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

I love him....and he does not like Sambhar....!

....so what? The yet-to-be married would question! Love will anchor you, what does Sambhar have to do when there is love? It has to. The married friends may agree.

I am Meenakshi, A Tam-Brahm (Tamil Brahmin) born in Tirunelvali, nurtured within a joint family, nourished with love, care, Karnatic music and Sambhar. Do not misunderstand me; I do not go about talking about my caste and religion to everyone I meet. But for the benefit of the story, I have to.

Well, after completing my BA in my home town, I proceeded to Mumbai for an MA and then my life changed forever.

There I met Shubhro, an aspiring Bengali architect and fell in love with him. And married him. So do I say, “Aur khatam ho gayee story?” No Friends, my story begins here.

Before the wedding, I often visited Madhu and Keshav, my friends, who were already married. I shared my deepest secrets, wildest dreams and worst fears with them. I also remember saying, “Shubhro and I think alike. We have no difference, except for the difference in food taste.” Madhu warned, “Wait and see how that difference proves to be a larger than life one!” I ignored her. Love will sail us through, I convinced myself!

After the marriage, I visited my in-laws’ rural household at Bardhaman. Relatives from far and near arrived to meet the MADRASI bahu.

“I am not from Madras, you see!” I tried to explain, “I am from Tirunelveli!” To that, the elder ladies said, “Oi holo...” which translated literally, implies, “It is all the same, dear!” but the attitude was more of, “Who cares...” and I was hurt! But then, to them, Madras was a Geographical area in the south India, which contained in itself, Karnataka, Kerala, Andhra...whatever. And residents of these areas, Madrasis.

But the younger generation listened to the interesting stories of my hometown and the young girls were interested in the herbal paste I used for bath and the saris I wore.

My palate was in for a shock, for sure. I have been a pure vegetarian throughout my life and here I was in a household where not one vegetarian meal could be thought of. If I chose only dal-chawal, there was the fish head in the dal and if I chose curry, I found shrimps with bottle gourd.

But my considerate in-laws helped me tide over those days and took extra care to prepare special vegetarian dishes for me but in that one month at Bardhaman, my tongue started tingling for tamarind taste.

Back in Mumbai after the holiday, I was on my own to cook whatever I liked and live as I wanted to. Or so I thought!

I was by then getting used to sharing a bed with another person; I was also, after a few protests getting used to Shubhro waking up in the morning and switching off the fan before leaving the room! He would often forget, he explained, that there was someone else in the room too!

My culinary skills were ready for the new challenge. So day after day I would prepare the best of Sambhar, rasam, curries but I also noticed that day after day Shubhro’s appetite was decreasing.


The cat was let out slowly. He did not enjoy Sambhar, he said. Ok, so I cooked Sambhar for myself and made dal for him, but he wanted Masoor dal, he said. So I had to cook two different dals.

I had decided to be a full-time home manager and thus took over the entire job of managing the household and kitchen on my own. So, Shubhro, once a great cook, as claimed by him, had to remain out of my work-station.

So began our new life with our new journey. I could not figure out why he wanted that sugar and cardamom in the potato curry and he was shocked to find that the spinach was put into dal, he wanted it dry, he said. Now that I had the control of the kitchen, my Shubhro craved for fish, which by default was not brought in.

Gradually my work space was expanded to accommodate Shubho and his fish. He was not much of a meat-eater and about eggs, I had no problem in boiling one or two for his breakfast which satisfied him. But fish was an integral part of his life and now that I was also an integral part of him, he was faced with difficult choice to make!

My wise mother-in-law once narrated a small piece, in praise of the favourite Ilish (Hilsa) and Bengali’s love for it. She said, according to them, “The Himalayas lie at the summit of the earth, on the Himalayas, sits the Lord Shiva, from his head (summit) flows The Ganges and on the Ganges is the Ilish.” So, the Ilish is above all; above caste, creed, religion, sex. Thank you Ilish for delivering the message of equality among us.

This piece of wisdom dawned upon me and I thus welcomed the fish inside my kitchen. After all, Shubhro had never had a meal without fish and how could I expect him to do so, now?

So, gradually peace was restored. He of course enjoyed the idli-chutney as much as I loved the loochi (Poori). He enjoyed the aroma of filter coffee in the early morning and loved the lingering aroma of sandal wood paste in our bath room. Whenever I was down with the cold and flu, Shubhro would prepare a hot rasam and pamper me! But he could not develop any affinity for my humble sambhar and I continued running for life whenever the fish was fried in the mustard oil. Now that was double offence: fish and then the mustard oil!

There were some other differences which we never spoke about to each other too. I would often wish that he would read with me, Eric Segal, after dinner and he remained stuck to my Sauten, the television. I sulked for a few days and when I confronted, he said, how he wished I watch the Indiana Jones series sitting by his side! Oh, both of us had hidden wishes which never were vocalised.

“Shout at each other but don’t sulk!” Madhu and Keshav advised us and we immediately complied.

So amidst our agreement on quarrels, dislikes, differences, we also discovered how similarly we thought about our future, how alike we were in thoughts about what our children should watch on TV and we had no differences while deciding that both his and my parents should be with us at their old age. We shared the same passion for music, only if, he said, I could understand the Rabindra-sangeet he sung for me, I wished he understood Thiruvasagam lyrics but we enjoyed music so Tagore or Thiruvasagam, we drowned ourselves in the ocean of bliss!

And the roads we treaded may be similar to the ones most of the couples have done but for us, it was for the first time.



Two weeks from now, we will be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. We have two beautiful angelic children. My daughter is a prodigy in Karnatic music while my son does the honours for his dad, cooking up the best of fish-dishes. He aspires to be a cook, he says.

No I do not eat or cook fish yet. But I love this fish-eater called my husband. And well, he continues disliking Sambhar till date.......










Photo from internet

इकरार

आईना देखकर शरमा गई
जैसे किसी ने कुछ दर्ज़ किया
चेहरे पर, कोई ग़ज़ल

पैर जैसे आसमाँ पर
मन सपनों के डेरे में

आपके सवाल का क्या करूँ?
कहाँ रखूँ इसे?

सर पे बिठाऊँ,
हथेली में छुपा लूँ,
या आँखों में बसा लूँ इसे?

ज़रा रोक कर तेज़ धड़कन को,
ज़रा साँसों को थाम कर,
लो.. जवाब देती हूँ मैं,


हाँ, मैं बनूंगी जीवन-संगिनी तुम्हारी....



04 November 2011
Anindita

Photograph: From Internet

धीरे चलो.....

जितनी भड़कती है चिनगारी
उतना जलता है आशियाना
भर जाने पर पानी बहुत
रिस जाता है मिट्टी का टीला

छलक जाता है पैमाना
गर भर जाए ज़रूरत से ज़्यादा

थक जाओगे अगर दौड़ो
इस तेज़ी से तुम
ज़रा मध्यम रहे
कदम तुम्हारे, दोस्त!


कि ज़िन्दा रहे देर तक
ज़िन्दादिली तुम्हारी
और थके नहीं आँखें
रास्ते की लम्बाई को देखकर


Anindita
Written on 16.11.96


Photograph: From Internet

My humble salutation to Gurudev

On the occasion of his 150th Birth Anniversary, I gathered up enough courage to write some lines. I am too small to write anything about Gurudev so I decided to pen down only about my experience with Gurudev’s works.

I was introduced to Gurudev when I was a baby. I knew him as the man with interesting hairstyle, a long beard and intense eyes, in that large photograph in the drawing room of our quarter at Ranchi. That photograph never ceased to send some waves of awe as well as fear, perhaps because of that long beard. I remember a dream when I was a child; I dreamt that Baba and I were onboard a bus and he pointed towards a person saying, “Look, Rabindranath is travelling in the same bus” and I saw this man with that same long beard, counting some cash! I talked about my strange dream in the morning and my Ma only smiled.

Later, Gurudev came into life in the form of institutionalised, organised music school affiliated to the Rabindra Bharati. However, even before that, I was already growing up fantasising holidays as ‘Aaj dhaaner khete, rodru chhayaaye...” and admiring the mystery of ‘Aalo amaar aalo’., courtesy my mother. And my music teacher introduced me further into Rabindrasangeet.

At that age, I did not quite understand the meaning of those lyrics. ‘Aamraa shobaai raja..’ for me, was a beautiful, enjoyable song, the notations being simple, in Daadra tal which could for sure fetch me a distinction at the exam. However, my first song in presence of a crowd, I remember, was ‘Tumi kemon kore gaan koro hey guni!’ during my Part I examination when I was very small. The examiner and the room full of examinees appreciated my song. My last song sung in an exam was ‘Chorono dhoritey diyo go amaare...’ about 23 years ago! Everyone will agree that this is not an easy song to sing! With mind occupied with not missing the rhythm, following the tabla, I had sung it with low self confidence!

The best part of Rabindrasangeet to me, has been the Sanchari; I just loved the change in the tune and the graveness of the Sanchari. Be it, ‘Chomokibe phaagunero pobone...’ or ‘Chiro-pipaashito baashonaa bedonaa...’, I just loved to repeat the Sanchari again and again.

My academics changed into love, dedication and worship only after my vagabond spirit was released from the boundaries of organised learning. Strangely, only after I stopped taking lessons in music that I started enjoying it.

From songs, I was introduced to Gurudev’s dance-drama and of course poetry.

But Gurudev as the philosopher, I recognised only after I started my job-life. When life had rendered to me some share of sadness and happiness, loss as well as benevolence, I took a quiet shelter in his works.

During difficult days at work, Gurudev’s works based on the Upanishad were my source of sustenance. I went to work after listening to ‘Shobaaro majhaare tomaare sheekaar koribo hey...’, I marvelled at the infinity of the cosmic power with ‘Bhubono joraa aashono khaani...’, I gathered strength with, ‘Aamaar poraan binaaye ghumiye aache Amrito-gaan...’.

What attracted me most was that Gurudev’s writings on the Almighty never described any form; Almighty was not a man or a woman, not even a human form. The unending power was described as ‘Groho-taaroko chandro topono, byakulo druto bege, koriche snaano, koriche paano, Akkhyo kironey...’. Almighty was a ‘Satya-sundoro’.

Gurudev’s works helped me tide over my father’s death when I understood that death is the beginning of an eternal bliss with the ever present stream of light. ‘Amar ei deho khaani tule dhoro, tomaar ei devalay e prodeep koro..’ and thus I let go off my father knowing that one day I will also be one with that light!

At the border of India and Pakistan at Wagah, I once stood, questioning what made human beings divide and harvest aggression when we all are same. Gurudev’s words, ‘..where the world has not been broken into fragments by narrow domestic walls....’ strengthened my thoughts and I believed that I was not wrong!

Gurudev has thus been in every nuance that life has offered. What could be more passionate than ‘Momo hridayo rokto-raage tobo chorono diyechi raangiyaa’ and ‘......tobo odhoro ekechi shudha-bishe mishe momo shukho-dukho bhangiyaa’.

What could be a more retiring submission than, ‘Nijo haatey tumi gete niyo haar, phelonaa amaare chhhoraaye...!’

I had sung this song 23 years ago with a low confidence, in presence of the examiner but today when I stand before no examiner but only before the Almighty, tears do not stop while humming, ‘Bikaaye, bikaaye dino aaponaare, paari na phiritey duyaare duyaare..’ when I am tired but then Gurudev is there to lift up the spirit with, ‘Klaanti amaar khoma koro Prabhu..’

So here I am, in full awe and inspiration with Gurudev but not one bit of ability to write about the great Philosopher.

In love, worship, music, prayer and life’s rhythm, my humble salutation to GURUDEV!

बन्दगी

हो इबादत ऐसी मेरी
कि जुस्तजु न हो पूरी
रहूँ तेरी तलाश में हर पल
यह प्यास रहे यूँ अधुरी

तु नूर है या है हवा
तु मुझमें है तो मैं कौन हूँ?
दोस्त है क्या, रक़ीब कौन है?
तु हर चीज़ में है तो ग़ैर कौन है?

इन्हीं सवालों से रहे हर पल
शाद-शाद मेरी बन्दगी
हज़ारों सवाल, कई जवाबों से
रहे यूँ आबाद मेरी ज़िन्दगी


Anindita Baidya
5 May 2011

Photograph: from internet