Hum hi usske ishq ke qaabil na tthe
Kyun kisi zaalim ka shiqva keejiye...

Maakor Shah

...As she pranced nimbly on my delicately spun rainbow yarns, slurping and gobbling them up with merciless lascivity, relishing each yarn, as they vanished and melted in her mouth like candy-floss, I stood there watching: helplessly mute and unable to move. And remembered another such afternoon nine winters ago...

...When...

...As we lay curled in each other's arms, spent after hurried,  torrid love-making on the bedless cold floor, his fingers lazily reached for the lonely fold of the pillar where a web dangled precariously-an intricately woven cobweb...

Carelessly, as he stroked my hair with his other hand, he un-spun the web,  string by string...And even as I snuggled closer in his arms, I could see Maakor Shah from the corner of my eye, as she stood only some fingers away, watching with helpless mute fear glistening in her eyes, as we razed her home in casual frolic...yarn by yarn...



Images: Odilon Redon (Top: The Smiling Spider; Bottom: The Crying Spider)

Pencilling...

Smoking my pencil away,
Billowing smokes of ashen crumbs...

I'm un-spinning my yarns on a shardy coil.

Aamader bondhura ki akhan Tomaader bondhu?
Arijit, Atanu, Kingshuk, Shinjini...
Era ki akhan tomader Ora bole?

A Fine Balance: A Review

‘A Fine Balance’ is the first book of Rohinton Mistry’s that I read. The blurb itself, promising a saga of the life and times during the Emergency in India, served as reason enough for me to try out this author whose works had hitherto been unknown to me. Set in one of the more turbulent epochs of post-independent India-the 1970’s-the very choice of time therefore, held the promise of holding me in complete enthrallment. For someone like me, who had so far had only vague ideas about the period of Emergency, construed from incomplete snippets-oral, pictorial or literary-the book proved to be an enriching experience, not least because of its empirically informative character. Sewn together through the experiences of the four main protagonists-Dina Dalal, Manek Kohlah, Ishwar Darji and Omprakash Darji-the book tells the story of their widely disparate lives at the crossroads of the emergency. How the lives of such vastly different people come to collide, converge and then diverge in ways unimaginable, is narrated with the tender pathos of someone who necessarily was a witness, and in many ways, a victim of the times: A time that made him a sufferer not solely because of the reign of terror and abject anarchy that the state of internal emergency had unleashed, but also, far more poignantly, for his deep yearning for times gone by-times both utopic and idyllic. Mistry’s lament for this slippery thing called time and its relapsing into that illusive thing called memory, recurs like a refrain at intervals throughout the book, and I have to say that these are the portions that make for some of the most beautifully crafted words in the book, making of it a work of literature par excellence.

While towards the first half of the book, the mode of sliding into the histories of the four main characters back from the moment we first encounter them individually, becomes a tad tedious and predictable, the novel picks up pace from the time their lives get intertwined and they begin their journeys together. This however cannot take away from the fact that these make for some of the most compelling accounts of the contemporary socio-political fabric of India; from the miseries and brutalities of rural landscapes steeped deep in the muddle of caste-violence; to the world of the anglicized Parsis in the cosmopolitan city of Bombay; to the tale of their counterparts spread over more serene hilly backdrops, trying to come to terms with the departure of the British and the unfamiliar Congress-icized nation; the range that Mistry covers so faithfully, so painstakingly, proves his meticulous research tempered only by the warmth of a master wordsmith.

I must confess that various points in the book, especially when all four begin to live under one roof, and the circumstances that lead to it, seemed a little too naïve and unduly optimistic to be happening in real life. Especially the manner in which the tailors come to become integral kegs in the routine running of the house, functioning with the smoothness of their well-oiled sewing machines, doing nothing to disturb the rhythmic humdrum of the daily functioning, seemed tailor-made (no pun intended) for cinematic adaptation-the ones that were specially made to preach communal and racial amity in disturbing times. The characters of Shankar the beggar, his friendship with the tailors: the do-gooder goon called Beggarmaster; Ibrahim-the good at heart rent collector, all came across similarly as too good to be true.

As the narrative progressed however, I began to realize how wrong I was. The turn of events from the moment the four part ways (temporarily, for the reader), could not have been more bleak, washing away all gleams of hope and retribution that infact constituted the staple of mainstream cinema. I have a feeling, that the feel-good quotient had been consciously heightened and deliberately exaggerated in the previous parts, so as to make the bathos be felt with accentuated grief, with a cringing sting that haunted me long after Dina Dalal had returned to prepare dinner for the day. As a run-up to the bleak climax, the “optimism” I had hastily misconstrued as naïveté, proved to be just the right foil in the creation of a “fine balance”-as rooted in reality as possibly could be.

Street-Lighter

Everyday I would see the girl standing at her window, smoking. Because of the distance between us, all that the street-lamp allowed me to see was her silhouette, that laid bare a thinnish body, unruly curls and thin streams of smoke rising up.

Exactly ten minutes into her second cigarette, a car would appear into the lane that lay between her window and mine, and then turn in her direction: Only the hands of a man could be seen, as he waved out to the girl in his orange full-sleeves.

Tonight, just as she stubbed her second cigarette out, the lights of the car flashed near the far end of our lane; there it stopped longer than usual, and slowly swerved right-in the direction of my window.

I froze.

I looked up for the girl.
There she stood, snugly latched on to the orange full-sleeved arms of a man, both looking back at me with puzzled concern. As I kept squinting harder to figure the face of the man out, the cigarette-smoke from between my fingers kept clouding my vision more and more...

Cry City

There's no place in the city where one can go and cry in peace. Pee in peace, fornicate too, maybe...but cry...?

No place.

Woohoo to madness; Or boo to Suzanne

“And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there”.

Really, what was Cohen thinking?!?!! Men don’t want to be there because you’re half-crazy! They want to ‘stabilize’ you, ‘normalize’ you, make you fall in line. Madness won’t do: its overbearing, dahlin’. There must be method! So much method that even the half-sane part of you cries out in agony; so that, robbed clean of all traces of “abnormal”, “unsocial” ways, that bitter-sweet crazy little part of you is forced into the exile of complete raving “clinical” insanity.

Yeah, now she’s on your wavelength!

Calours!!!

Calcutta, the repeated-to-death City of Joy, is actually beyond just that. It is not within my vocabulary limits to even try and enunciate what I feel for her, what she means to me...So I resorted to capturing the visuals of the city through my camera, a humble mobile-phone camera, neither professional, nor fancy. But am happy, it was this meager instrument that I had with me, all the time, that helped me capture my city the way I wanted to.
For a long time now, I have seen photographic representations of Calcutta and have been deeply distressed at how it has been reduced to a set of visual archetypes...frankly, I was aching to break free of that mould...not to consciously do something "radically new", but to show to others the so many other faces of this city, that grows inch by inch...grows on you...




















Acknowledgment: I thank Sovik Jana from the bottom of my heart. The camera belongs to him, and he has let me keep it, never wanting it back. Thanks.

Mahishadal...ruins

These are images of the Mahishadal Rajbaari...or the palace of the once-royal house...now abandoned and decrepit...

Faces of Mahishadal

Mahishadal...
Is a small suburb in the district of Midnapore in West Bengal. These photographs were taken on my recent visit to this place, not very far away from Calcutta, and yet, vastly removed from the city in terms of the visuals it offers. Quaint, slow and idyllic, it offers the rush of a sudden vacation: much-wanted and much-cherished...
This series focuses on some of its people, seeped in conservatism, and uncomplaining, comfortable in its uncluttered uncomplicated simplicity...some of these images are identifiable by virtue of being so generic of all Bengali households, its rural ones, most certainly...

My job gives me a sense of purpose. It has regulated my indisciplined, directionless, wanton, wayward life. It has infused a rhythm, that with its consistent humming does not make life a dragging bore, but rather, calm and serene, much like a peaceful chant...

Awnaamni Awngonaa...

"Aami taar thhikaana raakhini, chhobio aankini..."

Ushko-khushko dheukhelano awbinyasto shoru chule paak dhorechhe...alga bnadhuni shawsta rubber band-ey bnadha...ajawtne kawra shnithite shnidurer bawdole dhulor puru astoron...khawshkhawshe shukno kankalshaar du-haat e churi kano, nidenpokkhe, Ishwarer koruna bawrshonkaari laal shuto'o nei...ek guchho shankha-pawla pawra haater shathe bus ba local train ey jakhan shei haat-o jhole, takhan jyano sheera gulo trishnaarto rukkho shikawrer mawto prokawt hoye thaake...

Doinik jibawner rathochawkrey pishte pishte, tawker aar ghawsha-maaja kawrar awbokaash paowa jaay na; obhimmaane tai shey shukno, knuchkano, awkaaley buriye jaowa...

Kawpaaler ghaam-daager rekha blouse er haatar bhnaaje bhnaaje taar chinho rekhechhe; kono ek-shamaye gaaye thhik hoto, akhan rugno knadh, sheerno haat ey dhawl dhawl kawre...shoru-perey maar-heen nyatano shaari shoreer ey pnechiye aanta...Chokhe mota frame er aaddikaaler chawshma, sharadiner klaanti lukote awpaarog holeo, awleek shawpno ar nishthur baastober majhe nirbhul prohoree hoye royechhe, taa aaj bohu bochhor holo...

Ticket theke gantabyo aanch korte parleo, konn goli, konn bari, thhikana ki, jaana gyalo na...
Shei barir kaw-tawla, kawtaa shniri, ke thaken, ke chhilen, taao na...

Kicchui na...
Shudhu mone holo, enr oteet hoyto amar bartomaan chhilo...
Aamar bhobishyoth, enri bartomaan...

You noticed how I faked like a woman...

I wish you had noticed the breaking down like a little girl...

Chitrangada rajkumaari...kaman na jaani...

I want a daughter. My own daughter. Conceived and nurtured in my own flesh and blood, in my womb.
But it is not enough for me to wish and desire and crave her. I need a man.
Somebody who might be kind enough to consent to parent her. Suiting his time, will, whim and fancy.
The irony!
I feel mad at such despondence, such helplessness.

I can adopt, I am told. I can, of course. But I don't want to! I do not want to be robbed of that beautiful experience of being a mother. Of becoming one. Biologically. Physically. Emotionally.

I do not wish to create her using someone's jerked-off expendable, either. I want to create her with the man I love, whom I choose to create her with. But why do I have to wait for when he may graciously do me that 'favour'?

Isn't there a third option?

I think there is. It is called having a love-child.
But do I have the guts to do what I want, defying what 10,000 other people don't? Do I want my Chitrangada badly enough?
...

Wishlist

1. Camera
2. Trip to Himachal/ Arunachal/ Nabadweep
3. Home.
My home. With white walls. And one red wall with a black and white Picasso mounted on it.
4. Daughter.
And a doggy. Same age. Piku-Jhoru will be there as supervising, overseeing, seniors.

Madhumaash!

Naam Nawborrha.

Boyesh, chobbish theke tirish er moddhye.

Thhikana, kolkata shahore natun khaat-paalonko-dressing table ey shajano, nichu ceiling er chhotto jhawkjhawke mosaic floor er flat!

Singapore, Malaysia, Bangkok-Pattaya ancholei, gawdogawdo 'showamir' haat ey jhuley porey, 'sight-seeing dekhte' ebawng 'shopping kinte'i shesh dyakha gechhilo.

Haariye jaowaar shamaye pawrone chhilo 'jeans er pant', ebawng khnaaje khnaje bhnaaje bhnaaje lepte thaaka "top", shorire shohager spawsto chinho jaate spawstotawro hoe phute othhe. Shnithite chhilo bhawra shnidur, dui haat bhorti shnaakha-pawla-ityaadi, ebawng gawlay kaalojirer mato jhilmil kawra mongol-shutro.

Niruddesshyo shamparke ghoshona ti shamapto holo.

Cacophony of discordant notes...mile sur mera tumhara

Many many years ago, they made a 'video' called 'Mile sur mera tumhara' for public broadcast on Doordarshan channel. Back then, in 1988, the concept of a video, or an audio-visual/song-n-dance, disembodied from a movie, was practically unheard of. Not surprisingly, of course, since the medium on which it was to be published, that of the television, itself was fairly new in India. By 1988, though, television sets had stopped being considered a one-off, a luxury that only a few could afford, and most houses had a set each. The middle-class, most certainly did!
The initiative for this video was taken by the Ministry of Infromation of India as part of an attempt to highlight the "Unity in Diversity" fact(or fiction) of India; A notion that the nation-state follows up in theory with an obsessive frenzy almost. A fanaticism with secularism, but a fanaticism, nonetheless. Something that had started with Bankim's Bandemataram, this idea seemed to catch on gradually and has, since then, become fairly popular and convenient-the idea of trying to highlight the fact of unity inspite of a mind-baffling range of diversities that make the nation India. From text-books to public messages, this is a point that has been driven home deftly. Or atleast such attempts have been indefatigable.
This video was obviously created towards that same end, of forging a sense of unity, of integrity among a people as different from each other as different could be. The medium chosen was the clincher, the secret behind its huge success then, and its lingering appeal today. Televison, for the first time, was carrying the same message across homes throughout the length and breadth of the subcontinent. Things were made even simpler since DD was then the only channel. How far the actual message was understood, is suspect, but what is undeniable, is that, it created a mass fan-following that did infact create a virtual unity, a sense of one-ness, that was new and sparklingly bright.
A whole lot of memories surround that one video. With time, it came to be representative of a certain time, a certain way of life, the beginning of the process of cinestars, so far unattainable, becoming more approachable, coming closer home. Beautifully orchestrated and coordinated, it is something that may safely be called a masterpiece, in that, any attempt to copy or 'remake' it (the current fad among a generation that is bending over backwards to prove their own lack of ingenuity), is to be considered nothing short of blasphemy.
I watched the new video for 'Mile sur mera tumhara' today. And I was aghast! What was the need for this? Except to prove, by holding in sharp relief, the extreme contrasts in quality of the two videos? It is crass, disjointed, adhoc, haphazard and necessarily therfore has the three "iconic" figures of India today- the three Bachchhans, who MUST appear in all videos clinging together, batting disgustingly fake eyelashes in oh-so-repulsive coyness. Yes, it also brings into frame starkids, from that side of the television screen to this; kids, for whom, this video was an integral part of growing up, now feature in its morphed version. And who on earth gave the singers the liberty to twist and turn the original tune to suit the whims of their vocal chords? I can never understand why people need to distort a perfectly neat tune with unneccessary undulations, in an effort to prove their scale and versatility. One trait that single-handedly mars most live performances, and makes me yearn for the original rendition.
Coming back to the basic question-what was the need for this remake? One can perhaps understand the need for the original when placed in the context of the time it was created in; but this? What excuse is there for such colossal wastage of money, insult of sensibilities, tarnishing of memories and mockery of people's intelligence? I think its a farce, peopled with new-age smart-alecs like that semi-punk semi-hippy semi-god-knows-what Shankar Mahadevan.
In a way, however unfortunate may it sound, it does actually mirror India's condition today. Haplessly in search of an identity, any identity, fissured and falling apart, and efforts to hold it together being damnably contrived and palpable.

Kolkatar Elektra

Buddhadeb Basu’s ‘Kolkatar Elektra’ is a dark and grim portrayal of a woman’s obsessive love for her dead father, an obsession that leads her to nurse a rabid hatred for her mother and the man she remarried.
Convinced beyond conviction about their role in the death, 12 long years have not been able to efface either the scar or the love for the only man she has ever had in her life-her father. I could at various points, personally relate to Shampa-the Elektra of the play-and her predicament. The disgust she feels for her remorseless mother, the antipathy towards her mother’s new husband, the nauseating repulsion at the casual, unhindered flow of daily life, are all familiar and easily identifiable emotions. Of all things however, the feeling that most touched a raw nerve, was Shampa’s ever-increasing distance with her mother, concurring with her mother’s increasing closeness and dependence on her new husband.
In that sense, Shampa is a true Elektra, or rather, best exemplifies the ‘Elektra complex’. Since Freud never spoke of such a complex and it was only his student Jung who came up with the female version of the Oedipal complex, it may auger well to judge Shampa by Jung’s definition alone. In his scheme, the complex-i.e., the sense of acute possessiveness leading to deep insecurities and paroxysms of jealousy- may not necessarily be directed towards the parent of the opposite sex. More so, in the case of the girl-child, who latches on to the mother with the same intensity as with the father, even eyeing her mother’s chores-whether at home or outside it-with hostility, distance as it does, her mother from her.
Buddhadeb Basu’s Elektra, Shampa, is that. Just that. And it is difficult to put a finger on Shampa’s object of wrath, precisely for this reason. That a deep sense of betrayal gnaws her hollow is amply established. But for whom and why, are questions, that perhaps require a far greater level of personal empathy to figure out, than may be ordinarily expected.
Shampa misses her father, yes. Loves him, yes. In a manner ‘unbecoming’ of a ward, yes. With an intensity that was tantamount to frenzied obsession, yes. May even be clinically labelled a schizophrenic for all this, yes. But beyond everything, what is it that made life un-livable for her, every waking hour a torture? What, I wonder, agonised her more? The fact that Ajen-her mother’s lover- took away her father’s life, ensuring she could never see him again; or the fact that he took away her mother from her, ensuring this time, that she saw her everyday, every minute and every second, and reduced her to a constant witness to the celebration of a life of which she was not, and would never again be, a part of. Raising an expensive toast to his successful design, Ajen seemed to have had the last laugh. Sinister, no doubt.
Even then however, for all the spite she felt for him, Ajen was not Shampa’s ultimate foe. He was, but an outsider. An outsider from whom no sympathy can or should be expected. It was her mother. She was the one who had let Shampa down. A letdown so abject and complete that she never recovered from it. Shampa’s is the classic predicament of an unvanquished hero succumbing only to the blow dealt by the loved one. And for Shampa it was a double-blow. Not only had her mother aided in the murder of her father, she had allowed a third man, a complete stranger the right over her own life, her children’s’ lives and their lives together. Ajen therefore was the ‘other man’ who came in between not only her father and mother, but far more importantly, between herself and her mother. And that leeway was given to him by Manorama, her own mother. I could almost breathe with Shampa the same stifling fury, the same bitter anguish, and the same muffled venom, every time Manorama turned to Ajen in oh-so-fragile helplessness, let him decide the fate of her own children, in her own house, and sought permissions and offered explanations when none was necessary. The referral to Ajen as that man and Manorama as that lady whom our father had married, rings like a refrain throughout the play amply bearing out the deeply-entrenched odium/spite.
But it is to the credit of the author, that ‘Kolkatar Elektra’ never relapses into predictable monochromatic binaries, infact swinging the grey zone with mischievous infidelity. Shampa’s hero therefore is not a pristine, untainted figure who makes it almost obvious for the reader/audience to lay all their love on him! An alpha-male from the word go, he wasn’t, to cut a long story short, the best man to have a family with, spin dreams around or expect their fruition from. His character is etched out mostly from Manorama’s version, but then, it is corroborated by Shampa, albeit with ready justifications for every slip of his. This part-the dialogue between mother and daughter, Rashomon-esque in its spirit-I think is the high point of the play. And it is from here, that I believe, the sympathies that Shampa had so far hogged, begin to fade away. One begins to see Manorama’s point of view, learns to ache with her for conjugal bliss at the prime of her youth and pine for the little things that maketh a house a home. I was reminded, repeatedly at this point, of a movie made not very many years ago-Unishey April, by Rituparno Ghosh, exploring the complex dynamics of a mother and her estranged daughter. The ‘influence’(to be polite) of the play on the film, from content to exact dialogues, is hard to miss; particularly the manner in which, over the course of the play/the film, the object of vilification slips from oh-so-obvious to not-so-sure-anymore. And I do not remember having seen any acknowledgements where they were due.

The Householder

"The Householder" is one of my favourite movies. Bearing the stamp of Merchant-Ivory movies in its uncluttered narrative simplicity, it is a tale that tugs at the strings of the heart with delicate, unpretentious poignancy.

It deals with the plight of a young man, caught in the crossfire of the mutually antagonistic figures of his mother and his newly wed wife. His predicament is worsened by the abysmally paltry salary that he earns as a junior professor in a college, hardly enough to make ends meet. Diffident, he decides to leave it all, and seek solace in renunciation, in sannyas. But a chance encounter with a spiritual figure makes him see the inherent wisdom of the ancient Indian idea of chaturashram; Till such time that he is required to renounce the material world, he should relish and appreciate it, instead of resorting to escapism. For that is the task of the greehi, the householder.

Kadambari...

"Shukhoheen nishidin pawraadhin hoye bhromichho deenopraaney.
Shawtoto haay bhaabona, shawto shawto,
Niyato bheeto peerito, sheero nawto,
Kawto awpomaane..."

Saroj

As tears silently rolled down her fair, rotund, pretty face, I hugged Saroj. And as I did, I felt her sobbing softly on my shoulder, drenching my shawl...


Arun had scolded her last night. Had called her names. Said she was inauspicious, a useless barren woman who had even failed to pass the ultimate test of womanhood- that of being a mother. She was a burden-he had shouted-an unnecessary extra mouth to feed; a liability, moreover, which needed to be guarded and protected from lecherous gazes of ravenous men on the prowl...He wished she had been left back at their village, like the wives of his other brothers who came to the city to work.

But Arun was too much in love with his young wife to leave her behind, alone, in alien surroundings. Of course, he had received much flak from his kin for this act of defiance. But he hadn’t cared.
For close to a year thereafter, he and Saroj had built their own little nest in the appallingly small servant's quarter that our landlord had allotted to them. Utensils arranged in tidy heaps, clothes hanging neatly from nylon ropes strung across the room, the unkempt, disshelved quarter was transformed overnight into a home, fragrant with the smell of incense and jasmine hair-oil...the touch of a woman's hand being more than evident! No longer having to bother about what and when to cook, how and where to eat, Arun too suddenly seemed a happier, far livelier young man! He sang out louder, while he bathed in the wee hours of the morning, hummed tunes we knew not and had a perpetual smile of contentment pasted on his rather ugly countenance.

Yes, Arun, by no stretch of imagination, was a good-looking man. He was short, slightly built, had a blunt nose, thick lips that made him lisp, and the tiniest pair of eyes. He had a very pleasing manner, though, one which made his smile reach his eyes and make of him a very likeable young man. Extremely well-mannered and courteous, he could never even look us in the eye while talking!
Saroj, on the other hand, was everything he was not. Petite, pretty, with large doleful eyes and cherry pink lips on a peaches and cream complexion, she was every man's dream. While she was initially shy and scared of talking to us, when gradually she did start opening up, we discovered how much of a child she still was. In intimate moments of unguarded mirth, she was at her uninhibited best; unbridled laughter bubbling over jokes she related in her tongue, which, though we understood not a word of, participated anyway, drawn as we were, in her world of faraway fabled realities.
Sometimes when Arun was away on duty, she would come and stay at our apartment, watch TV, help mashi with the chores, or just fall asleep, like a child! On one of such days, I noticed how her sari had ridden up to reveal just her ankles and thick silver anklets around her beautifully shaped fair small feet! Even as a woman, I couldn't help but stare! How I wished at that moment, to be a painter; for I felt, that only the languorous stroke of a paint-brush and not the cheat-quick effect of a camera could have done justice to such beauty...
Arun went out of his way to pamper and indulge his child-woman. Since anyhting but the sari was forbidden in his family, Arun, knowing Saaroj's longing for the salwar-kameez, would buy them secretly and allow her to wear them when just the two of them were alone in their little home. When Baba would give him a tip for an odd-job, however paltry the sum, he would not spend it on himself, but buy puchka for Saroj knowing her intense craving for them!
Often, when they would have tiffs over non-issues, Arun would get hold of my boyfriend and give him sage advices, drop pearls of wisdom regarding "women and their idiosyncratic ways", ensuring Saroj was within earshot, playfully pulling her leg thus! Fighting, bickering, making up, making love, playing like two children, they had created for themselves a haven that dripped with happiness and warmth.


Bara Sahaab had called Arun and asked him to leave. His business was making losses and he couldn’t afford so many hands, he had said. Arun's brothers, both of whom work here in the same city had not only refused to help him out, had, moreover started cornering him for the return of loans he had, from time to time, taken from them. Arun couldn't believe the world could be so harsh, especially when he thought about how, when it was his turn, he had done everything within his humble means to help those in distress. Where would he go with his young wife? He couldn’t possibly go and keep her back in the village; that was not why he had held her hand and brought her to be with him. He was responsible for her. He was in love with her. The very thought of imminent separation drove him to pathetic helplessness. And mad. And angry. And he had no-one but Saroj to vent it out to.

...And while Saroj kept silently weeping on my shoulders, I looked up to see the dark figure of her husband standing under the tree, shoulders drooped in sullenness, face lowered in a mark of abject defeat, and tears rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks...

Mashi

Mashi...
She is the lady who has kept house for my father and me, for the last 18 years; kept my sanity, held me up rock steady when I could easily have been led astray by multiple currents of temptation, and has, in short functioned as more than my mother, never however letting her affection get in the way of executing what she deemed right and righteous.
No formal education, married at the age of 11, disowned at 13, widowed by 30, with two children and five grandchildren, I have gradually learnt to realise and respect the surprisingly liberal, liberated and strong-even if opinionated-person that she is. 'Gradually', because, over the past many years, I've been witness to the storms that have ravaged her ceaselessly, one after the other, and have marvelled at how she has withstood the onslaught, with brave dignity and unruffled courage. Every time. From the news of her husband's second marriage, to dealing with the painful estrangement; to being a single mother working away from home, in strange, often hostile, environments, to leaving her own infant children in the care of others while she herself devoted an entire life in bringing up someone else's.
I've often been pleasantly taken aback by sparks of brilliance, absent or rare even in 'educated' men and women, even though she may occasionally fumble with mathematical tables! Every morning, she meticulously 'reads' the newspaper from cover to cover (a process which involves concentrating with rapt attention at each page, memorising the photographs, and asking me for explanations at particularly intriguing snapshots!); She remembers names and faces (yes, she NEVER forgets the name, face and voice of a 'boy' friend and hardly ever lets the guard of suspicion down!!!); She has a knack for the fine arts so that once introduced to a painting, a movie or a piece of music, she will identify it long long after. And yes, she has a penchnat for all languages, foreign to her mother tongue, be it Hindi, Sanskrit, Englsih or even German(!), and picks up new words-with their correct meanings, mind you(!)-with remarkable alacrity! So that when suitably flustered, she'll say inup-ij-inup in all seriousness, and wont think twice before screaming bloody-basket to a particularly persistent crank-caller on the phone!!!
This lady had fallen out with her mother some time back (to subsequent peaceful reconciliation, of course) and had received the news of the disappearance of her daughter around the same time. And yet, she never let the pall of gloom cast a shadow on our existence, ensuring that it ran as smoothly as ever; She kept the flame of warmth aglow, while maybe it burnt her own heart...Not very long ago, she was re-united with her daughter, and naturally was overwhelmed with affection of a kind that can only accompany the joy of re-discovering a long-lost treasure. But i guess, she is not quite through with proving her mettle to fate or Providence or what have you. Yesterday, on my birthday, probably, the busiest day on her calendar, after slogging single-handedly to feed and entertain my friends from the wee hours, she received the news of the death of her grandchild- her daughter's daughter- just as he was about to retire. Helpless at the sheer physical distance that separated her from her daughter at that moment (who lives in Uttar Pradesh) and the instant cruel reminder to getting back to her chores in less than 8 hours, all she could do was to break down and cry like a child all night.
Today, she was up and at her job as usual, before everyone at home, only her swollen eyes and slightly slackened pace giving away the signs of something amiss. And as i watched her all day,I wondered, how I've let the most insignificant and mundane of things affect and take a toll on me, how I've wallowed in self-pity at the silliest of events, and how in the process, I've let the quiet exemplar of resilience and grit just pass me by...someone who, not knowing her own worth,has never bothered to be didactic, preferring instead, to live a rich full life.
In many ways, Mashi's story is not really unique. There are countless number of women in various pockets of India and the world at large, who have lived such lives. Unnoticed, unceremonious and unpublished in lifestyle magazines sponsored by corporate bigwigs. I write this as an humble ode to these human-beings, these unsung-heroes, whose voices, I am increasingly led to believe, need to be heard on larger platforms.


P.S. Mashi lost her grandchild on the 11th of November, 2009, the day I turned 25. This piece was written the morning after on the 12th.