Bringing up Dad...!!

Yes, I had a tough time bringing him up and he has still not grown.



He thinks otherwise. He feels, I have not grown yet and addresses me as he used to, when I was a skinny, worm-infested, thin-armed 8 year old boy.

‘Chhilkaa...!’(Hindi: छिलका), that’s how he addresses me even now. In presence of my wife, my children and my in-laws, he addresses me as ‘Chhilka’. He meant that I was not skinny, but was a skin...! does he still think the same about his 74 kilos, 43 years small little boy? We need to ask him.

We need to ask him many things. One day I will, surely and tell him how tough it was to bring him up.

When I was a child, Babu (as I address my father) embarrassed me when he arrived at the Parents’-Teachers’ meeting in his blue factory worker suit, straight from his factory, riding his heavy Hercules bi-cycle, which had a black hard seat with no cover. And in the campus of the posh Saint Thomas High School, Babu became very prominent among the cars and two-wheeler owners. I often would refuse to accompany him around the school but then he would pull me by my ears and insist that I take him to the teachers. He never grew up!

Sometimes he visited my friends’ house along with me. I was embarrassed when he would sip the tea out of the saucer with a blissful ‘Sllllrupppp’ sound! So embarrassed I would be that I would pretend to be making that awful sound, just to make my friends and their families believe that I was the one who was ‘unpolished’ between the two.

Babu is an efficient and a very careful buyer. No, actually, I think he is obsessed with reading whatever is printed on the packing material. He would go through the MRP, date of Manufacture, Weight etc of a product t start with, next he would read the composition carefully and then the manufacturers. And he mastered the art. So much so that if you offered to try a new detergent, he would as well say that the new product also contains the same amount of Sodium tri polyphosphate but is costlier by Rs 16 and weighs actually 25 gm less! That was his accuracy. But that sometimes irritated me. When I would be down with fever, he would often prescribe the medicines by the Chemical Composition and I would fumble at the rack, looking for the right medicine bottle. He would also pick up un-read packets straight from the kitchen dustbin and dispose them only after he had memorised whatever was printed on those. No packing material could escape the scanning by Babu. He has not grown up from that too.

During the winters, he would often wear a simple shawl while chatting with the neighbours. At some point of time, in between, his eyes would fall on the antique Celsius thermometer hung above the equally antique television. Babu would look at the temperature and start feeling the chill; and then he would cover himself up with pull-over, socks, gloves and a grey monkey cap.

He did not have mercy on me when he met my Tamil girl friend. “Oh you are a Dravidian...” my wise Babu nodded. And then to my utter disgust, he continued, “So you worship Ravan and curse Ram?” Now, where from he had gathered the idea, I had no knowledge but surprisingly my girl friend and Babu struck instant rapport so much that anyone would doubt that Babu was the Ravan and this Dravidian worshipped him! He said yes to the matrimony and I got married to my Tamil girl friend. My Babu informed the relatives, “My daughter-in-law is from Tamil Nadu, which is a place in Madras.”

He continued to embarrass me by emerging out of the bathroom in his small towel, even in presence of my newly-wed bride! He managed to cook the most inedible stuff and praise his own skills. He even narrated to my wife, how he had caught me kissing the neighbourhood curly haired girl, when I was just 7.

“Did you HAVE to tell her that?” I confronted. To that the proud, broad-chested Babu answered, “So what! I have narrated this to your in-laws also!”

Surprisingly my wife and Babu have been the best of pals. To me he is still the merciless Babu who, according to me, left no stone un-turned to mortify me!

But then, I understand certain things now. I understand that Babu did not waste time to go home and get dressed in his best for my Parents’-Teachers’ meeting. He did not do it to avoid any pending work after the factory hours. He did not do it, so that he could be home on time, to look after me. To look after my food, to look after my studies.

With his meagre earning, he saved enough to send me to the best school in town and pay for my higher studies and build a cosy home for me. He cooked nutritious, however inedible food for me, played in the rain with me, taught me the bi-cycle, bought me the motor-bike and got me married to the girl I loved. He raised me, singly.

Yes, I understand certain things now. The blissful sound while sipping the tea was the result of the painful mouth ulcers he constantly had. He took care not to hurt his open ulcers and practically sucked the tea out of the saucer instead of sipping it. He was over-worked and poorly nourished and that’s why he always had those ulcers, the doctors said.

He was careful to save every extra penny to make my life better, I know now. I understand his wry sense of humour and understand why he has such a good rapport with my in-laws and my friends.
Babu is still the way he was. Today, when my children invite him to watch the old Bollywood songs on You-Tube, my Babu still writes a post-card to Vividh-Bharti to listen to his favourite numbers on Manchahi geet! And I must admit, all of us jump with excitement when Babu’s favourite Neemi Mishra on Vividh Bharti calls out, “Bokaro se Shri Jagadish Kumar ne Abhi toh main jawan hoo..sunnaa chaha hain...”

Yes, when we have an old baby like my Babu, who needs a grown up Dad anyway?

After all....
Zaheed yun hi badnaam hai
Gham se tujhe kyaa kaam hai
Yeh muskuraati zindagi
Zindaa dili ka naam hai
Dil dil se muskuraaye ja
Kuchh gaaye ja, bal-khaaye ja
Abhi to main jawaan hoon
Abhi toh main jawaan hoo


Anindita Baidya

Photograph: From Internet

Ek lamha, lautaa hai bechaaraa...

A poet and philosopher once mused, “Let go off the object of your love. If it comes back to you, it was always yours, if it doesn’t, it never was yours!” The poet, however, refrained from mentioning the time. When, when will it come back? How long will it take? Once the sun goes down, or after spending hundred moonlit nights of longing and pain or when the darkest hour of the night gives way to the first ray of light? When, when will it return?

Life and love travel on parallel paths, Ruhaani had learnt. Life had taken her hands sternly and led her way to a different path. The wounds she had secured for herself lay deep inside and not even a scar was visible.

How long would have she waited for that wandering bird?

Should she open the doors to a new ray of the sun or keep the darkness as a veil over her? She was posed with difficult choices to make, neither of them being even one bit easy.

She got no chance to answer or choose, though. In three years after her wanderer had left, she crossed the seas and built a new nest on a new branch.
Mrs Ruhaani Naqvi. She lived her life in Adelaide, was a doting mother and was Wasim’s love, life and wife.

She had crossed the seas, having taken away from the busy city of Lucknow, leaving behind the letters, photograph and memory of Amar, her wanderer, as she had named her.

But after thirty years, she returned. To Lucknow, to her home land. Her childhood memories played before her eyes and her youth still lingered around the courtyard of the old house. The laughter, the tears, the sound of the wedding band, all lived through, even though the moments had gone away!

And her love? Her wanderer? She had no clue. But she had one desire. The return to this familiar land had triggered familiar waves of craving in her heart. As if, a drop of rain had fallen on a parched piece of land and the little seeds inside sprouted to life.

She did not know why she planned a visit to that Old Boys’ Hostel, Room no 13 in the Engineering College. Just once. She warned herself, “Just Once.”

Thankfully the hostel was closed for the Summer Vacation. Ruhaani negotiated with the Security Officer and got a permission to visit Room No 13, for half an hour. And thus she went ahead.

As her feet treaded that path, moments hidden in oblivion thirty years ago, sprung into life, one by one. She touched a Vinca plant. The lost moments were still lying there. Picking up the lost moments, she went into the room

And there she froze for eternity. “Wanderer..!” she muttered, “Yes, here you sat and looked surprised when one day I walked into your room, demanding why you had just stopped sending me the letters. But I could not question you. Just looking at you I would always forget what I had in mind. So deep would be my trance that I could not even remember your face once I returned home. Why did that happen to me? But that day, I spent an hour with you. Thanks to the rain outside, I had to wait longer before bidding you good bye.”

Ruhaani sat for sometime in the neatly made bed. It did not belong to any student now and that is why she was allowed to make a visit to this room. Co-incidence? Or did fate know that she would return?

Ruhaani could almost see Amar in the yellow T-shirt and Black denim, sitting beside her. She found that the hours, days and years had ticked away but the moments were still scattered across the room, on Amar’s table, on Amar’s floor, on her fingers, on her hair. She could almost see the music system speaker which the budding engineer had made out of two earthen-pitchers.

She had never met Amar after that day. That was the day when the harsh reality was finally condensed in his dew laden words. That was the day when Amar said that he never thought of building a nest; he was all ready to fly over lanes, meadows and oceans, all alone.

Nest! Ruhaani had, but built a glass castle in her dreams. Amar’s words had broken her trance and with it broke the glass castle into thousand pieces and she stood on them, her feet bruised, bleeding and hurt. She had herself treaded on her own dreams.
Her spell was broken by the ring of her mobile phone. She suddenly found it too loud. Only half aware still, Ruhani picked up the phone. Aashif was on the line. She had planned this rendezvous with her lost moments, taking Aashif into confidence. Her friend, confidant, angel, Aashif had dropped her at the hostel gate before proceeding towards the railway station to pick up Wasim.

“Yes Aashif,” Ruhaani, now back to her full consciousness, said.
“Ammi, come to the gate, I have arrived. Abbu and I are waiting for you at the car.”
And Ruhaani proceeded homewards, with her family.



Anindita Baidya
Photographs: from the internet