Good morning.
Last night, I came face to face with mortality and it didn't look very pretty. Last night, I was reminded that life is short: shorter than the time it takes us to nurse, extend and revisit grudges. Last night, I was reminded of this phrase I have heard so many of us use, "I shall never forgive you, until the day I die"
My friend, a very dear one, lost her husband in a massive and irrevocable heart attack. All that she could say, as I held her, and both of us wept was, "Suma, I was waiting to retire from my workplace before we could travel together..." The wardrobe was full of new un used clothes that they had bought together in anticipation of that happy day; a new suitcase that they had just bought was kept in a state of readiness. Mute reminders.
It is their wedding anniversary today.
The letters on the keyboard swim in front of me through the tears that will not stop, will not stop.
I know what death is like and how it stops the breath of those who are left behind to pick up the pieces. And God help us, all of us do.
How we wait for that familiar ring of the doorbell, listen for a footstep, set another place at the table, remember a joke that we could share together with the one who left, lift up our phone to dial a number that will never be answered.
I know. Oh, yes, I know.
Are there any one-word-fits all sizes, here? No. Any words that can patch the tear in the tapestry of your life, the web of your togetherness, the rent in the fabric of your existence? No.
But for those who are left behind, and for those who care about those who are left behind:
Live a minute, an hour, a day at a time. For whom, you ask? Not for anyone. But because you have to. Life becomes dreary, repetitive drudgery. You drag yourself out of bed, and then you drag yourself into bed at night. Days and nights run into each other, everything ceases to exist beyond that terrible vacuum in your life:'..a thousand, thousand slimy things / Lived on: and so did I..' , (Coleridge). Why? Why me?What have I done? Who have I ever hurt? I know the questions. I have asked them, too. I have been asked these, as well. They have no answers. None.
DON"T try to hurt yourself or harm yourself. There's a reason you have been asked to stay back. No, you don't need to know what it is. It will come to you, one day, in a flash of brilliant morning sunshine. an epiphany. Life is not yours to take or give away.
And for those who care about those who are left behind, try not to be impatient when they hit out at you and wound you with words used as weapons. Stay the course. It is not you she is railing against.It is herself, and what she sees as her own failure to appreciate someone who is no longer around to be appreciated.
And for those of us who are left behind, impacted in whatever way, by a life cut short, remember to say that word, call up that friend, give that hug, make up that quarrel, book that ticket, go on that journey....and have a handful of memories to pour balm on your soul.
With love and gratitude to all of you.
Have a blessed day.

'Piku', the pick of the season

'Piku' is one of the very few Bollywood movies I have seen which is named after the female protagonist, rather than the male one. That, in itself is a rarity. Add to it, a wonderfully sensitive, understated, elegant portrayal of two very strong characters, and you have a very thought-provoking movie experience awaiting you.
 The director of the movie is Shoojit Sircar, who directed 'Vicky Donor', the scriptwriter is Juhi Chaturvedi and the two main characters are Amitabh Bachan, playing the role of Bhaskar Banerjee and his daughter Piku who is an architect. Peering in from the periphery at first, later becoming a character in his own right, is Irfaan Khan, in the role of Rana Chowhury, the owner of a cab-rental service.
Bhaskar Banerjee is an old widower, father of Piku. He is obsessed with the state of his alimentary canal: and  his constipation and minute-by-minute reports about the state of his motions form the topic of all conversation. He is selfish to the point of being egocentric, and keeps an eagle eye on his daughter, so that she will not go away and leave him to fend for himself. Every time someone introduces a man to his daughter, he makes sure to tell the man that she is 'not a virgin' and that she is 'financially and sexually independent.'
Piku is Deepika Padukone. She carries the entire movie on her shoulders through the conviction in her acting and the complete honesty with which she portrays the character of a fiercely independent career woman, managing her profession and battling it out with the whims of her quirky father. The few times that circumstances seem to defeat her, and the way she emerges from it, stronger and more courageous, are portrayed with a sensitivity that I have not seen in any Bollywood director. I don't think any other actress would have the guts to bury herself up to the hilt in this necessarily un glamorous role.
Looking in at the daily drama of this more or less dysfunctional family, is Irfaan Khan, one of the most stylish actors I have seen. I remember him in 'Maqbool' a re make of Macbeth, in Jhumpa Lahiri's ' the Namesake'  His portrayal of the primary characters in these movies is un forgettable. The sheer amazement felt by this outsider, at the antics of this family, his deadpan expression when he is trying to mask his emotion, and the words he uses to diffuse and sometimes exacerbate situations, in order to get some sense into the father-daughter duo are insightful.
Moushumi Chatterjee as Piku's aunt, is delightfully earthy, and Jisshu Sengupta, as Syed, Piku's harried professional partner, add colour to the movie.
The passage of time, or Time itself, is a central theme of the story, and the erosion and corrosion of time forms a subtle undercurrent throughout the movie. When it is time to move on, we are advised, we Must move on.
The warmth and affection with which the camera lovingly lingers on the landmarks and the essence of Kolkata literally brought tears to my eyes. The soul of the photographer looks out at us in the vignettes. Exceptional!
Above all, the film is about women being equal. It is a message that is brought out without hysteria, and almost without our awareness. No drumrolls herald its presence, it is quietly stated by example, rather than percept, and through the conviction of the central character.
The movie provokes the viewer to think. I know many people who might be uncomfortable with that. To those who are not, do go and watch it. In a theatre.

A trip to Kashmir

Good morning.
My senses are so completely overwhelmed that I need to consciously pause before writing.
First, Kashmir is one of the safest places I have been to. Yes, there are trouble spots, and it would be wise, if you are going the first time, to go with a group and with a seasoned tour operator. And yes, there is visible evidence of the J &K police and the CRPF; but there are not even half as many of them, as we have in Mumbai.
Second, Kashmir is GREEN! There are trees th...ere that I have only seen and heard of, back in school, in my Geography text book. The tree of the state is the Chinar tree and it has leaves like the maple. They grow to a massive size, chiefly because cutting it is considered a crime in the State. Some of them have trunks so large that they could easily straddle the breadth of any large road we have here. The leaves turn brick-and-rust red in autumn, and drop in winter. Then you have the willow, the weeping willow, the walnut, the cherry, the almond, the deodar (cedar) and the pine. There are wild flowers that bend with their own weight, like the laburnum, but each individual flower looks like an orchid. They scent the air and intoxicate any one who passes by. The pine has such a heady fragrance that I felt inebriated and reeling with it.
Third, the State has some of the best human beings I have ever seen. They are warm, friendly, full of life and laughter, and with every word they utter, they tell you, do come back. Come back when the apples are ripe on the tree, they say, in August and September. Come back in March, when winter sports are at their height. Come back any time; but come back.
Fourth, and I am not being flippant here; almost every one I saw is so drop-dead good looking, they would give ALL our supposed Bollywood heroes and heroines a serious run for their money. Sharp features, blue/green/brown/grey/ hazelnut-coloured eyes, and a complexion both fair and lovely, despite being in the sun all day. The sun only manages to colour their cheeks an apple red.
Fifth, the number of schools for girls that I saw during my short sojourn there left me amazed. And if you are out in the city during the time that it is recess in school, the area is full of girls, wearing the hijab, with so much mischief in their eyes, that I was reminded of some of my girls in the Arts classes.
Sixth, for those of you who have been to places like Austria and Switzerland, or who have seen or read the book 'Heidi' by Johanna Spyri, do you remember the cottages that are described in the book/ seen in the place? Well, you will find identical wood-and-stone structures here, tucked away among the trees, laughingly peeping at you from behind a Chinar branch or from among the leaf-needles and cones of a pine tree.
And there is more. But I

 
 

 
 

 
shall stop here for now, and consign the next segment for another day and time.
Let us meet in Kashmir.

The warmth of honest humanity; life is beautiful

It is hot nowadays, even at 7 in the morning, if you are out on a walk. By the time you reach home, you are sweating from every pore. Not very pleasant, but think of it this way: you get a free sauna and the more you sweat, the better it is for your body. After the walk, it would be a good idea to go and fill yourself up with your day's supply of potassium....the water from a tender coconut. It would be an even better idea not to bargain and wheedle with the coconut seller to sell his wares for 1 or 2 Rs. less. Try and remember that he is working honestly, that he is standing near the cart practically for the whole day, that he uses the money that he gets to buy food for himself and probably his family and that he will probably never have the good fortune of getting any kind of education, and improving his lot in life. The young coconut seller we go to is called Rakhim, (no, it didn't sound like Rahim) and he is at his spot from 6.30 am. Two days ago, I noticed that one of his fingers was wrapped in a dirty cloth, so I asked him what had happened. He looked at me dolefully and said that it had just got cut, 10 minutes prior to our meeting him. It bled a lot, he told me. The knife they use is so sharp that it is terrifying. The finger almost got dismembered, he told me. We paid him more money than required and asked him to go and see a doctor. Yesterday he was sporting a new bandage on the injured finger; yes, he said, he had gone to see a doctor. Yes, he said proudly, there were lots of stitches. Then he said, diffidently, can I give you back the extra money that you gave me, yesterday? No, we told him, that was for you. Can I buy you sweet mangoes and give those to you, he asked. We refused, with a smile and went away, our hearts full of warmth. Said I not, that there are good people in the world, and that life is beautiful?
Have a blessed day.

After the break-up

Shall we be strangers again, you and I?
Shall we walk on opposite sides of the leafy lane where we once held hands?
Shall we turn our faces away when we see each other again?
I look at my silent phone and wonder how to fill up the empty hours when your voice filled my ears, and dreams, my heart
When the Sociology, Accounts, Physics textbooks were shields to cover the goofy smile on my face..........
And I wish there was someone I could talk to
Someone who would listen, silently
Someone who would let me be silent
Who would not be constantly checking their wrist watches/ mobiles because they have to be someplace else
And not judge
Or offer opinions, because I don't want them
Or tell me what I should/should not do
Or criticise, because there is nothing anyone can say, which I have not told myself already
Someone who would give me time to lick my wounds and become whole again
Someone who would teach me that there is always life, even after a broken heart
And that bitterness is not the answer
Nor is despair
And that as long as there is life, there is hope.

Spring, Sprung!

                             Spring, sprung!

Spring is in the air! And there is a spring in my step, and wells of joy spring up when I see what Spring has wrought. The credits for all these pictures go to my friend and colleague in the Department of MicroBiology, Selina Shah, who is completing her PhD. She loves plants and trees and knows the name of practically every flower and leaf, and shares her knowledge with people. These pictures taken by Selina, are of the same species of flower, called the Tamhan, or Laegerstromia, to give it its botanical appellation, and is, apparently, the state flower of Maharashtra. That is Selina's hand, holding one of the flowers, the better to photograph it.

 

'Roads dug up at 100 places  within Mumbai,' screams the headlines in the newspaper today. I know. I am not being an escapist. I know the potholes exist. But since this blog is all about eternal hopefulness, I have decided to upload and applaud hope, rather than despair.

Here's gratitude, and joy, therefore, for the flowers and the trees and the new green of the leaves. Here's thankfulness for friends, old and new, who make life meaningful. Here's for books and words, coffee and conversation, chai and chaat and chats.

Words: and when not to use them

It was exam time in college and a student had discovered to her consternation that she had forgotten her Hall Ticket at home. Flustered and agitated, she went up to the teacher in charge and confessed that she had forgotten her hall ticket at home. The teacher shrieks at her, "What??????Are you an LD? How can you forget such things?" and the other teacher pipes up, "She hasn't forgotten to wear matching slippers and nail polish, but these things she forgets!"  An LD, is a term that educational and other academic institutes use to characterise those with Learning Disabilities. And all the time, the child is standing there in a state of mindless panic, wondering where to go, and who to turn to.
The English text book that I teach my Higher Secondary students contains a poignant and heart rending account of the daily battles the mother of a child with learning disabilities has to face, to get her child 'accepted' as part of society, as we know it. She talks about how she felt vindicated, and that all her efforts were worth it, when the school her son went to, as well as her own family circle came to realise that her son  was truly 'differently -abled.'  He came home from a sports meet, apparently, with so many trophies, that she herself was flabbergasted. She recalls how she hugged the child and burst into tears.
It requires a lot of sensitivity and many examples to illustrate this piece of life, teach this lesson. But I feel that every effort is worth it, when I look around my class room and realise that a group of 70 odd teenagers, are sitting with rapt attention, listening to every word. And I know that it is a small victory for me, as a teacher. Because I know, that these kids will be a little more sensitised and a little more helpful to those who need help.
I have heard teachers say, in my hearing, "He is mad!  He doesn't know something as simple as this!" And I have cringed with shock and embarrassment, when I have heard the words some people use to describe a girl (student) who is slightly more fashionable than her peers in college.
"Put it on my head," I was told, when I asked one of the college co-ordinators for a space to store some of the attendance forms I had collected from students.
And worst of all, is that curse, "Go and die!" to a very innocent question about what a student should do, because he was late for a lecture.
Words have power. Words have sound and fury and they signify a lot of things (with apologies to William Shakespeare.) Which is why they should always be used carefully. If you cannot but use words hurtfully, because you are angry, or irritated, it is better not to use them at all.
Perhaps everyone who plans to be a teacher, should take a compulsory course in Communication skills. Perhaps that would help them be a little kinder, a little more circumspect with words.