even handicrafts for that matter. Besides, you never know when Rumplestiltskin comes around to weave the straw into gold, she says.
After yo-yoing between the to be or not to be, at the moment it looks like she’s drawn the short straw—the shortest possible. She knows she has the unpleasant on her plate right now. Sometimes she bawls about it shamelessly when no one is looking (and my, does she look ugly—like some water color set out in the rain!). Sometimes she laughs when her friend guffaws to point out the funny straw or two (and my, does she look a sight—like some unrehearsed comic sidekick!). Sometimes she’s angry to the point of mutiny (and oh boy, does she look demented—like the mad wife from Jane Eyre!). But most of the time she deals with it. Someone’s got to deal with it, it's like toilet-cleaning duty. Or would you rather the necessary but unpleasant tasks not get done? Hey no one is setting up a straw man argument but at least let’s not get to the talk of the final straws. Lets point her to the straws in the wind that isn’t just messing up her hair—it’s signifying a different future.
Let’s just leave her now. Let her be. She’ll be back at the right time. She’ll be there for her child. She’ll be there for those she cares about—the final straw might break the camel’s back, but let’s hope it won’t break her. You see the final straw, you say? Look at her—she just dodged it, again!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Post Script:The Untold (As Yet)
On Ayesha’s request, considering she is an editor of grueling standards, I have an addendum. I had forgotten to add several salient points of the Himalayan trip, so here are some of them.
The Story of Roopkund Lake: I had the girls hypnotized with my story of an invaluable treasure hidden deep in the waters of the Roopkund Lake and how a mere mortal’s attempt to steal it incurred the wrath of the Nanda Devi—I had added all the necessary ingredients like magic, divine powers and a dash of the reality of carbon dating, to get them to have their soup at 12000ft in Bedani Kund. The real story, if I can put it the T S Eliot way, lies “between the potency, and the existence”. Long long long ago, maybe 600 years ago, there lived a king—Raja Jasdal of Kanauj. It is said that his wife, Queen Balpa (a princess from Garwhal), was a sister of Goddess Nanda Devi. One day, Raja Jasdal decided to go on a pilgrimage on the Nanda Jat Route. Being a native of Garwhal, Queen Balpa could not resist the chance to visit her homeland and even though she was expecting a child, she set off with the king, his relatives, his horses and his soldiers. Unfortunately, it was at the Roopkund Lake that she gave birth. They say that this area is sacred ground—ever since Shiva created this lake from the mountain Trishul, as a mirror in which his consort Parvati could see her face. The fact that the Queen decided to have the baby here enraged the Goddess Nanda Devi who felt that the holy lake had been polluted. So she sent down a cruel ice storm that buried them all. The Roopkund area became a taboo to all, fearful of the power of the Devi, people surrendered it back to her. The mysterious lake was left in snow all year through till the short summer thawed its ice to unmask human skeletons that lay beneath its waters.
And then in 1942, a park ranger called Madhwal accidentally found some of those skeletons, which were sent for research. There were varied speculations as to whether the skeletons could have been that of wandering Chinese, or of General Zorawar Singh and his army, who perished in Himalayan storms on their return from the Tibet War. Radio carbon dating proved the skeletons belonged to 9th century people of Indian origin and that these were a group of tall people (both men and women) of one family, accompanied by horses and considering the evidence of the skulls found, they died because of hail stones as big as cricket balls. Could it be what remains of Raja Jasdal and Queen Balpa? Is it true that the Goddess Nanda Devi sent down a hailstorm? End it your way because research is often inconclusive, but imagination knows no bounds. :-)
The Band of Women: These days one has to hear all kind of clichés and categorizations from the quote that women are the enemy of women and how there is a parallel world complete with chick-flicks and chick-lits. For one thing, people have to understand that the chick has evolved since she hatched and has come a long way baby. It is a privilege to be a woman. It’s even more of a privilege to have women as friends. They help you live a better life. According to a UCLA study, friendships between women are special. “They shape who we are and who we are yet to be.” Not just that, it also helps with the stress—the calming response does not occur in men, because testosterone just hasn’t got what it takes to fight the stress. Not that I am waving a feminist flag to men—no, not at all—but I want to talk about what a redemptive power we shared as mothers, as sisters as daughters—as women. There seemed to be in each one of us a special quality that filled in for the lack of it in the other. There was no fear of the lack of a male presence. There were only possibilities—of climbing higher for better look at the world and us, of laughing in the wonder of snow, of understanding the magnificence of the mountains, of finding warmth in the cold lap of the Himalayas, of laughing at ourselves and over the shared gossip, of trusting each other implicitly, of drawing strength here in the mountains and back when we were on the plains, of the charm and magic of just being friends.
I can’t help but raise a toast to the friends like the ones I have, my sister pilgrims, ranging from seven years to 80 years—you give me a reason to go on in life…“When we are invited to do our best, to flow in peace regardless of the shadowing despair that tempts us. We are all here together on this bejeweled dance floor of an earth, and every one of us has the opportunity to choose our thoughts carefully so that our actions, our health, our very being becomes a co-creation with the Divine (Rebecca Wells)”.
Renaming Ceremony: We are all born with names, but some of us are renamed along the way. There is something about a name—while you kind of become the name you are given, you also learn much more than that, provoking others around to re-christen you. Ash, with her intrinsic ability to size up people always added a quiet tag to the name. Sangeeta the Magnificient, Preeti the Perfect, Aparna the Lovely, Shanti the Serene…. When it came to Nanu, you could see the emotion in Ash’s eyes that one has for a co-conspirator—you can see the empathy they share, the camaraderie born of a sense of we-are-on-the-same-side-and-will-face-the-world-together, to protect each other and be happy when good things happened to the other. For Ayesha, it was Nayanika the Innocent—the one friend who exudes a rare naiveness with an infectious giggle, who always supports, who doesn’t care for the clothes you wear, the car your parents drive, the size of your house or for that matter anything material. With her you can bask in adulterated joy and the belief that she would root for you, even if she was running the same race. For me she was the Lucky Baby and was renamed as so.
Meena already had a tag—the Diva. She was Minakshi the Diva and she had a T-shirt to match. There has been till date no expression that she cannot pull out of her bag—from the scary face to the lost puppy look. The eye lashes flutter according to the demand of the moment, the hands would gesticulate in perfection—who can forget her at 12,000ft, puking her guts out and doing an Odissi dancer’s namaste every time her mother tried to give her a horrible medicine? She is the drama queen who holds centrestage, the Regina Royale, the Pixie with the Punch—her list of names goes on and on till the girls discussed among themselves about what a hurricane she was. Meena retorted, “I’m a Tornado!”. “And you are a Snow Monkey too”, the girls told her back. “So that makes you Snow Monkey Tornado Banerjee”. Why the Banerjee—because she gets a big high from her Eastern roots (after all, all wise men go back to the east). SMTB it had to be and so the Diva was rechristened.
A Birthday Celebration: Said Ash: “Isn’t it amazing! How many people can get the opportunity to celebrate a birthday 12,000ft up in the Himalayas? You just have to be special”. And can there be anyone more special than Aparna? She woke up on 13 May, 2007, in Bedani Kund, after a sleepless night of tending to her sick child, and her sick friends—it was her birthday. There was no birthday cake, or balloons, or any presents. There were a whole bunch of people with nothing but wishes and silent prayers—prayers for her health, for her success, for her family. Prayers in thanks for her friendship. Prayers hoping that she stays forever the lovely person that she is. There were also three children—one was her daughter who drew up a card, even though she wasn’t well, pouring out the love she had for her mother. The other two composed a poem—while one called out the verses she made up, the other became the scribe and wrote them down (because the former had cold hands on account of a lost glove and the latter was a much better artist and illustrator). They handed it out to me to read out to Aparna (they were too shy). That evening in the tent, as I read it out, I do not think there was anyone left without an emotional knot in their systems—the poem said it all. It lay out what Aparna was and echoed all that we felt for her—we could also see that she was moved and close to tears. I think that the poem, a fair version with little drawings on the side, will always occupy an important place in her house and what’s more important, in her heart.
Innovation in the Mountains: Necessity is the mother of invention. No statement is truer than that. There we were at the heights of cold and we can’t find our gloves. We had plenty of socks. So what do you do to beat the cold as you sleep—you wear the socks as gloves! Then of course at the end of the trip, just as you leaving for the heat of the plains, someone not only finds the right hand glove you lost, they also give you an additional one—so you have two pairs of gloves to put on your right hand, but only one right hand available…sigh! What do you do when you can’t carry a pillow because it adds too much bulk to your rucksack—you carry a pillowcase and in the night stuff it with all the clothes that you have and use it as a pillow! What do you do when you don’t want to wipe your hands with tissues and throw them around the beautiful trail—you grab a handful of dried leaves and use them as tissues!
Similarly, in the absence of big brand names what do you do—you just improve on them and sell your wares on the steam of the brand! So Lays becomes Lags and Parle G becomes Raja G but the packing—imitation is the best form of flattery.
Courtesy: All the people who gave the respective ideas—you know who you are.
The Aftermath: My respect for high altitude has heightened. The consequences of a climb must not be taken lightly. It is best to be prepared for what can happen in the high mountain areas. It can begin with a simple headache and leave you gasping for breath. The idea is not to ascend too quickly, not to overexert, not to skimp on the water intake and to be adequately protected from the cold. You can feel fatigue, dizziness, insomnia, shortness of breath, nausea, lack of appetite and swelling of extremities. Each of us felt one of these symptoms at one point or another and some had a combination. The return to the plains began with visits to the doctors for us all—for some of us injections in what Priya calls ‘the seating arrangement’. Accompanying the experiences of our adventure were nausea, fever, swollen joints, swollen feet that were carried around like additional legs, blackened nails and lost nails too. Hey—how about a bit of poetry?
The Story of Roopkund Lake: I had the girls hypnotized with my story of an invaluable treasure hidden deep in the waters of the Roopkund Lake and how a mere mortal’s attempt to steal it incurred the wrath of the Nanda Devi—I had added all the necessary ingredients like magic, divine powers and a dash of the reality of carbon dating, to get them to have their soup at 12000ft in Bedani Kund. The real story, if I can put it the T S Eliot way, lies “between the potency, and the existence”. Long long long ago, maybe 600 years ago, there lived a king—Raja Jasdal of Kanauj. It is said that his wife, Queen Balpa (a princess from Garwhal), was a sister of Goddess Nanda Devi. One day, Raja Jasdal decided to go on a pilgrimage on the Nanda Jat Route. Being a native of Garwhal, Queen Balpa could not resist the chance to visit her homeland and even though she was expecting a child, she set off with the king, his relatives, his horses and his soldiers. Unfortunately, it was at the Roopkund Lake that she gave birth. They say that this area is sacred ground—ever since Shiva created this lake from the mountain Trishul, as a mirror in which his consort Parvati could see her face. The fact that the Queen decided to have the baby here enraged the Goddess Nanda Devi who felt that the holy lake had been polluted. So she sent down a cruel ice storm that buried them all. The Roopkund area became a taboo to all, fearful of the power of the Devi, people surrendered it back to her. The mysterious lake was left in snow all year through till the short summer thawed its ice to unmask human skeletons that lay beneath its waters.
And then in 1942, a park ranger called Madhwal accidentally found some of those skeletons, which were sent for research. There were varied speculations as to whether the skeletons could have been that of wandering Chinese, or of General Zorawar Singh and his army, who perished in Himalayan storms on their return from the Tibet War. Radio carbon dating proved the skeletons belonged to 9th century people of Indian origin and that these were a group of tall people (both men and women) of one family, accompanied by horses and considering the evidence of the skulls found, they died because of hail stones as big as cricket balls. Could it be what remains of Raja Jasdal and Queen Balpa? Is it true that the Goddess Nanda Devi sent down a hailstorm? End it your way because research is often inconclusive, but imagination knows no bounds. :-)
The Band of Women: These days one has to hear all kind of clichés and categorizations from the quote that women are the enemy of women and how there is a parallel world complete with chick-flicks and chick-lits. For one thing, people have to understand that the chick has evolved since she hatched and has come a long way baby. It is a privilege to be a woman. It’s even more of a privilege to have women as friends. They help you live a better life. According to a UCLA study, friendships between women are special. “They shape who we are and who we are yet to be.” Not just that, it also helps with the stress—the calming response does not occur in men, because testosterone just hasn’t got what it takes to fight the stress. Not that I am waving a feminist flag to men—no, not at all—but I want to talk about what a redemptive power we shared as mothers, as sisters as daughters—as women. There seemed to be in each one of us a special quality that filled in for the lack of it in the other. There was no fear of the lack of a male presence. There were only possibilities—of climbing higher for better look at the world and us, of laughing in the wonder of snow, of understanding the magnificence of the mountains, of finding warmth in the cold lap of the Himalayas, of laughing at ourselves and over the shared gossip, of trusting each other implicitly, of drawing strength here in the mountains and back when we were on the plains, of the charm and magic of just being friends.
I can’t help but raise a toast to the friends like the ones I have, my sister pilgrims, ranging from seven years to 80 years—you give me a reason to go on in life…“When we are invited to do our best, to flow in peace regardless of the shadowing despair that tempts us. We are all here together on this bejeweled dance floor of an earth, and every one of us has the opportunity to choose our thoughts carefully so that our actions, our health, our very being becomes a co-creation with the Divine (Rebecca Wells)”.
Renaming Ceremony: We are all born with names, but some of us are renamed along the way. There is something about a name—while you kind of become the name you are given, you also learn much more than that, provoking others around to re-christen you. Ash, with her intrinsic ability to size up people always added a quiet tag to the name. Sangeeta the Magnificient, Preeti the Perfect, Aparna the Lovely, Shanti the Serene…. When it came to Nanu, you could see the emotion in Ash’s eyes that one has for a co-conspirator—you can see the empathy they share, the camaraderie born of a sense of we-are-on-the-same-side-and-will-face-the-world-together, to protect each other and be happy when good things happened to the other. For Ayesha, it was Nayanika the Innocent—the one friend who exudes a rare naiveness with an infectious giggle, who always supports, who doesn’t care for the clothes you wear, the car your parents drive, the size of your house or for that matter anything material. With her you can bask in adulterated joy and the belief that she would root for you, even if she was running the same race. For me she was the Lucky Baby and was renamed as so.
Meena already had a tag—the Diva. She was Minakshi the Diva and she had a T-shirt to match. There has been till date no expression that she cannot pull out of her bag—from the scary face to the lost puppy look. The eye lashes flutter according to the demand of the moment, the hands would gesticulate in perfection—who can forget her at 12,000ft, puking her guts out and doing an Odissi dancer’s namaste every time her mother tried to give her a horrible medicine? She is the drama queen who holds centrestage, the Regina Royale, the Pixie with the Punch—her list of names goes on and on till the girls discussed among themselves about what a hurricane she was. Meena retorted, “I’m a Tornado!”. “And you are a Snow Monkey too”, the girls told her back. “So that makes you Snow Monkey Tornado Banerjee”. Why the Banerjee—because she gets a big high from her Eastern roots (after all, all wise men go back to the east). SMTB it had to be and so the Diva was rechristened.
A Birthday Celebration: Said Ash: “Isn’t it amazing! How many people can get the opportunity to celebrate a birthday 12,000ft up in the Himalayas? You just have to be special”. And can there be anyone more special than Aparna? She woke up on 13 May, 2007, in Bedani Kund, after a sleepless night of tending to her sick child, and her sick friends—it was her birthday. There was no birthday cake, or balloons, or any presents. There were a whole bunch of people with nothing but wishes and silent prayers—prayers for her health, for her success, for her family. Prayers in thanks for her friendship. Prayers hoping that she stays forever the lovely person that she is. There were also three children—one was her daughter who drew up a card, even though she wasn’t well, pouring out the love she had for her mother. The other two composed a poem—while one called out the verses she made up, the other became the scribe and wrote them down (because the former had cold hands on account of a lost glove and the latter was a much better artist and illustrator). They handed it out to me to read out to Aparna (they were too shy). That evening in the tent, as I read it out, I do not think there was anyone left without an emotional knot in their systems—the poem said it all. It lay out what Aparna was and echoed all that we felt for her—we could also see that she was moved and close to tears. I think that the poem, a fair version with little drawings on the side, will always occupy an important place in her house and what’s more important, in her heart.
Innovation in the Mountains: Necessity is the mother of invention. No statement is truer than that. There we were at the heights of cold and we can’t find our gloves. We had plenty of socks. So what do you do to beat the cold as you sleep—you wear the socks as gloves! Then of course at the end of the trip, just as you leaving for the heat of the plains, someone not only finds the right hand glove you lost, they also give you an additional one—so you have two pairs of gloves to put on your right hand, but only one right hand available…sigh! What do you do when you can’t carry a pillow because it adds too much bulk to your rucksack—you carry a pillowcase and in the night stuff it with all the clothes that you have and use it as a pillow! What do you do when you don’t want to wipe your hands with tissues and throw them around the beautiful trail—you grab a handful of dried leaves and use them as tissues!
Similarly, in the absence of big brand names what do you do—you just improve on them and sell your wares on the steam of the brand! So Lays becomes Lags and Parle G becomes Raja G but the packing—imitation is the best form of flattery.
Courtesy: All the people who gave the respective ideas—you know who you are.
The Aftermath: My respect for high altitude has heightened. The consequences of a climb must not be taken lightly. It is best to be prepared for what can happen in the high mountain areas. It can begin with a simple headache and leave you gasping for breath. The idea is not to ascend too quickly, not to overexert, not to skimp on the water intake and to be adequately protected from the cold. You can feel fatigue, dizziness, insomnia, shortness of breath, nausea, lack of appetite and swelling of extremities. Each of us felt one of these symptoms at one point or another and some had a combination. The return to the plains began with visits to the doctors for us all—for some of us injections in what Priya calls ‘the seating arrangement’. Accompanying the experiences of our adventure were nausea, fever, swollen joints, swollen feet that were carried around like additional legs, blackened nails and lost nails too. Hey—how about a bit of poetry?
The Leg-ses and Injections
We went up the mountain, Meena, Nanu and I
And Ash and her five aunts, I spy.
With the strain of the climb, extra leg-ses they grew,
But even then complaints there were few.
We went over mountains, thru forests and streams
At the end of it “My Nail!” one aunt screams!
“I’ve lost it,” she cries,
“So have I”, another aunt sighs.
Injections follow in the (ahem!) ‘seating arrangement’,
Nothing else will work, no nail-growing ointment.
“Oh well”, says one more aunt, “Ash will go on to tell the tale,
Of how her aunts went up the Himalayas and lost them each a nail!”
We went up the mountain, Meena, Nanu and I
And Ash and her five aunts, I spy.
With the strain of the climb, extra leg-ses they grew,
But even then complaints there were few.
We went over mountains, thru forests and streams
At the end of it “My Nail!” one aunt screams!
“I’ve lost it,” she cries,
“So have I”, another aunt sighs.
Injections follow in the (ahem!) ‘seating arrangement’,
Nothing else will work, no nail-growing ointment.
“Oh well”, says one more aunt, “Ash will go on to tell the tale,
Of how her aunts went up the Himalayas and lost them each a nail!”
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Delhi Diary, 17 May 2007
We rumbled along the roads through the night with generous layers of Odomos—one reason for that were the mosquitoes and another (by far more important) was that as we had bought too much and never used as much as we thought we would. Giovanni’s party was back in the bus, having made a trip to Rishikesh a day before us to plunge into the Ganga perhaps for a ritual cleansing. Narayan after the entire deadly diatribe meted out to him by the girls, made a beeline for the other bus that was mercifully full of boys. Sunil came in and after pretending to sit for a while, stretched out in the driver’s area—probably even snored but we couldn’t hear him over the noise of the bus. It was a silent night except for the bus driver, who once in a while decided to express all his frustration in as colorful language as possible to deride the ancestors of any driver who crossed his path.
When we rolled into Delhi—for me at least it was nostalgia. We passed the Rajghat, Pragati Maidan and other landmarks that brought back so many memories—of book fairs, of friends, of school and college…of the happy times that were made even more happy with the birth of Ayesha right here in New Delhi. I woke her up to see the city of her birth—the capital city from where Nehru announced India’s freedom. Early morning Delhi is an experience altogether. I may be biased for I know many people afraid to visit or live in Delhi for various reasons that are all justifiable—but an early morning here is enchanting—the restful trees in the park fresh with dew drops, the energy of the people walking by, the hint of mist before the smog, the empty quietness of the roads before the day snarls in to displace all that is intrinsically beautiful—I have always felt at home in Delhi.
Early morning showers rained on us as we got off the bus at our hotels in Karol Bagh. Our group was quite a sight—a sight that would give sore eyes to people who saw us. Ash was disheveled after the bulimic bus ride and down with fever, Nanu was just about recovering from the ankle sprain aggravated by the fall from Munni, Meena was looking thin and felt so light as I carried her off the bus—but their smiles told of how they had enjoyed the trek and how much they wanted to now go to the Valley of Flowers. As for the adults, it was a tale of swollen legs and toe nails falling off and at the moment, all just wanted to go home. Aparna was in pure pain that could not be masked by her lovely smile. She needed to be attended by a doctor for which she and Meena immediately set off for her uncle’s house. The downward climb had taken its impact on her feet and her nails had dug back into her—she needed tetanus shots and rest. She would probably have to take a flight out to avoid any chance of infection. Lien too was to stay back in Delhi.
At the hotel after we washed, cleaned up, had breakfast and packed to catch the train at 5pm, I watched Ayesha sleep off the fever and let Nayanika, Preeti, Liz and Priya have their tour around Delhi. Ash and I only stepped outside when her fever came down, for lunch at Pizza Hut and to buy some Delhi Chappals. It was nice roaming the markets of Karol Bagh—to check out the stock of casual pants by a roadside peddler and hear him say, “Full pant bas itna, baki sab to knicker hai (That’s all the trousers I have, the rest are all shorts)”—I knew I was in Delhi! My friends came back to tell me of how they had been the cynosure of all eyes in the posh Khan Market where they had eaten up a whole box of cherries as they walked on the street with their swollen legs (or leg-ses as the kids would put it because it was like they had more than two). They could not get their feet into any shoes, they could not enter any respectable shop to buy and try out clothes because they looked like hobos with their box of cherries, trekking sandals and clothes in a state that screamed out ‘unemployed’. So they just took in the sights of Delhi along with the cherries and came back. I hooted with laughter because after traumatic bus ride, God had spared me from additional legs and lost nails.
But god had not spared me from the Hargopal sisters. If I have to begin my tale of how I was sunk in a satirical sea, I probably have to begin from the point when we gathered our luggage and waited on the roads for the buses that were to take us to the Railway station. Nayanika was bouncing around in a T-shirt that declared, “ Go ahead and push me around, but you ought to know that I have the meanest, baddest sister in town”—and Ash started it all off by telling me, “Mimi, your brother should get a T-shirt like that!”
Oh well, I thought as I stood near a mannequin of the shop wherein I had deposited Ash and Nanu and then I felt Priya’s eyes. She looked at me and looked somewhere else and she did that eerily till I looked at where she was looking. The Mannequin—it had a hairstyle that looked like what my hair looked now—neither feminine chic, nor masculine charm. Vasu might have given me a short elegant cut but the Himalayas had iced out the elegance to make it look like a flattened drapery of sorts with two curled up bangs on the side (which Sangeeta, who could not make it to trek had asked me to pin back with a clip that Aparna had specially gone out to buy). Added to the state of my hair was a checked shirt I wore, giving me an all round look of what Priya called Raju Guide (of the Dev Anand movie). Then she called me Raju Conductor. Then she pointed out that my hairstyle was shared by some of the young street thugs. I looked to see that not only did they seem to have my hair, they had shiny check shirts and one earring like mine. At least I had two, I thought as I reached out to feel my ear lobes and was shocked to realize that I too had only one earring! I ran like a bat out of hell into the hotel to search for my pure gold earring that I have been wearing since I was in school. I pulled off the sheets in the room and had the whole hotel on alert. All to of no avail—I walked back sadly, with a consoling Preeti by my side, who derided Nayanika’s suggestion that I check my shirt pocket. I have always listened to Ayesha’s trusted friends and Nanu is always a lucky baby for me—so as Preeti went on to say that it’s such a tiny pocket etcetera, I slipped a hand in and pulled out the earring! The lucky baby strikes again! After I gave Nanu a deserving squeeze that left her spluttering for breath and holding on to Ayesha for support, I proudly put back the earring and faced Priya again. Unfortunately, after the brief period of consolation I received, Preeti had joined her to point out more young street Rajus. Even Liz chimed out “Oye Raju”, relegating all family ties to me to the background, with an infectious giggle. One busload of our group had left already and Speedy stayed with us very reluctantly heroic, until he slipped off to the station surreptiously. As we sat there abandoned and waiting for our ride, I resigned myself to looking at my bretheren pass by and believe you me—there were many. It looked like I shared my hairstyle with the entire population of unemployed street-hangers out in Karol Bagh complete with shiny check shirts and one earring. Woe is indeed me!
I suffered in silence and dignity (even though I say so myself) as the Hargopal sisters and others made an entertainment of me till suddenly a green lizard leaped out of a taxi. It was one of the organizers in a green T-shirt who shouted animatedly, “Get in the Taxis, the train is about to leave and it only stops at this station for a few minutes!” We loaded our luggage and ourselves into taxis as the leaping lizard danced a war dance around us exhorting us to leave—I mean, when did we tell him we want to stay?
Our motorcade of taxis got us to the Railway station all in one piece, with our luggage in one piece and as the train chugged in we jumped aboard and grabbed the best seats (in honor of Lien—she would have been proud of us!). We formed a human chain to pass on the entire luggage we carried as a group of first time trekkers and then we sat back exhausted as the train hooted like Hogwarts Express and departed from the station. I watched as Minto Bridge went by and I promised myself that I would bring back Ayesha for a visit—with a brand new haircut and this time not stay among my brethren in Karol Bagh. Our adventure was coming to an end but it had set us off on a route to want to discover more about the expanse of varied beauty in our country, and more about ourselves. So I guess it wasn’t an end—just the beginning of another adventure.
When we rolled into Delhi—for me at least it was nostalgia. We passed the Rajghat, Pragati Maidan and other landmarks that brought back so many memories—of book fairs, of friends, of school and college…of the happy times that were made even more happy with the birth of Ayesha right here in New Delhi. I woke her up to see the city of her birth—the capital city from where Nehru announced India’s freedom. Early morning Delhi is an experience altogether. I may be biased for I know many people afraid to visit or live in Delhi for various reasons that are all justifiable—but an early morning here is enchanting—the restful trees in the park fresh with dew drops, the energy of the people walking by, the hint of mist before the smog, the empty quietness of the roads before the day snarls in to displace all that is intrinsically beautiful—I have always felt at home in Delhi.
Early morning showers rained on us as we got off the bus at our hotels in Karol Bagh. Our group was quite a sight—a sight that would give sore eyes to people who saw us. Ash was disheveled after the bulimic bus ride and down with fever, Nanu was just about recovering from the ankle sprain aggravated by the fall from Munni, Meena was looking thin and felt so light as I carried her off the bus—but their smiles told of how they had enjoyed the trek and how much they wanted to now go to the Valley of Flowers. As for the adults, it was a tale of swollen legs and toe nails falling off and at the moment, all just wanted to go home. Aparna was in pure pain that could not be masked by her lovely smile. She needed to be attended by a doctor for which she and Meena immediately set off for her uncle’s house. The downward climb had taken its impact on her feet and her nails had dug back into her—she needed tetanus shots and rest. She would probably have to take a flight out to avoid any chance of infection. Lien too was to stay back in Delhi.
At the hotel after we washed, cleaned up, had breakfast and packed to catch the train at 5pm, I watched Ayesha sleep off the fever and let Nayanika, Preeti, Liz and Priya have their tour around Delhi. Ash and I only stepped outside when her fever came down, for lunch at Pizza Hut and to buy some Delhi Chappals. It was nice roaming the markets of Karol Bagh—to check out the stock of casual pants by a roadside peddler and hear him say, “Full pant bas itna, baki sab to knicker hai (That’s all the trousers I have, the rest are all shorts)”—I knew I was in Delhi! My friends came back to tell me of how they had been the cynosure of all eyes in the posh Khan Market where they had eaten up a whole box of cherries as they walked on the street with their swollen legs (or leg-ses as the kids would put it because it was like they had more than two). They could not get their feet into any shoes, they could not enter any respectable shop to buy and try out clothes because they looked like hobos with their box of cherries, trekking sandals and clothes in a state that screamed out ‘unemployed’. So they just took in the sights of Delhi along with the cherries and came back. I hooted with laughter because after traumatic bus ride, God had spared me from additional legs and lost nails.
But god had not spared me from the Hargopal sisters. If I have to begin my tale of how I was sunk in a satirical sea, I probably have to begin from the point when we gathered our luggage and waited on the roads for the buses that were to take us to the Railway station. Nayanika was bouncing around in a T-shirt that declared, “ Go ahead and push me around, but you ought to know that I have the meanest, baddest sister in town”—and Ash started it all off by telling me, “Mimi, your brother should get a T-shirt like that!”
Oh well, I thought as I stood near a mannequin of the shop wherein I had deposited Ash and Nanu and then I felt Priya’s eyes. She looked at me and looked somewhere else and she did that eerily till I looked at where she was looking. The Mannequin—it had a hairstyle that looked like what my hair looked now—neither feminine chic, nor masculine charm. Vasu might have given me a short elegant cut but the Himalayas had iced out the elegance to make it look like a flattened drapery of sorts with two curled up bangs on the side (which Sangeeta, who could not make it to trek had asked me to pin back with a clip that Aparna had specially gone out to buy). Added to the state of my hair was a checked shirt I wore, giving me an all round look of what Priya called Raju Guide (of the Dev Anand movie). Then she called me Raju Conductor. Then she pointed out that my hairstyle was shared by some of the young street thugs. I looked to see that not only did they seem to have my hair, they had shiny check shirts and one earring like mine. At least I had two, I thought as I reached out to feel my ear lobes and was shocked to realize that I too had only one earring! I ran like a bat out of hell into the hotel to search for my pure gold earring that I have been wearing since I was in school. I pulled off the sheets in the room and had the whole hotel on alert. All to of no avail—I walked back sadly, with a consoling Preeti by my side, who derided Nayanika’s suggestion that I check my shirt pocket. I have always listened to Ayesha’s trusted friends and Nanu is always a lucky baby for me—so as Preeti went on to say that it’s such a tiny pocket etcetera, I slipped a hand in and pulled out the earring! The lucky baby strikes again! After I gave Nanu a deserving squeeze that left her spluttering for breath and holding on to Ayesha for support, I proudly put back the earring and faced Priya again. Unfortunately, after the brief period of consolation I received, Preeti had joined her to point out more young street Rajus. Even Liz chimed out “Oye Raju”, relegating all family ties to me to the background, with an infectious giggle. One busload of our group had left already and Speedy stayed with us very reluctantly heroic, until he slipped off to the station surreptiously. As we sat there abandoned and waiting for our ride, I resigned myself to looking at my bretheren pass by and believe you me—there were many. It looked like I shared my hairstyle with the entire population of unemployed street-hangers out in Karol Bagh complete with shiny check shirts and one earring. Woe is indeed me!
I suffered in silence and dignity (even though I say so myself) as the Hargopal sisters and others made an entertainment of me till suddenly a green lizard leaped out of a taxi. It was one of the organizers in a green T-shirt who shouted animatedly, “Get in the Taxis, the train is about to leave and it only stops at this station for a few minutes!” We loaded our luggage and ourselves into taxis as the leaping lizard danced a war dance around us exhorting us to leave—I mean, when did we tell him we want to stay?
Our motorcade of taxis got us to the Railway station all in one piece, with our luggage in one piece and as the train chugged in we jumped aboard and grabbed the best seats (in honor of Lien—she would have been proud of us!). We formed a human chain to pass on the entire luggage we carried as a group of first time trekkers and then we sat back exhausted as the train hooted like Hogwarts Express and departed from the station. I watched as Minto Bridge went by and I promised myself that I would bring back Ayesha for a visit—with a brand new haircut and this time not stay among my brethren in Karol Bagh. Our adventure was coming to an end but it had set us off on a route to want to discover more about the expanse of varied beauty in our country, and more about ourselves. So I guess it wasn’t an end—just the beginning of another adventure.
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