Black…white. Nothing can be in black and white as it is here. But the blackness is as profane as the white is sacred—it’s the myth of colors. Today they are just stating facts. The crows flock around as the Bluebird watches. They gather the facts to assess the Bluebird’s flight patterns of life. What the Bluebird would have thought could never be assessed because it is such a huge tome of memories full of incidents, accidents and consequences of both. The crows know better and they cower over details and reduce it to a docket number. That’s all it was—thirteen years reduced to a label: 378 of 2007.
The wings of satin and cotton whish around and dispense the odor of sweat, hard work, manipulation, money, arrogance, sarcasm, spirit and hope…the crows gather in closer, in anticipation of their share of the castaway bread. Numbers roll out—488 of 2007, 571 of 2007, and a crow swoops on a thick file and flies off as if everything will now be settled in haste.
Nothing is in haste here, except the waiting. Only the waiting is hurried by the tension and anticipation. The Bluebird perches and looks around. Just a number now—all the years of flying and nesting and flying again. As the crows throw their piercing stares and questioning glances, the Bluebird isn’t afraid but thinks—how is it that the crows preside over the courts of justice? You would think that justice prevails in temples of silence but the din is unending.
And then suddenly silence. The whirr of the fans, the whimper of the death of expectations—and then the final scratch of a pen.
Winter always thaws into spring. Despite the crows cawing, a bluebird will sing.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
Materials Maids Are Made Of
In India, we have the luxury of domestic help. While we do not designate them as domestic consultants, some of us shy away from calling them servants. For the lack of adequate nomenclature they are simply called maids—this is not indicative of their maidenly status or age but the one qualification would demand that the domestic help hails from the fairer sex (you would not call a maid a maid to refer to a man now would you?). Some brash employers are not shy at all and in fact use the rashly incorrect term servant-maids as if to reinforce their own dominant status and reassure themselves of the fact that they at least are neither servants nor maids…who are they kidding?
These maids range from the extremely loyal Lakshmis to the elusive Mayas. And of course there is the variety of in-betweens. After being with a loyal Lakshmi, even though I knew she was overpaid and underworked, it was a learning experience for me when I moved house. First of all no one wanted to come…because I wasn’t trained enough in the local language and I was not assertive enough. “Don’t be so polite”, I was advised by a pro, “By doing that you are giving them the power and control to negotiate with you. You should show them who is in charge.” Well, too short timed to learn the language of the maiden’s choice so I change the prerequisites and I assertively wave goodbye to the maids who aren’t familiar with the national language…then I realize I have said goodbye to all of them! I panic and employ the last maid standing who spoke in a smattering of illegible sounds and phrases, which I thought I could overcome with sign language. It was a very short-lived relationship because she did the exact opposite of whatever I asked her to do and what was worse, I ended up doing all her work because she very regularly never turned up.
So there I was on the lookout again for the maid from heaven and the advice I got this time was, “Can’t find anyone local, look global then.” Global? I am pointed to the watchman from Nepal. I walk up nonchalantly to show I am in control and then I desperately beg him to find me someone who speaks in Hindi, can do the housework and please come early as 6.30am. The begging pays off and I am assured domestic help. The next day, sharp at 6.21am the doorbell jerks me out of bed with a warning. I see a ‘Made in Nepal’ at the door, very presentable and neat—she could have been an extra straight out of Dev Anand’s movie Hare Krishna Hare Ram. As she begins to work, I wonder if she is real. Absolutely with robotic precision she scoops out the dust from the floors and rids the grease from the dishes. I was impressed, until I saw that if she could not locate the other pair of a lonesome shoe, she would simply get rid of it by chucking it in the dustbin. Once I programmed her into the advanced search mode to look a little more, and alerted the family that they should never leave related things separated, life was like clockwork. So much that we needed no alarm as the bell rang everyday, even Sundays at 6.21 am and if she was ever off the mark, she would be a minute or two early rather than late. We cruised with Irona and our life seemed ironed out—at least on the level of domestic management.
Very happy with life, I turned to friends to check out how they were. “I have quite the material maid…she is up with the sun, in for work that she does a shoddy job of and wants everything I am not using,” said a friend. She continued, “Why the other day when I told her to sweep the floors better, she complained that the dust was because of the fact that my family and I walk too much around the house and would be better of sitting in one place. And she had the audacity to eye the burgundy wine dispenser and slyly tell me, “I know what that is…my man and I have a peg every evening” She also wanted a bed I don’t use and when I realized that she had no house and asked her where she would put it, she said that she would sleep under it!” It did not end just there, the maid was disgusted with the 18-year-old apology for a TV that had to be smacked to adjust volume levels and picture qualities. After all, there are standards to keep! Only a Plasma screen would do and my friend is still paying off the installments for it as the maid approvingly nods and dusts the new wall adornment.
Anyway, the key is to be confident and get them to do work. If there is no work, then find something for them to do—these ladies shouldn’t be left to sit around and with this statement, we both turned to the friend who to these material maids was an employer from heaven. She had two maids, so that they have each other for company, because the last time she had hired a single maid, the lass, alas got lonely enough to get involved with the chauffeur. And that was quite a to do! So the two have each other for company, cooked meals, a time slot for TV viewing, adequate rest as our friend gets a lot of the cooking done, so much so that if you dropped in for a cup of tea, she would send a beseeching look in the direction of the maids and very sweetly ask for a cup of tea. We actually thought that the maids would refuse and ask her to go make it herself. “They are so sweet,” she said as the two of them trotted off to make one cup of tea together and we were left wondering whether to strangle her into being assertive or just hand in our resumes and have her employ us as maids—I mean think of it, we would get more time to spend with each other, bully our employer, eat great food, have a TV time which we never get in our own households and we would be politely begged to get work done—it was the ideal situation.
I am in fact still debating that option because my cruise with Irona ended the day her father-in-law chose to pass away in far away Nepal and I was left with her relative who like her comes on time alright but that’s where the similarity ends. I have accepted that she is far from perfect but if I don’t look closely enough, the floors will look clean. If I don’t hear as acutely as I do, the glass bowls that break will already be a thing of the past. If I keep my fingers balled into a fist, I will never get to run them on the tables and shelves to check for the dust…and life will go on.
And I do want to raise a toast to this incomparable set of people usually ladies who help us in our quest to be efficient mothers, impeccable housekeepers, and career-focused women. The way they go about doing the work, we do not want to do. How in a Machiavellian silent way, they throw a noose around us to reduce us to be helplessly dependant on them so that they are assured employment for life. Ultimate material girls in a material world working for material ends—cheers to them!
These maids range from the extremely loyal Lakshmis to the elusive Mayas. And of course there is the variety of in-betweens. After being with a loyal Lakshmi, even though I knew she was overpaid and underworked, it was a learning experience for me when I moved house. First of all no one wanted to come…because I wasn’t trained enough in the local language and I was not assertive enough. “Don’t be so polite”, I was advised by a pro, “By doing that you are giving them the power and control to negotiate with you. You should show them who is in charge.” Well, too short timed to learn the language of the maiden’s choice so I change the prerequisites and I assertively wave goodbye to the maids who aren’t familiar with the national language…then I realize I have said goodbye to all of them! I panic and employ the last maid standing who spoke in a smattering of illegible sounds and phrases, which I thought I could overcome with sign language. It was a very short-lived relationship because she did the exact opposite of whatever I asked her to do and what was worse, I ended up doing all her work because she very regularly never turned up.
So there I was on the lookout again for the maid from heaven and the advice I got this time was, “Can’t find anyone local, look global then.” Global? I am pointed to the watchman from Nepal. I walk up nonchalantly to show I am in control and then I desperately beg him to find me someone who speaks in Hindi, can do the housework and please come early as 6.30am. The begging pays off and I am assured domestic help. The next day, sharp at 6.21am the doorbell jerks me out of bed with a warning. I see a ‘Made in Nepal’ at the door, very presentable and neat—she could have been an extra straight out of Dev Anand’s movie Hare Krishna Hare Ram. As she begins to work, I wonder if she is real. Absolutely with robotic precision she scoops out the dust from the floors and rids the grease from the dishes. I was impressed, until I saw that if she could not locate the other pair of a lonesome shoe, she would simply get rid of it by chucking it in the dustbin. Once I programmed her into the advanced search mode to look a little more, and alerted the family that they should never leave related things separated, life was like clockwork. So much that we needed no alarm as the bell rang everyday, even Sundays at 6.21 am and if she was ever off the mark, she would be a minute or two early rather than late. We cruised with Irona and our life seemed ironed out—at least on the level of domestic management.
Very happy with life, I turned to friends to check out how they were. “I have quite the material maid…she is up with the sun, in for work that she does a shoddy job of and wants everything I am not using,” said a friend. She continued, “Why the other day when I told her to sweep the floors better, she complained that the dust was because of the fact that my family and I walk too much around the house and would be better of sitting in one place. And she had the audacity to eye the burgundy wine dispenser and slyly tell me, “I know what that is…my man and I have a peg every evening” She also wanted a bed I don’t use and when I realized that she had no house and asked her where she would put it, she said that she would sleep under it!” It did not end just there, the maid was disgusted with the 18-year-old apology for a TV that had to be smacked to adjust volume levels and picture qualities. After all, there are standards to keep! Only a Plasma screen would do and my friend is still paying off the installments for it as the maid approvingly nods and dusts the new wall adornment.
Anyway, the key is to be confident and get them to do work. If there is no work, then find something for them to do—these ladies shouldn’t be left to sit around and with this statement, we both turned to the friend who to these material maids was an employer from heaven. She had two maids, so that they have each other for company, because the last time she had hired a single maid, the lass, alas got lonely enough to get involved with the chauffeur. And that was quite a to do! So the two have each other for company, cooked meals, a time slot for TV viewing, adequate rest as our friend gets a lot of the cooking done, so much so that if you dropped in for a cup of tea, she would send a beseeching look in the direction of the maids and very sweetly ask for a cup of tea. We actually thought that the maids would refuse and ask her to go make it herself. “They are so sweet,” she said as the two of them trotted off to make one cup of tea together and we were left wondering whether to strangle her into being assertive or just hand in our resumes and have her employ us as maids—I mean think of it, we would get more time to spend with each other, bully our employer, eat great food, have a TV time which we never get in our own households and we would be politely begged to get work done—it was the ideal situation.
I am in fact still debating that option because my cruise with Irona ended the day her father-in-law chose to pass away in far away Nepal and I was left with her relative who like her comes on time alright but that’s where the similarity ends. I have accepted that she is far from perfect but if I don’t look closely enough, the floors will look clean. If I don’t hear as acutely as I do, the glass bowls that break will already be a thing of the past. If I keep my fingers balled into a fist, I will never get to run them on the tables and shelves to check for the dust…and life will go on.
And I do want to raise a toast to this incomparable set of people usually ladies who help us in our quest to be efficient mothers, impeccable housekeepers, and career-focused women. The way they go about doing the work, we do not want to do. How in a Machiavellian silent way, they throw a noose around us to reduce us to be helplessly dependant on them so that they are assured employment for life. Ultimate material girls in a material world working for material ends—cheers to them!
The Housefly's Song
Once upon a time but not very long ago, in a land very near around lived a playful little Capetilla. She lived happily in a house with the smart Optapus and the plain Housefly who both loved her very very much. You would have thought that the togetherness would have been enough, even though it was not extraordinarily marked by exotic excitement. On the contrary, what they had was the comfortable ordinary…and that made the Capetilla happy enough.
The Capetilla just never wanted to grow up. She bounced around playing all the games she could with the Optapus. In a game of hide and seek, she would hide in a corner and over up her face…she thought if I can’t see myself, then no one can see me! Of course the Optapus would get her out and hug her with his warm tentacles and together they would laugh…he always made the Capetilla and the Housefly feel safe and protected. They made up more games like the Bridge game and the Running around the table game and the Just dancing wild game. But the Optapus who was very smart also taught her the brainy games like chess, which the ordinary Housefly could never figure out, so to make them laugh because they looked so serious when they played this game, she would snatch the Capetilla’s white queen with a scream, rush it into the Optapus’s black army and run them all down as both the Capetilla and the Optapus laughed with glee! The Capetilla would demand the family hug and all three would come together at her call.
But the silly games would still be played and sometimes when she would not want to go to school, the Capetilla would run and hide under the big Optapus’s blanket so that the Housefly would not find her. But she did, and she would get the Capetilla ready just in time. You see, the Housefly might have been plain but she was hardworking and she had learned well from the Optapus about being responsible. She learned that you have to know what is important in life and work hard for it…so work she did, the plain Housefly who did not seem to have any colors.
As time flew, the Capetilla understood that she must work towards becoming the lovely butterfly she is destined to be, no matter the pain she felt about giving up the play. She knew that she could touch all the people around her with all the wisdom and beauty she had. So she stretched out the many hands she had and held it out to the people she loved with her big heart, so that she might show them the way to make their life better.
As she saw the Capetilla stretch out her hands, the plain Housefly reached out to hold on and she began to learn that apart from the shades of grays, she did have colors deep inside of her and slowly she began to let all the colors bloom in her ordinary world
But for the smart Optapus, his dreams were made of stuff more than the ordinary. His horizons stretched into places unknown. He did not realize that the world tickled his body just enough to make it feel good for a while. He never cared to think that that the world out there did not care for his soul and so the Optapus went deep into the world’s cold ocean of life far, far away. For him, the search was long and lonely but he was strong and smart. As he left, the wise little Capetilla wondered if the Optapus could hear the words of the Housefly as she sang:
“Oh won't you stay, stay awhile
With your own ones.
Don't ever stray,
Stray so far from your own ones.
For the world is so cold.
Don't care nothin' for your soul
You share with your own ones.
Don't rush away, rush away
From your own ones.
Just one more day, one more day
With your own ones.”*
*Irish Heartbeat by Van Morrison
The Capetilla just never wanted to grow up. She bounced around playing all the games she could with the Optapus. In a game of hide and seek, she would hide in a corner and over up her face…she thought if I can’t see myself, then no one can see me! Of course the Optapus would get her out and hug her with his warm tentacles and together they would laugh…he always made the Capetilla and the Housefly feel safe and protected. They made up more games like the Bridge game and the Running around the table game and the Just dancing wild game. But the Optapus who was very smart also taught her the brainy games like chess, which the ordinary Housefly could never figure out, so to make them laugh because they looked so serious when they played this game, she would snatch the Capetilla’s white queen with a scream, rush it into the Optapus’s black army and run them all down as both the Capetilla and the Optapus laughed with glee! The Capetilla would demand the family hug and all three would come together at her call.
But the silly games would still be played and sometimes when she would not want to go to school, the Capetilla would run and hide under the big Optapus’s blanket so that the Housefly would not find her. But she did, and she would get the Capetilla ready just in time. You see, the Housefly might have been plain but she was hardworking and she had learned well from the Optapus about being responsible. She learned that you have to know what is important in life and work hard for it…so work she did, the plain Housefly who did not seem to have any colors.
As time flew, the Capetilla understood that she must work towards becoming the lovely butterfly she is destined to be, no matter the pain she felt about giving up the play. She knew that she could touch all the people around her with all the wisdom and beauty she had. So she stretched out the many hands she had and held it out to the people she loved with her big heart, so that she might show them the way to make their life better.
As she saw the Capetilla stretch out her hands, the plain Housefly reached out to hold on and she began to learn that apart from the shades of grays, she did have colors deep inside of her and slowly she began to let all the colors bloom in her ordinary world
But for the smart Optapus, his dreams were made of stuff more than the ordinary. His horizons stretched into places unknown. He did not realize that the world tickled his body just enough to make it feel good for a while. He never cared to think that that the world out there did not care for his soul and so the Optapus went deep into the world’s cold ocean of life far, far away. For him, the search was long and lonely but he was strong and smart. As he left, the wise little Capetilla wondered if the Optapus could hear the words of the Housefly as she sang:
“Oh won't you stay, stay awhile
With your own ones.
Don't ever stray,
Stray so far from your own ones.
For the world is so cold.
Don't care nothin' for your soul
You share with your own ones.
Don't rush away, rush away
From your own ones.
Just one more day, one more day
With your own ones.”*
*Irish Heartbeat by Van Morrison
The Festival of Lights
“How come if it’s all about lights, that’s it so noisy?” Good question, wise niece, but it’s not just noisy it is NOISY all in uppercase and it is nosily noisy because the noise noses into our sleep which is already not all that noiseless what with the hundred and one noisy thoughts that are knocking and bursting around in our heads. But it’s just once a year and everyone decides to go about celebrating Diwali their own way. With rangolis, with diyas, with biryani, with sparklers, and firecrakers that end with a boom or without a whimper.
Gone are the days when you went with one uncle to shop for crackers, hide the loot and then beg another uncle to buy you more. The more the uncles and aunts, the merrier because we in India still had one set of parents…not yet graduated into the step and the half of parenthood. However, you had two sets of grandparents, so you tapped one set and then the other. Then your parents were duty bound to buy you firecrackers as well and boy were you going to hang around them to remind them of their duties. So at the end of all the procurement exercises, you had a satisfying heist and you began sunning it daily with concentrated responsibility that your parents wished you showed when you studied Math.
And then came Diwali…oh the much awaited day when you began with seven diyas near the tulsi and went on to light up the entire house with diyas and candles. You had all the conniving cousins over with their collection, which was probably the result of a heist conducted in a similar manner as your own. Those were the days…of the endless sparklers, earthen flowerpots as well as the conical paper ones, the Chinese crackers, the gory black snake tablets that oozed out black ash that crumbled with a prod, the chakris that spun on the floor as you danced dodging the sparks. For the more adventurous among us, it was the tal-patra patakas made from the palmyra trees while the less brave were content lighting the colored matchsticks and the plain phuljharis. Everything was a matter of togetherness from the clothes to the dinners and we thought of nothing about taxing our mothers and aunts who ended up doing all the work and were tired at the end of it all.
That was then. Now Diwali is a whirl of statements. A statement on one’s wealth—the earth shaking 1000 laddi, the 3000 rupees each firework that creates patterns in the sky and the Diwali parties to die for. A statement against child labour—a day of thought for the underage workers in the firework industry…you don’t burst any crackers today because you want to spare them a thought that will be gone tomorrow. A statement against pollution—you settle for the quiet among the crackers for yourself and listen to the entire neighborhood’s frenzy of explosions. In this world of statements, we forget to really savour the moment of fun, or understand the symbolism of the lights, make it meaningful by splashing in the togetherness, and miss the chance to have another memorable Diwali. It just came and it went, like any other festival does.
Then there are those light up the neighbour’s coconut tree. “It was a genuine accident—the rocket swerved from its orbit and made a bonfire of the coconut tree. We did in no way want to make an issue of it, after all it could have been planted by a great grandfather or his ancestors, so we just sauntered inside innocently and rushed out again to alert them to call for a fire engine”, said the inadvertent arsonist. “It was a terribly damp Diwali for them considering that their bedrooms were flooded”, she continued, “But our children were delighted to see the fire engine and all the firemen at work. So there was some learning in it after all”.
Hope you all had a memorably happy and safe Diwali?
Gone are the days when you went with one uncle to shop for crackers, hide the loot and then beg another uncle to buy you more. The more the uncles and aunts, the merrier because we in India still had one set of parents…not yet graduated into the step and the half of parenthood. However, you had two sets of grandparents, so you tapped one set and then the other. Then your parents were duty bound to buy you firecrackers as well and boy were you going to hang around them to remind them of their duties. So at the end of all the procurement exercises, you had a satisfying heist and you began sunning it daily with concentrated responsibility that your parents wished you showed when you studied Math.
And then came Diwali…oh the much awaited day when you began with seven diyas near the tulsi and went on to light up the entire house with diyas and candles. You had all the conniving cousins over with their collection, which was probably the result of a heist conducted in a similar manner as your own. Those were the days…of the endless sparklers, earthen flowerpots as well as the conical paper ones, the Chinese crackers, the gory black snake tablets that oozed out black ash that crumbled with a prod, the chakris that spun on the floor as you danced dodging the sparks. For the more adventurous among us, it was the tal-patra patakas made from the palmyra trees while the less brave were content lighting the colored matchsticks and the plain phuljharis. Everything was a matter of togetherness from the clothes to the dinners and we thought of nothing about taxing our mothers and aunts who ended up doing all the work and were tired at the end of it all.
That was then. Now Diwali is a whirl of statements. A statement on one’s wealth—the earth shaking 1000 laddi, the 3000 rupees each firework that creates patterns in the sky and the Diwali parties to die for. A statement against child labour—a day of thought for the underage workers in the firework industry…you don’t burst any crackers today because you want to spare them a thought that will be gone tomorrow. A statement against pollution—you settle for the quiet among the crackers for yourself and listen to the entire neighborhood’s frenzy of explosions. In this world of statements, we forget to really savour the moment of fun, or understand the symbolism of the lights, make it meaningful by splashing in the togetherness, and miss the chance to have another memorable Diwali. It just came and it went, like any other festival does.
Then there are those light up the neighbour’s coconut tree. “It was a genuine accident—the rocket swerved from its orbit and made a bonfire of the coconut tree. We did in no way want to make an issue of it, after all it could have been planted by a great grandfather or his ancestors, so we just sauntered inside innocently and rushed out again to alert them to call for a fire engine”, said the inadvertent arsonist. “It was a terribly damp Diwali for them considering that their bedrooms were flooded”, she continued, “But our children were delighted to see the fire engine and all the firemen at work. So there was some learning in it after all”.
Hope you all had a memorably happy and safe Diwali?
Monday, October 1, 2007
The 'S'ides of September
There is something about September that always makes me say “Don’t come, September, please don’t come”. As August ends, apprehension sets in and it’s always those lines from an U2 song that come to mind:
September... streets capsizing...
spilling over down the drain
...shards of glass splinters like rain
But you could only feel your own pain...
It’s a flyover in the heart of Hyderabad meant to ease the traffic and make your life free of the snarls. Tell that to the ones trapped under it one Sunday September evening as the colossal beams and pillars crushed life out of them. You prayed that people you loved were not around it, but the unknown lifeless faces you saw under the rubble are ones you have got to know now and can’t forget. You survived.
Pain of losing whatever you valued. No, it was not perfect what you had. Yes, it was already on fragile foundations…but you held it up, and you held on tight and one September it was swept away. You survived.
Lord Ganesh is setting off to his watery end and your flowering plant has finally bloomed on a sunny September day. You delightedly examine the white little star like flowers that are stretching out to say hello to the morning sun and then suddenly you get a call about a car crash. A loss of a cherished guardian…you weep, you grieve, and years pass. You survived.
Another bright September morning in Santa Clara, the TV beamed pictures of the Twin Towers collapsing. Death, anguish, destruction and those who watched also began breaking into pieces becoming one with the bricks, mortar, and melted steel. You survived.
For those who survive, what survives along with them is the pain. However much you tell yourself and others that what counts are the happy memories, along with the happy memories come the sad, bad and mean ones too. Forgetting is what you can add as the 13th labor for Hercules—cleaning out the Augean Stables was probably easier.
You survived so that you may see many more Septembers—all sides of it—the birthdays, the world cup, the end of term fun after one finally gets over the report card, and the fact that it heralds the arrival of October—the Devi's time to be celebrated. Here's to life! Here's to how it must go on...for those of us who are its survivors!
September... streets capsizing...
spilling over down the drain
...shards of glass splinters like rain
But you could only feel your own pain...
It’s a flyover in the heart of Hyderabad meant to ease the traffic and make your life free of the snarls. Tell that to the ones trapped under it one Sunday September evening as the colossal beams and pillars crushed life out of them. You prayed that people you loved were not around it, but the unknown lifeless faces you saw under the rubble are ones you have got to know now and can’t forget. You survived.
Pain of losing whatever you valued. No, it was not perfect what you had. Yes, it was already on fragile foundations…but you held it up, and you held on tight and one September it was swept away. You survived.
Lord Ganesh is setting off to his watery end and your flowering plant has finally bloomed on a sunny September day. You delightedly examine the white little star like flowers that are stretching out to say hello to the morning sun and then suddenly you get a call about a car crash. A loss of a cherished guardian…you weep, you grieve, and years pass. You survived.
Another bright September morning in Santa Clara, the TV beamed pictures of the Twin Towers collapsing. Death, anguish, destruction and those who watched also began breaking into pieces becoming one with the bricks, mortar, and melted steel. You survived.
For those who survive, what survives along with them is the pain. However much you tell yourself and others that what counts are the happy memories, along with the happy memories come the sad, bad and mean ones too. Forgetting is what you can add as the 13th labor for Hercules—cleaning out the Augean Stables was probably easier.
You survived so that you may see many more Septembers—all sides of it—the birthdays, the world cup, the end of term fun after one finally gets over the report card, and the fact that it heralds the arrival of October—the Devi's time to be celebrated. Here's to life! Here's to how it must go on...for those of us who are its survivors!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
And the Rakhi goes to...
He’s given his sister an iPod and as he gets out of the car, loads his humungous suitcases (full of pieces of America that he will share with everybody he knows) on an airport trolley, he tells her, “This is not a time for understanding—there will be a lot of noise. So fill your life with music instead.” His sister drives off after a quick wave and a lump in her throat. She turns on the iPod to drown the tears that threaten her eyes and this is what she hears…
“Sail on Silver girl,
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
And If you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.”*
*Bridge over Troubled Water, Paul Simon
“Sail on Silver girl,
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
And If you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.”*
*Bridge over Troubled Water, Paul Simon
The World in Pink
You can see the world in a grain of sand or through rose tinted glasses. You can view it with your jaundiced best yellow, but have you ever seen the world in pink? Not that Pink is a favorite with me—a bete noire rather. Probably because of the stereotyping associated with it to format little girls from birth into sugar and spice and all things nice…yada, yada, yada.
Then you open your eyes on a rare cheerful Monday morning (because you met your deadlines on Friday…yeah!) and you find that your kid can’t open hers. They are stuck. You splash water, use a hot compress to pry them open and what finally look back at you are slits of pink that are anything but your child’s clear, bright, ‘why-why’ eyes! It can’t be—yes it is—she’s got the Pink Eye! The first few moments you try and retrace the steps of how it happened…a best pal got it; best pal’s mother got it before that. She’s a school teacher and must have had the little tykes around her sneezing and coughing on her face. “What can I do? They even feel that the sole purpose of my dupatta is for them to blow their noses on…I suddenly hear weird noises and turn to see my little ones trumpeting into it.” The cause has been established and now it’s time for damage control. Call to the doctor, drive to four medicine shops who don’t have the necessary eye drops. There is an epidemic on, I guess. The fifth—a dark dingy germ infested one does—beggars can’t be choosers so you buy it, along with a mild ‘preventive’ eye drop for yourself and bottle of sanitizer. You stand kid in a corner, hand her a pair of dark glasses and explain that you will have to play a game of dodge with her as you cannot possibly contract this color at all—you simply do not like pink. She looks on like a forlorn, nine-year old James Bond in dark glasses as you delineate the required rules of segregation—family later accuses you of apartheid but you don’t want to see in pink and would rather risk them seeing red.
Your colleagues definitely wouldn’t want you at work with traces of the pink hanging over you and thank god for a boss who is woman enough to understand the working mom. So you log on from home, only to have your kid walk up to your desk and ask, “What do I do?” Go and read a book which has a big enough print. 45 minutes later, “What do I do now?” Play something—go and pretend that you are Pinky the Pirate, off on a mission with Capt. Jack Sparrow or something like that. You asked for it. Out comes a Yankee Doodle with dark glasses and a wide brimmed straw hat, galloping on a badminton racquet singing, yes, you guessed it—‘Yankee Doodle’! It is sung in various permutations and combinations and at varied tempos. So inspired is she that she even thinks of setting up Yankee Doodle communities. After an hour, she comes up and suggests that you have worked enough and that now you should play with her. You remind her that its the way you earn to pay rent and buy the antibiotic eye drops that are due in her eyes now. She runs and hides the bottle. You find it and drag kid from under bed and do the necessary evil of dropping the medicine in her eyes to her shouts of “It stings!” Well, that’s what the pink eye brings.
Once back at your desk you get a half an hour of peace that the drops buy you and then she’s back. This time the suggestion is, “Just sit at the desk and work like you are doing right now and play ‘Koffee with Karan’ with me—you can pretend to be any film star you want to be and I’ll interview you”. Can I be a Count Dracula, I think with a very cold, chilling stare. “Or from the icy cold look in your eyes, Mimi, we could call the program ‘Sorbet with Sujata’, she says with a chuckle (she knows she is safe because I am maintaining a distance with the pink). At least she has a way with words. Finally, I give in to a game of ‘I Spy’. The only difference being that she begins with, “I spy with my little pink eye…” We spy as much as we can, sitting in the balcony and move on to reading the clouds. We actually spot a smile in the sky. What you are smiling at, I wonder—I have to be homed in, and live in fear of this little pink eye. Or may be it’s a sign I won’t get it, I hope.
Three days and I’m still safe. The domestic help walks in with pink puffed eyes—I unceremoniously walk her out and use generous amounts of sanitizer on the door knob and broomsticks. I’ve played dodge very well so far. I have been using the ‘preventive’ eye drops, kept all the pink-eyed ones at a distance and even slept with sunglasses on. Once her eyes are wide open and clear, kid goes back to school, relieved that she can now be in the more entertaining company of her peers. As I wake up, I am relieved that I haven’t got the pink slip yet considering I’ve been working from home and then…I can’t open my eyes! “Time to play dodge with you, Mimi?” grins the wide, why-why eyed kid. “You are the reason”, I sms in retaliation to the friend who started it all and she calls back on her way to work saying, “Think of it as an Annual Maintenance Program for your eyes.” Sister of friend calls with an I-told-you-she-is-the-reason subject line and informs me that all and sundry are seeing pink, even those who talked to her over the phone and live in other states—may be even other countries. I’m beginning to actually get a feeling that if you don't pass it on, it doesn't get cured…kind of like a chain email you hem and haw about deleting because of the bad luck it may bring if you did not pass it on. I got a cheery sms from The Reason asking me how the Annual Eye Maintenance Program was going. I replied “In swollen proportions”. Should have added pink to it.
Moral of the Story: Pink se panga nahi lene ka.
Then you open your eyes on a rare cheerful Monday morning (because you met your deadlines on Friday…yeah!) and you find that your kid can’t open hers. They are stuck. You splash water, use a hot compress to pry them open and what finally look back at you are slits of pink that are anything but your child’s clear, bright, ‘why-why’ eyes! It can’t be—yes it is—she’s got the Pink Eye! The first few moments you try and retrace the steps of how it happened…a best pal got it; best pal’s mother got it before that. She’s a school teacher and must have had the little tykes around her sneezing and coughing on her face. “What can I do? They even feel that the sole purpose of my dupatta is for them to blow their noses on…I suddenly hear weird noises and turn to see my little ones trumpeting into it.” The cause has been established and now it’s time for damage control. Call to the doctor, drive to four medicine shops who don’t have the necessary eye drops. There is an epidemic on, I guess. The fifth—a dark dingy germ infested one does—beggars can’t be choosers so you buy it, along with a mild ‘preventive’ eye drop for yourself and bottle of sanitizer. You stand kid in a corner, hand her a pair of dark glasses and explain that you will have to play a game of dodge with her as you cannot possibly contract this color at all—you simply do not like pink. She looks on like a forlorn, nine-year old James Bond in dark glasses as you delineate the required rules of segregation—family later accuses you of apartheid but you don’t want to see in pink and would rather risk them seeing red.
Your colleagues definitely wouldn’t want you at work with traces of the pink hanging over you and thank god for a boss who is woman enough to understand the working mom. So you log on from home, only to have your kid walk up to your desk and ask, “What do I do?” Go and read a book which has a big enough print. 45 minutes later, “What do I do now?” Play something—go and pretend that you are Pinky the Pirate, off on a mission with Capt. Jack Sparrow or something like that. You asked for it. Out comes a Yankee Doodle with dark glasses and a wide brimmed straw hat, galloping on a badminton racquet singing, yes, you guessed it—‘Yankee Doodle’! It is sung in various permutations and combinations and at varied tempos. So inspired is she that she even thinks of setting up Yankee Doodle communities. After an hour, she comes up and suggests that you have worked enough and that now you should play with her. You remind her that its the way you earn to pay rent and buy the antibiotic eye drops that are due in her eyes now. She runs and hides the bottle. You find it and drag kid from under bed and do the necessary evil of dropping the medicine in her eyes to her shouts of “It stings!” Well, that’s what the pink eye brings.
Once back at your desk you get a half an hour of peace that the drops buy you and then she’s back. This time the suggestion is, “Just sit at the desk and work like you are doing right now and play ‘Koffee with Karan’ with me—you can pretend to be any film star you want to be and I’ll interview you”. Can I be a Count Dracula, I think with a very cold, chilling stare. “Or from the icy cold look in your eyes, Mimi, we could call the program ‘Sorbet with Sujata’, she says with a chuckle (she knows she is safe because I am maintaining a distance with the pink). At least she has a way with words. Finally, I give in to a game of ‘I Spy’. The only difference being that she begins with, “I spy with my little pink eye…” We spy as much as we can, sitting in the balcony and move on to reading the clouds. We actually spot a smile in the sky. What you are smiling at, I wonder—I have to be homed in, and live in fear of this little pink eye. Or may be it’s a sign I won’t get it, I hope.
Three days and I’m still safe. The domestic help walks in with pink puffed eyes—I unceremoniously walk her out and use generous amounts of sanitizer on the door knob and broomsticks. I’ve played dodge very well so far. I have been using the ‘preventive’ eye drops, kept all the pink-eyed ones at a distance and even slept with sunglasses on. Once her eyes are wide open and clear, kid goes back to school, relieved that she can now be in the more entertaining company of her peers. As I wake up, I am relieved that I haven’t got the pink slip yet considering I’ve been working from home and then…I can’t open my eyes! “Time to play dodge with you, Mimi?” grins the wide, why-why eyed kid. “You are the reason”, I sms in retaliation to the friend who started it all and she calls back on her way to work saying, “Think of it as an Annual Maintenance Program for your eyes.” Sister of friend calls with an I-told-you-she-is-the-reason subject line and informs me that all and sundry are seeing pink, even those who talked to her over the phone and live in other states—may be even other countries. I’m beginning to actually get a feeling that if you don't pass it on, it doesn't get cured…kind of like a chain email you hem and haw about deleting because of the bad luck it may bring if you did not pass it on. I got a cheery sms from The Reason asking me how the Annual Eye Maintenance Program was going. I replied “In swollen proportions”. Should have added pink to it.
Moral of the Story: Pink se panga nahi lene ka.
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