The Chile Diary ...Chapter 6

Mantagua



Late, that evening Mohit, who is a senior level boss in the company Ranjit works for rang up to say that we and three others could stay at another boss’s casa in Mantagua. I was so happy and Ranjit was relieved. Casa meant an independent house on the ground so no stairs for me to climb up or run down!. As we drove into the residential area I couldn’t suppress the “wow” that slipped out. This was definitely one of the better places, and a more expensive one to reside in. The house we had to go to wasn’t completed in terms of interior decoration, facade, front garden and back lawn and garden. There was rubble, wood and weeds, over-grown grass and bramble all around it. But the main structure was very nice and all the rooms which included living-room, dining room and bedrooms had the basic furniture, curtains, beds, pillows and comforters. The bathrooms were good with an ample store of towels however there was no hot water and the kitchen was fully equipped.


The tremors were mild here, and I spent a relatively calm time for as long as we stayed. Initially I fretted about no internet and TV. What was I supposed to do the whole day while everyone was at work? Relief hopped in to give me English novels from Mohit’s library and a gadget called a dongle, which connected me to the net, from Karmeshu one of the senior bosses from India, who was also staying with us. I was getting reasons to be grateful at every step which reminded me that someone up there was looking out for me.



But the most striking thing about the place was the location. These houses were built on hilly ground so the roads ran up and down slopes. Each house had well kept gardens in front of the house and behind. The gardens were ablaze with bright hues. The flowers here have amazingly bright colours. And the Pacific lay behind our row of houses. It was beautiful as the sea was near enough to get a clear view of seals swimming, yachts sailing or ships entering the port. The huge window that spread against one whole wall of the dining cum living room offered the most scenic view I’ve seen here till now. I used to sit and soak in the cool breeze as I gazed over treetops at the ever changing sand dunes that rolled down to the blue ocean. My spirit was forever hovering between the brilliant sun and aquamarine water. The breeze is always so cool even when the clear sunshine is blazing on terra firma.



Well true to nature relief isn’t a long staying pal. We moved in on Sunday night and moved out next Sunday morning. Not that we had to, in fact the boss’s family, who lived one casa away was surprised that we were moving out. But it was becoming inconvenient for Ranjit and Manu to commute to the office. Mantagua is about twenty-five kms away from Vina, so that added to the distance. Their work place is not in Vina Del Mar. To make the daily run Tintin had to hire a car for the entire week. This was proving to be very expensive. So we were back in the apartment and I had the jitters. Monday morning the tremors decided to get back in full force. Strong ones kept the count rolling to sixteen in the day. Tintin would keep calling every time one came and would find me rattled.



Finally he found a room on the ground floor at a hotel barely five minutes from the apartment. He drove down from office and shifted me there.



I slept. I slept the afternoon away.



I stayed here in the night too, alone, but it wasn’t scary. The tremors were not so frightening here as they didn’t shake up the room so badly. Still it was quite late when I finally went to sleep. What matters is that I slept well. However, the next morning saw me packing my stuff and moving to the company guesthouse. I didn’t want to leave but I had no choice. Although the room was neat and clean and had a nice attached bathroom, it was a one-star facility with a three-star tariff.

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The Chile Diary Chapter 5

Terremotto



Tea was as usual a very pleasant break, and the pleasantness stretched out to include Tintin, Gabriel and Pillar who had returned from office. A short while later Roxanna, Gabriel’s mom, also came home from work. There was a lot of laughing and joking and translation ensured I had my share of the fun too. But at the back of my mind I knew we would soon have to leave, and the thought of being alone at the guesthouse wasn’t the best thought I had had that day. However change is the only definite thing happening here, so I learnt that I would have company in the form of another employee’s mum. Relief hopped in and a moment later hopped out.


The lady was as ignorant of English as I was of Spanish. As she was a resident of this place I was informed she would be having her girl friends dropping in and a couple would also stay over. I have no problems with the social life of people, but the place is small, I write sitting at the dining table which is a part of the living room, which also has the TV which would also be the only entertainment for my new lady acquaintance. The TV plugs in to the only plug point in the living-dining room and since we don’t want to get too many things here like connection boards etc so it’s a delicate problem....who plugs what into the solitary point?


I’ve given the advantage to her this morning by banking on the laptop battery. But I guess her thoughtfulness prevents her from switching on the TV as I’m writing here. She tried to make conversation but it was going nowhere, so we both gave up. I continued typing and she waddled off to her room. I can empathise with her. She must be feeling as bad as I’m feeling. Uprooted from her home, which is not safe to stay in as the roof gave-in during the ‘terramotto’(Big earthquake). Her son stays elsewhere and she’s thrown in with a foreigner, so communication is non-existent. And to top it all the Indian likes to write sitting at the only table available. I suppose she’ll get the drift and switch on the TV later today or tomorrow. I’ll have to curtail my writing time to fit in with the recharges of the battery. Adjusting, adapting...hope I’m doing a better job at it than the dinosaurs.


Tintin and Manu have been sleeping here for the past two nights. I did wonder about it. I got to know yesterday, there’s an over-hanging threat of another terramotto...perhaps stronger than the previous one. I’m praying for God to keep us under His mighty panoply. I’m praying for Chile too. I want us all to go to Canada. But I leave it in God’s hands. He knows best. I better change into something decent and then I’ll tell you about the casa in Miraflores.



Monday, 15 March 2010



I didn’t get to write over the weekend. My back and knees were acting up so I was not up to it. On Saturday we went out for lunch to the food court at Marina Arauca. After sampling a few Chilean preparations I decided I’d had enough. The pork roast was fine teamed up with the browned onions. Nothing else was so amazing as to get a mention...average fair, and that goes for the desserts too.


I’ve been rambling on or meandering I should say. I still have to recount the earthquake and also tell you about the different places I’ve stayed at till now. Well, this isn’t an official record and I’ll proceed according to the thoughts and fancy that capture me. Let’s start with the abodes that have provided me shelter till date. But to get the importance of the roles these places have played I will just have to recount the terramotto.


It was a Friday and exactly a week since I had arrived. Ranjit (Tintin) and Manu had dinner with me and then left for a party at their friend’s place. I was uneasy and couldn’t sleep, so I sat like a zombie in front of the TV, staring at the screen but registering nothing. One thought kept running through my head...what if there is an earthquake? Whenever there is something I’m nervous about or can’t handle I “cast my cares” on God. So I told Him I was scared to be alone during an earthquake and if one should happen then the kids should be back.


At 3.00am both returned. At 3.34 the big quake rumbled in, shaking the house like a giant rattling a matchbox. We had only just made it to the front door by then. Tintin opened the door and held on to the doorknob with his right hand, so that we wouldn’t be locked in if the door should get stuck, while he steadied himself under the beam in the doorway leading to the living cum dining room. I grasped on to him and the wall as well, and Manu grabbed us. The quake increased in intensity and I looked around at the way the walls and the floor were jumping and shaking like a man with an epileptic fit. It went on for ninety seconds. Short period in terms of measurable time, but for me it seemed interminably long. As soon as we felt the slack in the intensity, Manu and I ran for our passports. Tintin continued to hold the door open. This was a very wise thing as many doors got jammed and the residents had to stay locked-in as the tremors picked up a bit later and continued coming in at intervals of 1-2 minutes. These unfortunate ones were rescued only when the brave concierge and his help broke open the locks.


I say we were frightened. And maybe we were, but I speak for myself when I say that on hindsight I cannot say the predominant feeling was one of fright. I was so focussed on reaching God with my plea for help, I was not consciously afraid. I also recall praising God because I heard Ranjit call out to him by name (he doesn't acknowledge him openly) I also know I was quite in my senses because I mentally made a note about where I had kept my passport. This made it very easy for me to grab it from under my clothes, without wasting any time, the moment the tremor calmed down for a few minutes.


We ran down the stairs. That was when I felt the fear. And this lent wings to my feet. My back and knees held up. Although Manu and I were not properly clad for the cold outside, we were better off than Ranjit who hadn’t even put on his slippers. He had on his shorts and a T-shirt. It was dark outside and everyone was running in all directions. Ranjit shepherded us to Manchester, a pub not far from our place. Here we met Reggie and his pals who made us as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. The pub was in shambles but they were able to give us water to drink as we huddled into chairs in the garden. All of them kept reassuring us that the worst was over. I was shivering with fear and cold, and smiled wanly without a mite of conviction. Then realising we needed a few essentials as well as clothes to be better clad for the cold, Ranjit decided to brave it up to the apartment. He managed to get himself into warmer clothes and also brought along a few things like his laptop, money, my handbag etc. He also drove the car down and parked it outside the pub. We moved into the relatively warmer car.


I lay down on the back-seat. My back was beginning to pain. With no phone connection or means to contact our family we were sure they would panic as soon as news was broadcast. And panicked they were. Reggie’s pals kept vigil at the pub while he saw to his parents. The men assured us of protection too. That’s when I realised the dark side of the aftermath. Vandalising and looting were probable threats. It was good of them to take us under their wing.


We spent the rest of the night in the car. Morning found us searching for something to eat. No place was open except for a small bakery near-by. By the time we reached there, there wasn’t much to buy. The next challenge was getting drinking water. The only kind available was water with soda, and we were looking for ‘aqua sin gas’(water without soda) Finally we managed to get a few bottles. Late in the afternoon we bought some empanadas from Mama Rosa’s take away. She had opened shop and was doing brisk business. All this while, we were still literally living in the car.


By evening I needed to go to the bathroom. That’s when Tintin rang up another Indian colleague and that’s how we found our way to Sumeet’s house. This was a small one-bedroom apartment, but it was in a stronger building and was good for me as it was on the second level and I wouldn’t have to climb down too many steps in the event of another quake. It was already packed with other Indian employees. This was my second lesson in gratefulness. The crowd and non-functioning WC was no longer a major put-off for me. I was grateful for the bathroom and a bed to rest my back. We spent the night there and left Sunday morning.


I wasn’t prepared to stay in our apartment as the tremors continued to rattle us and they weren’t small ones too, ranging from 5+ to 6+ magnitude. This was a dilemma not only for me but also for Tintin.


“Why can’t we get a house on the groundfloor?” I said aloud, wishfully, but prayed for silently.

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The Chile Diary....Chapter 4 March 11-12

Tsunami


Two earthquakes, first 7.2 followed by a slightly smaller one measuring 6.9 sent me scurrying out of the guesthouse. With me are other residents too, from the apartments above us. Within a couple of minutes public address systems blare out tsunami alerts. Evacuate! I didn’t know what to do. People were running in one direction, I didn’t know why because I didn’t know the announcements were about a possible tsunami. A young mother with her baby clutched tightly to her bosom spoke to me in rapid Spanish. I nodded my head and said, “non Espanol.” She pointed to the sea, then to the people and waved her hand indicating that I should run in the same direction. I only had time to ask “Tsunami?” before she got into her car. She nodded and I began to walk as fast as I could without hurting my knees and back. There was pandemonium on the streets. People were running away on foot and in cars. The roads and pavements were overflowing with panic-stricken folk.


My cell rang. Tintin’s voice brought some relief. I told him what was happening and that I was clueless where to go. He told me to look for his friend at the pub. I made my way huffing and puffing to the pub. Disappointment, it was locked and deserted. By now my throat was parched and I was almost gasping for breath.


“Stay there mama, I’m on my way.”


“No, I’m not standing here. The roads are swarming with people and cars on the move. No one’s standing. I’m not going to either,” I replied as I continued moving. I could understand the panic Tintin felt by my decision.


“Please, Mama stay put at one spot. How will I find you, if you move around?”


“I’m walking down 8 Norte,” is all I could say before we lost contact. I tried to call back but there was no network coverage. Now I was really alone. I could feel the tears welling up. Not of fear, neither of self-pity, but of sheer frustration and helplessness. I began to catch hold of people and enquire if any spoke English. Their negative replies only made it worse. I began to talk myself out of the mental state I found myself in. I began to repeat portions of Psalms 91, especially the parts that speak about God protecting us from “sudden disasters at noon” and reminded myself that He “is my fortress, my place of safety” and He would “send His angels to protect me.” It was reassuring, but the tears were already perched on the edge and I couldn’t blink them back. I kept up my slow, painful trudge. I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned to find a young girl, perhaps twenty-one or so. She handed me a small bright yellow card. I took it without bothering to read it. I was keen to know if she knew English.


“Very leetle,” she smiled and I was so relieved that the tears which were precariously hanging on to the edge tumbled down.


“Tranquilla, tranquilla,” she repeated over and over again gently stroking my arm. I didn’t have to be a genius to understand what she was saying. It sounded like tranquil and the look on her face and her actions made it quite obvious.


“Yes,” I said drying my eyes.


“Yehwah is there,” she assured me in her faltering English.


“Yes, Jesus is here,” I managed to smile back at her, while sub-consciously correcting her. Once a teacher, always a teacher was the vague thought at the back of my mind.


“Okay, now...I...going,”


“Where? Please stay,” I was almost begging.


“I have.. go to..my room friend.” I nodded to convey that I understood and thanked her.


I carried on walking down 8 Norte and she turned off right. I was feeling a bit calmer now. But the tears didn’t stop and my throat was still parched and I was choking because my mouth was dry and try as I might there was no saliva to wet it. This set off coughing spells. My heart was pounding. All of a sudden I realised I had come to the end of the road, and it is a long road indeed. It ended in a ‘T’ junction. I could either turn right or left. I decided to stick with 8 Norte. So I crossed the road and stood at the traffic light. I was tired and wanted to sit, but there was nowhere I could rest my back and legs. So I continued to stand and watch the tsunami of cars and people flow past me. There was so much of noise on the roads. I was wondering what it was about the honking horns that was bothering me. It happens so much and all the time in India. Then it struck me; one doesn’t hear car horns on Vina's roads. Today was an exception. Just then I turned and lo and behold, there was the young Christian walking to my traffic light.


“Hola,” she smiled.


“Hola,” I replied. I was wondering what she was doing here. But thankfulness, more than courtesy, kept me from asking.


“You know..wherre you..stay?”


“Yes”


“I stay ..with you,”


“Okay,” I said not very sure what she meant. But gave her the benefit of the doubt and took it she meant that she’d stand there with me. Since she continued to stand beside me and also gather the latest information about the situation, I was pleased that I was right. She laboriously translated the important parts for me. The alert had not been called off but the emergency situation had passed. That was something to be happy about.


“Come..I go with you,” she said as she caught my hand and took me across the road and we walked back the way we had come.


I was walking slower now. She realised I was very tired and would stop at every traffic light for a while to give me time to rest. I later realised how wise it had been for me to keep stopping at traffic lights. It was the best way to get seen by people looking for you.


I realised I didn’t know her name and asked her.


“Magdalena”


“Joy,” I said and we shook hands and in true Chilean fashion she hugged me and kissed me on my right cheek while I kissed the air around hers.


“I’m sorry, I’m being such a pain,” I said enunciating every word as slowly as I thought would make it easy for her to understand. “I have a back and knee problem,” I said pointing to my lumbar support, which was around my waist.


“I know. I see it...I am..a..a..physiotherapist.”


We were at another traffic light, and she struck up a conversation with a young boy who had walked up and was waiting to cross the road. She wanted to know if he knew English, which fortunately he knew and a wee bit more than her. Then she asked him to tell me that I shouldn’t worry as she would take me to my residence. I wasn’t sure why she kept telling me that, but I thanked her once again and added that I knew my way home. And then Reggie, Tintin’s pub owner friend, who was driving someone to a safe place, spotted me and called out. He told me to wait and he’d be back for me in a few minutes. Magdalena and I exchanged email Ids, home addresses and phone numbers and we parted when Reggie returned. This was a strange encounter. A total stranger picks me out of the milling crowd and gives me the moral support I need. Stranger still was the fact that she stopped handing out the little yellow ‘Jesus cards’ after she found me! But then strange are the ways of god.


Tintin also reached a short while later with Gabriel, who suggested I stay at his home till the evening. For a split second I thought I should turn the invitation down as I didn’t know how I would communicate with the family. The boys were going back to the office. But I’m glad I stayed. The home is warm and hospitable. Besides it was full of people so I wasn’t so jumpy. The evening saw me leaving rather reluctantly, because I was loath to stay the night alone at the guesthouse. But as things turned out Ranjit and Manu stayed with me and though I did jump up in the middle of the night or perhaps in the wee hours of the morning when my bed was rattled, I did get some necessary sleep. My body was aching in the morning. The previous day I was in shock and didn’t realise the wear and tear my body had taken. But today is another story...it hurts.


I am spending the day at Gabriel’s house in Miraflores. It’s such a reprieve from the scary ‘home alone’ situation. I must tell you all about my stay in the Segura’s casa at Miraflores, the lovely family and pets. But tea beckons and I must go. Ciao.

The Chile Diary......Chapter 3

Departmentos, Deco and Dolor

Apartments in Chile are generally small. That’s alright. I mean, accommodation has to be available to everyone, and according to their pockets. And Chile isn’t a country that comes under the category -rich. Like India, they have a big divide between the rich and the poor, with the latter making up the majority of the population. What I find truly unnecessary in the small apartments are the big, over-stuffed sofas and beds, bulky dining table, crockery cabinet and often useless pieces of furniture placed or pushed into every nook and corner. It eats into floor space making it difficult to make the smallest of manoeuvres in the room. It almost seems that they’re psyching themselves into believing that the house is big. This, however, is how it is only in the old apartments. The newer ones are done up with practical aesthetics in place.

The guesthouse on 3 Poniente between 8 and 9 Norte, where I am at present, must be just about 750 sq ft. But it houses furniture for a place twice its size. I can’t move quickly for fear of banging into something and hurting myself. And just to make doubly sure the furnishings have dwarfed the house, they’ve put up nine oils on three walls ( the fourth wall, thankfully, is one big glass window) three of these canvases measure 16” by 20” approx and one is about 30” by 24” approx. The other five are in the range of 14” by 16”. And all have heavy frames, mostly in black. So blame the furniture and the decor if the house seems small. This is the living cum dining room that should be about 10’ by 20’ approx. It also has a big refrigerator standing against one wall. Claustrophobic!

Well, one has to adjust and adapt according to the need of the hour, and that’s what the past few weeks in Chile have been about....adjusting and adapting. It hasn’t been easy for me because it is accompanied by fear. There are too many things of an extreme nature to deal with all at the same time. Foreign country, alien culture, no knowledge of language; different time zone; different climate; different flavours in food; lack of creature comforts like maids coming in 24x7; cut-downs on self-indulgence at beauty parlours; no home tongue TV shows; no Indian news channels; no telephonic communications with friends and relatives in India (too expensive); no internet if you’re not staying in your apartment (which I haven’t been doing for a while); no hot water at times so cold showers, which aren’t really good for my bones; no stress relieving conversations with friends; no economic independence; no mobility; too much of solitude knowing that I have no options to change the situation; none of the things I was used to, like my books for meditation, my TV devotional programmes, my dictionary, my maid Lolita, my doctor; my freedom!

The psychological challenges are a part of all these tangibles and intangibles. But the toughest has been dealing with this ‘on edge’ nervous situation. My whole body tenses when a tremor shakes the place, and this has been a continuous pattern day and night, since the big one on Saturday, 27th Feb. When will it end? I’m so tired of living with fear. Fear of another massive earthquake. Fear triggered by the knowledge of my own physical limitations of movement and mobility. Fear of injuring myself and not being able to get the medical attention I need. Fear of adding more expense on the kids. Fear of becoming more dependent than I already am. Fear of losing my passport. Fear of being isolated on alien soil. Fear of not ever being able to live without fear again. But the spirit pushes against its own simmering doubts and fears. I look to God to give me courage and strength; to hold my hand and lead me, for I trust Him.

It may seem that life has become one big black thunder cloud, hovering over us threatening to burst. But in all truth there have been so many things I have been thanking God for every day. So many little things I’m grateful for especially the facilities of daily use that we take for granted.

I’m thankful for running water in the taps in the guesthouse (our apartment’s has been cut off for some days, so that damaged water pipes can be repaired) for hot water whenever I can get it, for gas which is available to us here in this temporary accommodation (we still haven’t got gas supply at our apartment, as of 10th March 2010) for fresh, hot, home food on our table, and of course for a cup of hot ginger tea with milk in the morning and hot green tea in the evening, for drinking water, for shelter, for warm beds, for provisions, for finance to procure our basic needs, for a laptop to record all my rambling thoughts, and health, medicines, even this over-stuffed old house...yes I’m grateful for this house on the second level, for wonderful children, for compatriots who allowed us to stay at their home, for company bosses who lent us their casa and company Guest House; for a pub owner who gave us shelter, protection and warm hospitality even as he dealt with his losses...for so much of thoughtfulness that we have encountered in many things big and small.

I’m also thankful that relief has been a good ‘hopping friend,’ coming in to grant us spells to recuperate bit by bit, helping us to gather courage and hold on to hope. God has been good. God has been gracious.

Yes, I am grateful.

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The Chile Diary....chapter 2

Santiago to Vina Del Mar

Sunday dawned bright and beautiful. This country is scenic. We started out for Vina Del Mar on an extremely enjoyable drive. Good roads, winding through the foothills of the Andes. We passed through wine country, stopping for a break at one of the vineyards called House of Morande, in Casablanca. It had a restaurant and facilities and one could buy wine too...Restaurante Y Tiende. I was amazed to see columns of white roses growing between the rows of grape vines. Beautiful! We had a light meal consisting appertifs...tostados with an exotic topping of salmon, palta and something else... followed by crabmeat empanadas and beef steak which we washed down with a Late Harvest wine.

The wide blue expanse of the Pacific which opened up before my eyes as we entered Vina was awesome. As we drove to our depto (apartment) I took in the sights along with the distinct smell of the sea carried by an almost constant, cool sea breeze. The depto is lovely too. It’s supposed to be big by Chilean standards. But I tend to compare and contrast with my Indian yardstick. So it fell short by some thousand odd square feet when stacked up against our apartment in Gurgaon. So it’s not very big but very comfortable, with matching furnishing in all the rooms, no over-stuffed or bulky beds and sofas, great kitchen with all the equipment and gadgets one would need, big windows in both bedrooms, living-room and kitchen that provided a good view. Attached bathrooms with hot and cold water just made it splendid. The bathtub was a bit tricky for me, with my physical limitations so a shower was a carefully executed task.

The living-room opens out onto a balcony. This is my favourite spot in the mornings. I carry my cup of tea with me and gaze at the sea, listen to the gulls as they swoop around the rooftops, alighting on some for a while before they make a screechy take-off again. The breeze has a nip in it that early and is very invigorating. The streets below are empty. People here don’t go for early morning walks as they do in India. Life stirs a bit later. On weekdays, one can see people scurrying to work after 7a m. But the walkers, joggers and cyclists come out after 10a m. I was amazed to see so many of them even at 11a m when the sun was a bit hot for me too. I was told these people love the sun but ‘to see is to believe.’

I’ve been here for nineteen days but I haven’t done much of the touristy things like walking around the city, buying local stuff or going for a ride around town in a horse carriage. I haven’t even visited the beach and checked out handicrafts at the ferias (fair). But I have eaten at a few restaurants, even tried sushi, the cooked variety, and gyoza which are delicious. They are dumplings like momos or dimsums but served differently. I also ate a slice of the locally made pizza called Conquistadore... well it did conquer me... yummy. My gormandising experience at a Tex-Mex restaurant was fabulous. I don’t remember the name of the place but the shrimp with pina and leche de coco was awesome, the grilled fish of the day was worth dying for, and the pollo (chicken) with tortillas was mouth-watering too. I was amused at a pub that boasted of Chicken curry and rice as a speciality of UK. The fare wasn’t bad but certainly not a curry as we know it. So their claim for their particular preparation was justified.

I was tickled to find samosas are not only available in the markets here but are also sold by the same name. I even ate some at Manchester, the pub with the English version of chicken curry. Here it was surprisingly a veggie samosa stuffed with a potato filling, served with a sour-sweet mango dip that was a slightly sedate cousin of the Indian sweet mango chutney. The samosas tasted good but they were too oily to the touch as well as to the palate, unlike the original Indian ones.

I discovered a Chilean equivalent of the samosa or gujiya. It’s called ‘empanada.’ It’s an authentic dish and not a take-off on our samosa. It comes in different shapes and sizes but are mostly rectangular. Queso (cheese) is always used no matter what the stuffing is. The vegetarian one, I saw Manu eat, was filled with cheese and mushrooms. The non-vegetarian ones have anything from sea-food to red meats and white meats. Like samosas or gujiyas, empanadas are also made by rolling out maida dough into thin pasties which are stuffed with anything you like and then sealed at the sides and deep fried or baked. Chileans love their empanadas just as much as we do our samosas. They even have restaurants devoted entirely to empanadas.

I like fish, shrimp, prawns and crab all of which we get in India. But my one lament had very often been that they weren’t as fresh as I’d like them to be. Even in Mumbai and Cochin, restaurants couldn’t serve fish or prawns as fresh as they are here. I’ve only had such fresh sea-food at home when the boys went fishing; or when in Cochin fisherwomen carried the catch of the day to our doorstep, early in the morning. At times the fish in the basket would still be alive.

The fruit here is good, but certainly not as fresh and good as the tall claims. At least not in the Malls where we buy our fruit and vegetables, perhaps like the Alphonso mangoes in India the best stuff gets exported. The wines here are also claimed to be the best. However not being a connoisseur of wines, I shall not comment on that. The bakeries are great. The various breads, cakes, pastries etc are certainly very palatable. We get some of the vegetables we are familiar with and some with which we aren’t. I have ventured to buy a packet of some sort of beans that looked interesting, because they have a nice shade of green and they are big; bigger than any I’ve ever eaten. These are not in pods they are sold shelled. Well, they’re still safe in the packet they came in. I’ll record the feedback once I get them into the pan, over the fire and down my gullet.

I must not have done anything a regular tourist does but I have moved around quite a bit, living out of a suit-case and polythene packets. I’ve shifted to four different dwellings in nineteen days; experienced living in a casa (independent house) in a posh area, stayed half a day and a night in a one-star hotel room with a three-star tariff; a night in a tiny apartment with nine other people, six of whom I didn’t know; and the fourth place is where I am sitting and writing at present. It’s a depto, but unlike our apartment block it isn’t a high-rise building. It has just four levels and I’m on the second level. Level over here is what we call floors in India.

It’s an old building with old fixtures and facilities. It has no view, as the windows open out to high-rise buildings that surround it. So it has sunlight shining only in the master bedroom, and that too from 7.oopm onwards. But since I do not occupy that lovely room for me the sun shines nowhere. The gas stove is old but a lot like the ones we still have in India. Only here there is no gas lighter. You either have self igniting stoves or then use matches. It’s been ages since I used a matchstick to light anything. It was funny. There’s no automatic hot running water. There’s an odd gadget on the wall in the kitchen. It has a big switch which has to be turned on. This opens the flow of gas, and a lighted matchstick is then thrust into an opening at the bottom of the gadget and voila a blue flame erupts. This will heat the water for you. I’m still wary of this foreign object and don’t have the nerve to tackle it. Thankfully the ‘nana’ (domestic help) came in yesterday, and lit the flame and so it burns like the Olympic flame or the Amar Jyoti, till someone turns it off.

Before you get all kinds of wrong impressions about my gipsy status, let me mention a massive earthquake measuring 8.8 at the epicentre in Concepcion. This shook us up. We’re fortunate to be safe. But I will elaborate on that tomorrow.

Glossary

Amar Jyoti.........the flame that burns constantly.


..................................................................................

The Chile Diary

19th February, Friday 2010 onwards......


I heaved a sigh of relief as the announcement on the PA system confirmed the end of a long journey. The LAN Airlines plane was going to land at A Merino Benitez Terminal Intl. I was in Santiago, Chile. I looked out of the window at the sparkling lights; it was better than a naulakha haar; it was a whole naulakha saree. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and ‘click’, the image was captured in my mind forever. And yes the relief too! But relief isn’t a long-term friend here in Chile. It prefers to hop in and hop out. My first encounter with it was waiting to happen. As I switched on my cell and selected my service provider, I was greeted with a definite message that I wasn’t registered with the only one name that popped up on my screen. I swore, oh yes I did, at Airtel India as ardently as I had blessed them till Sao Paulo, Brazil. I couldn’t communicate with Tintin and Manu, and the rest of India. Okay, don’t panic I whispered to myself. Get through the formalities and then start the dumb-charades.


I was registered for wheel-chair assistance, thank god for that, so I was usually the last person in and the last person out. This was a small price to pay considering the great deal of help all that assistance was. Not too late I was in the chair and being wheeled through immigration. It was as quickly seen to as it had been with all formalities at all the airports, from IGI Delhi to Chatrapati Shivaji Mumbai, and O.R. Tambo Intl Johannesburg to Guarulhos Intl Sao Paulo.


At Santiago, there'd be a small delay as my declaration of carrying condimentos required a quick look at the relatively small packet of masalas I had packed. I say small because given our Indian penchant for carrying our food and spices wherever we go, it’s needless to elaborate on the shapes, sizes and contents of a Desi’s spice-bags. So the surprised look on the face of the man inspecting the goods was justified. I thought he was a bit suspicious as he looked at me with a crooked smile. Just when I thought he was unnecessarily going to waste time opening up the other bag too, he decided that I was too pathetic a sight and waved me along. I must have been a very sad sight to behold in all that beauty; especially considering I put on a hang-dog expression and sank into the wheel-chair, to beg sympathy if not empathy from the hardest of hearts. Don’t get me wrong, the chair was necessary...the expression wasn’t.


So here I was, cleared by immigration and ready to be picked up. I was wondering whether it was time to start waving my hands and contorting my face and concocting a language very much like English except for the vowel ‘o’ appended to each word. I decided to put off the act for a while and check if familiar faces were at the door. To pump up the positive energy I even conjured up images of two happy Indians smiling broadly and rushing to me with their arms spread wide to embrace me.


“Senorita”....


“No... No,” I reiterated, “it’s mama in Spanish too.”


“Non Espanol?” an unfamiliar voice fell on my ears and very non-Indian face materialised before my eyes. It was the attendant and we had been in front of the exit door for a couple of minutes I think.


“Non Espanol, only English,”


“Ahh,” he stretches the word dramatically.


“Non Eenglish, only Espanol,” he smiled pointing to himself.


So how do you know how to use “only?” I didn’t enunciate that but conveyed it through my vacant stare.


He rattled off something, punctuated with looks at the door. I understood that he wanted to know if any of the name cards that were being waved in front of me by travel agents, had my name on it. The agents themselves were keen to know that. God knows how exasperating it must be for them too. I glanced at the names, none resembled mine so I craned my neck to look around the bearers of the placards and behind them, but no familiar face came into the periphery of my view. I shook my head and launched into my game of dumb-charades. It wasn’t so difficult to convey I needed to phone. He grabbed the chair and rolled me down to the public phone. He stretched out his hand for the coins. I nodded my head, took out a few dollars and showed him I needed to get change. He understood the situation quickly and well and was getting bugged. But I was his charge and he couldn’t abandon me. So he rolled me back to where we had entered the exit lounge. There was a small counter there selling knick-knacks. Things travellers would need. He explained to the sales-girl that we needed change in pesos to phone. She told him that I’d have to buy something first. I went for water, as I realised I was thirsty. We got the change and whizzed back to the phone booth. I had become quite a familiar figure in the lounge already. Two tries and he got the number. The kids were just entering the airport. They had driven down from Vina Delmar, after work. They told me to park myself outside the door. A bit of sign language and the attendant got it. He seemed relieved. I hated to tell him his duty wasn’t over yet. So I let him take all the extra change that was left from the phone money. As he pocketed it quickly I noticed the change of expression on his face. He didn’t think I was such a big nuisance after all. But relief is nobody’s bosom pal. And he was without it in seconds.



While we waited, his body spoke. Body language is wonderful, it tells you what the person won’t. His body language conveyed that he was quite fed-up of me. He didn’t have anything against me but why out of all the attendants, did he have to get stuck with me. And how come no one was there to take the invalid off his hands. Why should I come to Chile if I needed a wheel-chair and that too with no knowledge of Spanish. Yes, his body was doing a lot of talking. It kept me amused.



“How long,” he finally spoke directly to me.



I didn’t understand the words but made a guess it had to be about time. I lifted my right hand and showed him my five spayed fingers and said “minutes,” hoping his knowledge of English had one more word along with ‘only.’ He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. The body had taken over. This was better. I imitated him ditto, in an effort to show him that I understood how he felt. Then a voice, familiar voice, called out “mama” and Manu came running with a broad smile and hugged me. The vision was half true...there was only one Indian! My attendant beamed, I felt sorry for him again. He didn’t know how the appearance of one Indian was going to bomb his happiness. His relief died a premature death. See I told you it isn’t a long-term friend in Chile. Manu asked him to stay till Tintin brought the car to the entrance and I could get up from the chair and into the car. He looked so miserable. I took out a dollar and quietly slipped it into his hand. It worked like a temporary pain-killer.


Some minutes later a car drew up and Tintin’s big frame alighted. The happiness was almost communal in its proportions. Attendant happy, wheel-chair occupant happy, daughter-in-law happy, son happy and standing a couple of yards away two policemen were also happy; temporarily as it turned out, by God’s grace. I couldn’t walk straight as my back hurt and my knees weren’t doing too well either. Finally I was settled in the front seat, the attendant had a decent tip in pesos added to final relief, and we were set to start. The two happy cops waved us down.


“S***,” exclaims my son. “Challan katenge!”


“Kyun, galat park kiya kya?” I ask.


“Nahin, bas waise hi.”


“They’re the same here too!” I exclaim.


By then the burly one was at the door. He began speaking in Spanish. Tintin answered in Spanish. Then the cop took off in Spanish at a speed that could be challaned. Tintin didn’t get it at all. He asked the man if he spoke English. “Non,” came the quick retort. So using whatever little he knew of the local lingo, Tintin explained that he worked here. They asked him for identification and license, which he provided. Burly cop took it to not so burly cop and he checked it out pronto. “Clear” was the report. The collective sigh of relief was audible. Later I learnt that the cops here were incorruptible, not what one can say about our Indian force. Truth is not only bitter, it is sad too.


Now we were on our way to our hotel, Holiday Inn Express. My theory about relief was gaining confirmation quite fast. We took a few wrong turns too many. If it hadn’t been so late in the night I could have counted it as a sight-seeing tour. But it wasn’t that bad. I was happy to be off the plane and with people I knew and better still who understood my tongue. The room was very comfortable; Big and with all the amenities in place and functioning. I was so glad to be able to stretch out on a bed. We would be here till Sunday noon.


Glossary

Naulakha haar...............a necklace sparkling with diamonds

Challan katenge.............They'll fine me for something

"Kyun, galat park kiya kya?"...............Why, did you park in the wrong place?

"Nahin, bas waise hi".....................No, just like that ( for no apparent reason)

...............................................................................

Khaandaan Ka Paandaan....cont.

Mamingala, Padmini and Peggy


Ever since I was a little girl and heard about Mamingala, Padmini and Peggy I’ve been intrigued by the story that crosses over the borders of two countries; India, and erstwhile Burma. How did these three people get along with each other? Did they even know each other well? Perhaps each one lived individually but all together in one house? Intriguing I must say.


Before I go any further let me remind you that my mind has been weaving tales in and around these three ever since I was introduced to them at seven. I still wonder about these girls who grew into women. There wasn’t much divulged to me but whatever was, fascinated me and does to this day. I wish I could find someone who would tell me more; someone who knew the truth.


In the meantime, I weave my tales around the existing facts as they were told to me. I do not hold myself to speak only of facts because I must build the story based on my premises and surmises. I’ve tried to be logical and rational in my imaginings, but if you find it preposterous, just stop reading...I’m not going to stop writing this. It’s too haunting and I have to get it out of my system. Hopefully it will give me some inner peace.


Mamingala .......The grand-daughter of Ubadoon, a prominent member (Gen Secretary) of a political party in Burma. I wasn’t told the parents names or the complete name of the grand-father. This was one of the main reasons for me to suspect that something or possibly everything was not quite right in Mamingala’s world.


Mamingala’s mother’s name was kept a secret but her beauty was extolled. It seems that she was extremely beautiful and had a complexion like exquisite porcelain. Her hair was very long and black and fell like a cascade to her calves, when it was not bundled up into a bun on her head. She lived a lavish and luxurious life, waited on hand and foot by maids. She loved her cigarettes, which she smoked in slender holders and chocolates were never far from her. There was always a box kept within arms’ reach. Besides her hair she had captivating eyes in an oval face. She had doe-eyes which slanted, ringed with long curling lashes. She loved jewellery and had a large collection of diamonds and Noga rubies. About Mamingala’s father not much was divulged except that he was a diamond merchant who came to India for business. Mamingala was born in a hospital in Madras, now known as Chennai.


Mamingala’s story ends soon, with her mother abandoning her. She was left in the care of the Matron of the hospital where she was born. The matron was a friend. Whether theirs was a patient-nurse relationship or they were friends before Mamingala was born, is not clear. But the matron finally took the abandoned baby under her wing. The reason for her being so cruelly left behind, was said to be because Mamingala was dark. This seemed so untrue because she was fair. I would protest at this and remark at the frivolity of the reason. But later on, many reasons for the reason, popped into my head. My speculations were logical but cannot be substantiated.


Padmini...They called Padmini a very lucky baby. No, she had no near death situations preceding her birth nor any infections or disease that she had overcome. She was a small little bundle lying in the nursery with all the other new born babies, and looked much like them, except she was the fairest of the lot. What separated her from the other babies was her very distinguished visitor who came to see her almost every day. The lady would be accompanied by her woman attendant. She never stayed very long but gave generously to the nurses and servants caring for Padmini. She loved the baby, even though it wasn’t hers. In fact she had named her Padmini. She wanted to adopt her. She conveyed this to the Matron.


“Your Highness, I love her too. Besides, her mother left her in my care. Please don’t take her away.” The Matron was distraught.


“Think it over. I will not insist if it means so much to you. But give it a thought. She is my child already, my little Padmini,” she said looking lovingly at the child who lay oblivious of the manner in which her fate lay in the balance...between life in a palace with a Maharani and a not so opulent but very comfortable life with a Matron.


Mrs D’sylva, the Matron, looked at the Maharani as she made her regal exit. She was worried. Baby Padmini slept peacefully.


Padmini’s fate was decided. The Matron took her home. She was a well-to-do lady of ample means. Her husband had been a doctor and they owned a big bungalow. She had grown up children of her own but she did not believe that Padmini would have a secure and happy life in the palace, so she adopted her. The Maharani would be the only one who would care for Padmini she thought, and who knew the ways of the palace and royalty. Their whims and fancies were as changeable and unpredictable as the weather.


And here ends Padmini’s short story. I was curious about the queen who’d visit her. But although her visits were spoken about, I was made to believe that no one knew why she came or why she named the child or even why she wanted to adopt her. I never did believe that.


Peggy...
“I don’t want to go to boarding school,” wailed little Peggy, as her mother petted and consoled her. Once again she repeated all the pros of a residential school, hoping that Peggy would calm down.


Peggy was an adopted child. Her mother had brought her home without consulting her own kids and the big age difference didn’t help. They were grown up and although they weren’t mean to Peggy there was no bonding either. She was accepted as one of their mother’s whimsical philanthropic gestures. One they would have to live with and tolerate.


Boarding school was the best option under the circumstances as Peggy was growing up and beginning to notice and resent the way she was isolated from the other children in the house. So she was packed off to Bangalore, with promises of frequent visits.


Peggy D’sylva passed out from school and returned home. Her mother had selected a few colleges for her to choose from. But Peggy had other plans. She was going to join the WRINS. Her mother was shocked.


“What are you going to do there, Peggy?”


“Work, of course,” answered Peggy matter-of-factly.


“Yes, that’s clear to me young lady. But as what do you intend to work as? You go through your college and then join the Force.”


“No, I don’t want to go to college. I’ve already applied for a secretarial course with Pittmans. I’ll be a stenographer.”


“Do you know how much they pay stenos? You silly girl, you spend more in a month than they’ll pay you in two.”


Peggy stood her ground. She was as stubborn as the proverbial mule.


Peggy D’sylva joined the Navy. She moved to Bombay now known as Mumbai. Along with her went Mamingala and Padmini. She never did leave them behind. Over the years it became quite easy to see the traces of each.


Mamingala was a snob and very fastidious. She was also very stubborn, wanted a lot of attention and was self-absorbed. She was fashionable and loved to dress well. Her favourite haunt was The Taj Mahal Hotel. This is where she’d go for breakfast or even a cup of coffee. Even then the hotel was a five-star hotel and not one where a mere stenographer would go. But her mother sent her an ample allowance every month. Her mother knew about Mamingala’s love of the good life. This was Mamingala’s strongest phase.


Padmini was very much a South Indian. She’d lapse into a distinct southern accent. Her gestures and expressions would be different. She’d tell everyone she was a Tamilian, and look directly at them defying them to disagree. No one dared to, even though they’d carry big question marks in their eyes. Padmini could pass off as a Burmese, Indonesian, Malaysian, Singaporean or any such race but certainly not a Tamilian! The food she’d eat or serve would be South Indian fare and she’d discard her airs and dig into the rice with her hands. Padmini’s influence grew stronger than Mamingala’s over the years. She even decided the people Peggy should befriend. Needs no saying, all were from South India. Padmini was defiant. She was rigid and had a smouldering temper. She could be mean and even unscrupulous on rare occasions. Padmini was also a doomsday prophet. She was negative about everything.


Peggy was the jovial, funny, giggly Anglo-Indian girl. Her foster parents were of Portuguese descent and their way of living was westernised. She’d be free with her expressions and speak only English and treat every other language, especially Hindi and Punjabi, with disdain. She’d inform everyone that her mother tongue was English. Some of the everyday terms she’d use are still typically Anglo-Indian ones and I’ve heard them used only in these homes. The food would be continental, or Chinese or Goan in flavour. Peggy could be shy and took offence easily. She loved to sing and write poetry. Peggy could be quite immature at times and would even compete with youngsters.


As life took her on a roller-coaster ride, the first casualty was Mamingala. I was sad to see her go. She was the one who added a bit of style and spice to Peggy’s life. Padmini held on tenaciously. I think Peggy liked her a lot. But as she succumbed to ill-health Padmini departed leaving behind Peggy. When Peggy died, she died alone.


I have theories about my mother’s birth and parentage, but these are not based on proof. I’m sure each one of you will draw conclusions from existing knowledge and known facts. I too have been doing that for years, trying to complete the jigsaw puzzle, but it remains incomplete. I kept asking my mother for the truth but she wouldn’t tell me. Probably it hurt her too much, or the resentment and anger hadn’t died and she couldn’t reconcile herself to the abandonment. My heart has always been heavy with her concealed pain. I wish she had spoken about it and released the agony; thus saving herself the confusion about her identity and living her life as the person she believed she was.

....................................................................................

Khaandaan Ka Paandaan...cont.

Daddy Runs Away



Daddy was a restless boy. He had an overactive imagination and was forever up to some prank or making an endeavour to live out his dreams. This was one side of the dreamer, poet, artist and fun loving ambitious boy. However buried, not far beneath, in his soul smouldered a terrible temper; perhaps an accumulation of all the unspent energy and also the frustrations he must have had. He was impetuous and reacted, often, very irrationally when in a rage. Usually it meant beating up someone or being destructive in some way.


One day when he couldn’t have his way with his mother, he decided to run away from home. He must have been about thirteen or fourteen then. They lived in a small town in Punjab, where my grandfather was a teacher in the Government School. Dad didn’t have any money nor did he have any kind of plan in mind. So once his temper had cooled down and he realised that running away from home wasn’t the wisest thing to do, he was already quite far away from home. Hunger and fear weren’t making things any better. He kept walking and sat down only when his legs couldn’t hold up any longer. He was sitting near a watermelon rehri (cart) and one can only imagine how much his mouth must have watered for a bite. He was miserable and wanted to go home, but being arrogant he did not know how he’d face, not only the beating he was bound to get but also the humiliation of defeat. He found it was harder to say ‘sorry’ and accept his fault than sit out his hunger and fatigue.



At a point he did come close to giving up and going back. It was summer and the Punjab summers are extremely harsh. Perhaps he would have swallowed his pride and turned homewards but someone approached him. It was a eunuch. Daddy didn’t bother to dwell on this as it was a relief to have someone sympathetic talk to him. He spilled out his story and didn’t feel ashamed to cry. He was consoled and given watermelon which he walloped down. With his hunger and thirst satiated, he expressed his desire to return to his home, worried now that his mother, who loved him very much, would be sick with worry and crying. But the eunuch talked him out of it. Daddy reluctantly acquiesced to what the eunuch said more from a sense of gratitude than conviction. So he quietly went along and they reached Karnal, a town very far from Daddy’s home. Here he was made comfortable in the eunuch’s shack and told to rest as it had been a tiring journey. The eunuch went off to earn his living singing and dancing dressed as a woman.



Back in Daddy’s hometown, his parents were stirring up search parties. Everyone was looking out for him. The news of Daddy’s disappearance reached Melzhar Gilani, who later went on to become a judge, and he swung into action. Fortunately his contacts proved to be excellent detectives and Daddy’s whereabouts were traced to Karnal. Before the day was through Uncle Melzhar drove down to Karnal himself and rescued Dad from the eunuch. Uncle belonged to an influential and rich family and it was enough to warn the eunuch not to try and come anywhere near Daddy again. Contrary to Daddy’s fears, he was received with tears of joy and relief.



One would think he had learned his lesson; he had in a way, but it wasn’t that running away wasn’t the solution. About four years later he ran away again. This time however he knew where he was going and what the purpose of his mission was, and he did carry some money with him. It seems that the lesson he had learned was that running away was fine if one had a destination, plan and constructive purpose for it.



I fancied the adventure and thrill attached to such stories, but I could never be fully convinced that this was the right way to achieve one’s goals. There are other ways, which perhaps might mean confrontation, but they serve to guide you and also provide you with other viewpoints and better options. Maybe that’s why, though I dreamed of running away, and even kept a few of my valuables bundled in a handkerchief, tied to a stick, a la vagabond I never did want to ever leave home that way. Very early in life I learned where to draw the line and also to distinguish which fantasies could be realities and which only made for good play-acting and dreaming.



Daddy didn’t advocate running away, as a means to an end. His mistakes were youthful ones, made in haste and perhaps regretted bitterly in quiet moments. He never admitted it openly but I can safely draw this conclusion from the way he guided me with lessons on perseverance, determination and going through rather than around. His main stress always lay on education as the way to achieve one’s goals.



In the final analysis, Daddy had learned some valuable lessons from his shenanigans and he passed these on to me. What I marvel at is the way he taught me, by recounting tales of his successes and mistakes. He never hid his escapades and neither did he conceal the negative outcomes. He blamed no one for the adverse consequences of his actions and gave credit, where due, for his achievements. He didn’t denounce his actions and didn’t praise them; he left it for me to work out. I had questions which he never fended, answering each honestly. I had to seek my own ‘Truth,’ he only showed me the way to the ultimate truth. From him I have learned to live my life with courage and a firm belief in God.

.................................................................................

Khaandaan Ka Paandaan cont.... The RIN and WRINS

“Tell your children some good family stories and you’ll be remembered for generations. Be the story and you will live forever.”...........Joy Clarkson


As I trawled through my memory for stories, incidents and anecdotes that I could add to my collection of “paans & giloris” for Khaandaan Ka Paandaan, my gift to my grandchildren, I wondered about my need to recount here little snippets and snapshots of our family life. I believe it is very important to know, if not all then, most of the people and nuts one’s family tree is full of. But what’s more important is to know how they lived and what ingredients were stirred into their lives that produced characters and lives so varied and diverse that one wouldn’t even know they were related if the family tree didn’t join them. It also helps to know which ancestor to blame for all the quirks you have! I enjoyed listening to the yarns about my parents and older siblings. I also learned a few things; some ‘what to do’ things, some ‘what not to do’ and quite a bit of ‘left to do’ stuff. So was this the reason I was going down memory lane? I mulled a while and the outcome was the quote which opens this chapter.


The Royal Indian Navy and the WRINS


Daddy decided to join the Navy as a sailor to fight the War. He was only seventeen when he made this momentous decision, but more on that later. The British were ruling India so the Naval Force in India was called the Royal Indian Navy. The women’s division was known as the Women’s Royal Indian Navy Services, and the recruits to this wing were generally referred to as WRINS. Having earned his commission in the UK, Daddy returned to India. He was in the signals division, posted at Bombay, now known as Mumbai. He bossed over some WRINS who were stenographers and made up his department. I am referring only to this group in his office because they are important to the development of this narrative.


Daddy was a youth from rural Punjab, with an excellent physique and handsome face. Tall and dark, he fitted the bill to be a Barbara Cartland hero...”tall, dark and handsome.” Needless to say he was much sought after by women including those in his office. He was quite aware of the effect he had on them and enjoyed the attention they lavished on him. The drawer in his table would always be filled with chocolates; just one of the bribes to ensure they didn’t get a rough day at work. No matter how many times I heard this story I never failed to marvel at the stupidity of these WRINS. Why on earth were they giving Daddy chocolates! They should have been receiving them from him!


“Ab woh laa kar rakhte the meri drawer mein , toh main kha leta tha. Unko bola thodi na tha ke mujhe chocolate achchi lagti hai,” he would laugh off my childish contempt.


“Of course you used to ask them to get you chocolates. And when they wouldn’t you’d get angry.” Mummy would be quick to correct him. The jealousy apparently still lurked within.


Daddy would grin and refute that with a silent nod of his head. This was the cue for someone to ask if everyone without exception gave in to this extortion. And of course one of us would oblige.


“Oh no, everyone wouldn’t. There was this small Burmese who refused to comply,” he’d say, his eyes twinkling. We’d all turn to look at Mummy who’d be blushing and smiling shyly; another cue for more questions which we would supply.


“Why didn’t you bring chocolates?”
“Did you get a rough day at work?”
“Didn’t you like Daddy?”
“How many girlfriends did he have?”
“Were you jealous?”


The same old questions were repeated; the same old answers were given. But the interest was always fresh on both sides of the table. Just as Mum and Dad retained the timeless joy of their courtship even though they had been married for “donkey’s years,” we listened and marvelled at the love that had bound these two very different people, with renewed interest. For every wrinkle, every grey hair that was added with the passage of time, made it more amazing that the story could still evoke the same feelings that youthful romance had embedded in their hearts forever.


I’m not even remotely suggesting that life was Utopia for them. They had their squabbles and bitter fights. As I mentioned earlier they were poles apart in all things. And that’s what makes it unbelievable. My father doted on my mother even though she drove him mad at times...most times. And she remained forever jealous and possessive of him till she died.


Theirs might not be an ideal love story as love stories go, but it had all the ingredients of which legendary romances are made. Boss and steno, rich-poor divide, North-South chasm, Urban-rural culture chasm, language barriers, (mom was a Burmese brought up in a city in the South, and knew only South Indian languages and English) whirlwind courtship, parental objection, elopement, alienation; they did it all and survived all the tests. I’m talking about a long time back. They were married in July, 1947 in a small conservative town in Punjab.


I still smile when I picture Daddy teasing ma, obviously savouring those long gone moments. He’d look lovingly at Mummy who’d be as shy as a new bride as she smiled and glanced at him with apparent adulation. Yes, they sure had something special between them.





Glossary:

“Paans & Giloris......... Paan is betel leaf with areca nut and other things added to it. Chewing paan is an age-old practice and is deeply rooted in India.Gilori is also a small paan.

Khaandaan ka..........the family's

Paandaan..........The container used to keep the betel leaf and other condiments used to make the paan.

“Ab woh laa kar rakhte the meri drawer mein , toh main kha leta tha. Unko bola thodi na tha ke mujhe chocolate achchi lagti hai,”.........."They would put the chocolates in my drawer and I used to eat them. I never told them I liked chocolates."


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"Go to foreign countries and you will get to know the good things one possesses at home." - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

I've been through some harrowing experiences ever since I came to Chile one month ago. I've learnt what a terramotto (big earthquake) really is. I've managed to stay sane if not brave, through an almost continual flow of aftershocks. I've been on the streets running away, God knows where, from a tsunami alert with no idea of where I was going nor any knowledge of the local language.I can't sleep and my nerves are jangled. I suppose the predominant feeling at this time should be one of fear. But surprisingly it isn't so. What I feel so much all the time is gratefulness.

Nothing can be taken for granted. Even a glass of clean drinking water or a simple thing like hot water in the taps or gas to cook your food, or even for a slice of bread.I've been grateful for a bathroom, even though nine other people were using it and the flushing system of the WC wasn't working. Not a very long time back,this would have been reason enough to throw a mammoth fit. I would get upset over things which seem so trivial to me today.

I'm being brief here about the difficult situation I'm facing. Creature comforts and luxury of home life in India enlarge the discomfort in a foreign land especially when the place is shaken by natural disasters and one spends a day and night on the streets.Yes,I came here as a creature a bit too fastidious. Well, I admit I'm not a saint yet but though life in Chile is not exactly honky-dory, I've learnt to appreciate the little things of life and feel grateful for the small acts of kindness I encounter every day. I've experienced what it means when we speak about the presence of God and his grace. Yes,I'm grateful.

"No one is as capable of gratitude as one who has emerged from the kingdom of night." -Elie Wiesel


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Khaandaan Ka Paandaan ....cont..

Mummy does a Vanishing Act

Mummy was all of 4’8” tall. That should be more like ‘short’ than tall, but for all her pint-size stature she packed a giant image and not once did I ever perceive her as short, as long as I was a kid.

Mummy got tickled very easily. Even the silliest of jokes would get her in splits. And so it was only natural that any kind of goof-up, even some one tripping and falling or tumbling would make her laugh first and help later. She always helped, with tears rolling down her cheeks….well so what if they were squeezed out by laughter! So it only stands to reason that all of us kids also have the same foible. I wonder if foibles are contagious! Let’s not digress and get along with the tale.

So this happened in Delhi. We were in Moti Bagh. One day we decided to take the short-cut to the taxi stand. Jasper and I were walking ahead and as we came to the rather wide and deep gutter, which thankfully isn’t there today, we jumped over it effortlessly, without interrupting our conversation. A few steps later, I turned to look for Mummy and she was nowhere to be seen. In typical little girl fashion I panicked. Where had she vanished? Kidnapped!

We ran back and there getting up inside the gutter was our mother. The relief had a huge comic effect to it and I burst out laughing. Jasper, the good old soul that he is, stopped his mirth to stoop to give her a hand up.

“Stupid tailor,” she grumbled, “stitched my petticoat so narrow, I couldn’t span the width of the gutter.”

The sermon I got did not rankle but it did prompt me to retort that she laughed too whenever I fell, but I didn’t mind since I laughed too, harder than any one else. However, the sermon served its purpose eventually, as I don’t find it funny when some one falls any more. Maybe later, when one is brushed and dusted, and no physical or egoistic injuries have been sustained, a little laughter is ok.

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Khaandaan Ka Paandaan.... cont

Forty-five minutes make an hour

Study time was usually an hour long for both Jasper Nana and me unless of course I was doing Math, which made it longer for me.

We were never supervised…..you see we were Christian children and supposed to be obedient and good. I must mention that we were obedient and we were good. I must also reiterate that, we were kids too. And there were days when Math was too tough to tackle and the game the kids were playing outside a lot more fun. So the little devil on my shoulder would start whispering in my ear and hey presto! The hour would have only forty-five minutes.



Now I didn’t know how to read the time on the clock, but Jasper sure could. So I’d use all my kid sister wiles, emotional blackmail et al, and get him to put the clock ahead. Of course I’d want it bucking by a bigger margin but he warned me that it would be obvious!

It was all I could do to keep a straight face when Mummy would keep re-setting the time on the clock and grumbling about the poor quality of things. All this was fun till I grew up and lost precious percentage due to poor grades in Mathematics.

If only I had put myself to it more seriously at the start; if only folks had been more patient with my Math problems; if only I hadn’t put the clock ahead, I’d regretfully think. So many ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’.

Needless to say I still need my fingers to add beyond a certain number ( that's an exaggeration, but I'm awful at math) And that's not funny.


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Khaandaan Ka Paandaan.... cont...

Two times Nine is…..umm…is…er…

I think I should add a few incidents with Mummy. Daddy’s been hogging all the space till now. Not that there’s much that transpired with her and me together…..I was always a Daddy’s girl…a tomboy. Anyway, Mummy was, as all mummies are, my teacher at home. Very bad really, when it came to Math, because she was short on patience and I was short on memory, especially when it came to Multiplication Tables. By the end of an interminably long study hour, I’d manage to finally get through one Table and escape. Oh yes! Escape it was. For my face, which would be burning with the tight slaps she’d land so precisely on my small cheeks, and the palms that got whacked with a ruler, or my legs that got thwacked with a ladle or whatever was in her hands. Getting away was the greatest relief of the day.

Poor thing, she must have been relieved too! When I think back to the almost stupid way I’d stare at her, while I stumbled and hemmed and hawed my way through the same old Table day after day, my heart goes out to her…..any one would go crazy. So I had to find a method to remember my Multiplcation Tables and avoid a beating. And what a way I devised!!

I’d generally wait till she was in the kitchen instructing the cook and doing odds and ends. I would stand against the door jamb, in the pantry and Jasper Nana would stand behind me hidden from her view. Then I’d very quickly and very loudly say the whole Table and hey without a mistake! Jasper Nana’s prompting got me a lot of praise and shorter study hours, till the day she decided to quiz me. My prompter failed me. Ah! It was back to the grind and a good slapathon.

I still dislike Math!

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The Princess has arrived

The Princess Alyssa Joy has arrived. It was a long vigil through the night, but it was worth more than every wink of sleep we missed. How blessed she has made me feel....I need to rephrase that...how blessed she has made all of us feel.


I wonder at the joy I feel as a grandparent. The multiple roles I've played in life have extended to include this new one. The best by far. I mull over this new-found feeling of joy. I realise that happiness too can be qualified. I've been ecstatic before....I've had experiences that made me exclaim that I've never been that happy before.....But this one beats all those. It's joyous beyond measure; it's uplifting and exuberant; it opens a door to a place I know nothing of.


There's this love that holds a bit of apprehension too...Do I have all that goes into making a good "grammy?" I had no doubts about being a great mom; never wondered if my kids would love me...I just believed in me. Well, taking a cue from that I'll begin to believe I'm the best grammy she's going to have...LOL. That feels much better already...Ha!


On another level I wonder at this satisfaction within....of seeing an extension of our life. How we long to live on through our children and future generations. Bliss! I'm walking on cloud nine right now...and want to revel in it a bit more...

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Khaandaan Ka Paandaan..cont.

Blowing in the wind


Daddy had a couple of habits that could only be tagged as an ‘I-don’t-care-what-you-think’ attitude. They were both not what sophisticated men would do, my mother repeatedly said, but it gave me moments of such immense glee that I have to mention it here.



Daddy loved to sing choruses. Now there’s nothing wrong with that, but loudly while walking down the street…well that’s something else, yes? Well, for my mother it was a source of extreme embarrassment. In all fairness to her, I can well imagine how she felt. However as a little girl, I failed to understand her problem with it because I would be giggling while she scowled. And to add to her woe, I’d join Daddy in the singing. For one, I enjoyed the attention we were attracting as passers-by would turn to look at us, and the other reason being to see Mummy’s face….priceless! She’d walk a few paces behind, in a manner of disowning us, I suppose. Come to think of it I guess we needed to be disowned right then..!!! Now if you are already rolling your eyes, wait till you hear this.



Daddy had always had a delicate stomach, so flatulence was a constant complaint. Mummy believed one had to be very discreet about these things, but not Daddy. If he had to let it out he had to let it out. Oh! He did defer to office and Mess etiquette, but at home or if he was walking…….there was no stopping him.



“Stop polluting the atmosphere,” Mummy would growl. To which his rear would answer loud and clear, while he gave a crooked smile. And I would be in splits. One day out of sheer curiosity, I asked him why he did this. And this is what he told me….



“You know there was a man who died because he wouldn’t let out the wind in his bowels. So his widow got this written on his gravestone, ‘Wherever you may be, Let your wind go free, For that has caused the death of me.’ So do you want me to have that on my gravestone?”


I couldn’t answer because I was laughing so hard. ( thank god Mummy’s influence has prevailed on us in this area….no blowing in the wind for us!! Hahaha)

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khaandaan Ka Paandaan...cont

Shayar bhi hoon, Gayak bhi hoon



I doubt if there is anyone, outside the family circle who knows that your great grandfather used to write beautiful shayari, and he could play the harmonium very well and sing equally well. But trust me to know this better than anyone within the family too….poocho kyun!



Well it goes like this……One day Mummy saw me dancing away to glory, Indian filmi style, to some song that was playing on the radio. I had taken a dupatta of hers and pinned it over my head and I was so engrossed in my swirling and twirling, I didn’t realize I had an audience. It was only when she couldn’t suppress her laughter any longer and it burst out loudly, that I came to an abrupt halt and boy, did I feel embarrassed or what! The whole world would get to know. Joy who could always be found playing Cowboys and Red Indians or Cops and Robbers with the boys; the catty-toting Joy was dancing like a sissy! I knew I had a few fights on my hands to re-establish my reputation of a tough girl. Especially since at seven, I still managed to hold my ground, with our group of boys most of whom, were older than I.



That evening when Daddy came back from work this was the ‘Breaking News.’ Ah! Once again, bless him! Daddy was overjoyed and full of praise. No joking, no teasing…..and to everyone’s surprise he declared that now he’d have to buy me a pair of ghungroos! Mummy was flabbergasted. I was stumped. Ghungroos, for me! My reputation was gone.



Later, after dinner, I sat in his lap and told him he didn’t have to buy me ghungroos. He replied that it helped to keep the beat. I countered that I could maintain the rhythm and beats without them. He insisted. I desisted. He realized there was something else on my mind. I blurted it out.



“Everyone will laugh at me.”


“We won’t tell anyone.”


“Jasper and Mummy will.”


“I will tell them not to.”


“Then it’s ok.”



One Sunday, in the early afternoon, Daddy called me. He was sitting in the drawing-room with the harmonium and beside it on the table lay the bells dancers used to tie around their ankles. He told me to get a dupatta and a few minutes later, with the odhni on my head and ghungroos around my ankles, I was dancing with gay abandon as Daddy played the harmonium and sang with a spirit that matched my own.



What can you say about such a man, who understood not only the latent love of music, rhythm and dance but also the spirit that longed to be free in the heart of his little girl, and gave her these precious moments. “Panchchi banun udhti phirun mast gagan mein, aaj main aazaad hoon duniya ke chaman mein.”Always nurture the talents you have. Give in to the creative urges of your faculty.


Later on, at the age of nine, I did join Kuchipudi classes in Delhi, and although I couldn’t continue with it for various reasons, I developed a sort of grace in my movements and gestures which has been one of my assets as a woman and as a teacher.


Glossary

shayar.......a poet who writes couplets ( shayari) in Urdu

Gayak........one who sings

Dupatta, Odhni........a piece of cloth used to cover the head. Usually made of a fine, thin material.

Ghoongroo.......small bells made of brass, attached in rows on a thick cloth band which is strapped onto the ankles of a dancer.

Poocho kyun......Hindi for "ask why."

Panchchi banun, udhti phiroon mast gagan mein.....duniya ke chaman mein"......let me be a bird and fly with gay abandon in the sky. Today I'm free in the garden of the world.

Catty.....abbreviation for catapult

Kuchipudi......an Indian classical dance form


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Khaandaan Ka Paandaan....cont.

Shayar bhi hoon, Gayak bhi hoon


I doubt if there is anyone, outside the family circle who knows that your great grandfather used to write beautiful shayri, and he could play the harmonium very well and sing equally well. But trust me to know this better than anyone within the family too….poocho kyun!


Well it goes like this……One day Mummy saw me dancing away to glory, Indian filmi style, to some song that was playing on the radio. I had taken a dupatta of hers and pinned it over my head and I was so engrossed in my swirling and twirling, I didn’t realize I had an audience. It was only when she couldn’t suppress her laughter any longer and it burst out loudly, that I came to an abrupt halt and boy, did I feel embarrassed or what! The whole world would get to know. Joy who could always be found playing Cowboys and Red Indians or Cops and Robbers with the boys; the catty-toting Joy was dancing like a sissy! I knew I had a few fights on my hands to re-establish my reputation of a tough girl. Especially since at seven, I still managed to hold my ground, with our group of boys most of whom, were older than I.


That evening when Daddy came back from work this was the ‘Breaking News.’ Ah! Once again, bless him! Daddy was overjoyed and full of praise. No joking, no teasing…..and to everyone’s surprise he declared that now he’d have to buy me a pair of ghungroos! Mummy was flabbergasted. I was stumped. Ghungroos, for me! My reputation was gone.


Later, after dinner, I sat in his lap and told him he didn’t have to buy me ghungroos. He replied that it helped to keep the beat. I countered that I could maintain the rhythm and beats without them. He insisted. I desisted. He realized there was something else on my mind. I blurted it out.


“Everyone will laugh at me.”


“We won’t tell anyone.”


“Jasper and Mummy will.”


“I will tell them not to.”


“Then it’s ok.”



One Sunday, in the early afternoon, Daddy called me. He was sitting in the drawing-room with the harmonium on a table in front of him. He told me to get a dupatta and a few minutes later, with the odhni on my head and ghungroos around my ankles, I was dancing with gay abandon as Daddy played the harmonium and sang with a spirit that matched my own.


What can you say about such a man, who understood not only the latent love of music, rhythm and dance but also the spirit that longed to be free, in the heart of his little girl and gave her these precious moments. “Panchchi banun udhti phirun mast gagan mein, aaj main aazaad hoon duniya ke chaman mein.”
Always nurture the talents you have. Give in to the creative urges of your faculty.


Later on, at the age of nine, I did join Kuchipudi classes in Delhi, and although I couldn’t continue with it for various reasons, I developed a sort of grace in my movements and gestures which has been one of my assets as a woman and as a teacher.


Glossary:

gayak..........singer

Shayar..........poet

Ghungroo.......little round bells tied around dancers anklets

Dupatta, odhni........both terms are used for a head cover, usually made of fine muslin, chiffon or georgette.

"Panchchi banoo udti phiroon......ke chaman mein"........I want to be a bird and fly in the sky. Today I am a free bird in the gardens of the world.

Kuchpudi.......a classical Indian dance form


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We ruled the skies



Daddy was a great kite flyer. His passion for kites was so strong that to tell him to fly a ready-made kite was akin to blasphemy. So as soon as kite flying season would come there would be rolls of maanja, couple of phirkis, bamboo and sheets of glazed paper or China paper, as some would call it because Chinese lanterns were made of it, lying around the house. Mummy would be asked to make a pot of 'layee' ( an adhesive made by cooking refined flour) Daddy didn’t believe in using the market glue. Then there would be pieces of glass, which he would very strictly forbid us from even looking at forget touching!


Now the entire process of making kites for the season would begin. What made it so exciting was the involvement of imagination……no ordinary kites for us.
“Aur phir Chakotri,” he’d address me, smiling delightedly, “what kind of kite do you want?”
The question would go to Jasper Nana too. But whereas Jasper would be more thoughtful about the kind of flying object he desired, obviously taking in other “technical aspects,” I’d let my imagination fly. I think I must have made some very impossible demands, in fact I’m sure I did, but none would be brushed aside with a flat “ NO.” Daddy would work around my original design, retaining what he could to keep me happy and also produce something that would take off.


The maanja was the most difficult part. I can’t recall the exact process but I know the glass would be powdered very fine. A difficult task and the male domestic help would also be requisitioned for this, much to Mummy’s annoyance, because the only male help was also the cook. And then the string would be dipped in some sort of gooey stuff and drawn through the powdered glass. This needed space so it would be done in the backyard which was very big.


But I’m drawing out this narration too much…let’s come to the day we became the rulers of the sky. One day Jasper Nana and yours truly decided that the pecha wins we had in our kite flying sorties, were not very impressive, so I went with our laments to Daddy. And as usual, bless him, he was up to the challenge.


“Abhi dikhate hain unko patang kya cheez hai. Arre, I’ll make you such a kite that they’ll run with their tails between their legs.”


Thus was fashioned a kite that was taller than I was, so it would be over four feet. A lot of thought and planning went into the dynamics of this monster ( it looked like one to me). Then the question of maanja was raised by Jasper, and Daddy totally agreed that we needed something much stronger but not too heavy either. Now don’t ask me what he did because I don’t remember, all I can recall with absolute detail and delight, even to this day, is the pride I felt as the kite soared majestically into the sky.


The first day we took it for its maiden launch, Daddy had in true ‘Daddy’ nature made it a picnic. He got Mummy to pack the picnic basket. In those days I doubt if there was any home without a wicker picnic basket. Our destination, a twelve minute walk from home, was a small hillock. My job was to lug the picnic basket which, given my diminutive size was big. But I wasn’t going to complain about that and managed to keep it an inch above the ground.


And then I waited with bated breath for the take-off. Smooth! It climbed against the wind like a dream. As it made its way upward and onward, Daddy brought it into combat with every kite in 'pechable' distance. Annihilation was swift and sure. Our grand-daddy of all kites dominated the blue expanse, as it held steady, a tiny speck in the sky.


By the third day word had spread and the regulars who flew their kites there vanished kite et al, as soon as they saw us coming with our giant. After the initial egoistic boost, I felt a bit deflated as we watched our kite do a drunken swoon, as it sailed unchallenged and uninterrupted. This wasn’t fun. We had taken away the fun from the entire activity. What should have been pure enjoyment and fun and games had turned into a battle for supremacy. Of course I couldn’t elucidate all this but I did comment on it.


“They’ve all gone away,” I said quietly. “They are scared of us,” I added with undisguised disappointment.


“Yes, daud gaye sare. Your kite is the king.” Daddy had failed to notice that I wasn’t quite pleased with this dubious entitlement.


“But it’s not so nice without any other kites. It was so much fun on the first day,” I insisted in an effort to make my point. No one sensed how I was feeling. They were too elated with the momentary thrill of being rulers of that small patch of blue.


I had learnt a lesson.


Later on the realization would imprint on my mind that there is a fine line between healthy competition and unhealthy competition and we must remember never to cross this boundary. Ever since then I have gauged the level of competition to set my standards and then I’ve competed with myself alone. In the bargain if I outdid the others it would be a bonus for me….! It was always a win-win situation. I either added to my prizes or I added to my learning experience.



Glossary:

Manja.....the twine used to fly the kite.
Phirki.....a kind of spool on which the twine is wrapped. It has elongated handles on either side which rest between the thumbs and forefingers.
Aur phir chakotri......What now chakotri(a name he had coined up for me because of my round face.)
Pecha.....The act of engaging and cutting an opponents kite.
Abhi dikhate hain unko patang kya cheez hoti hai.....We'll show them right now what a kite is.
Daud gaye sare.....They've all run away.
Pechable.....a combination of 'pecha' and 'able'. Coined up by us to mean within striking distance.


See you tomorrow.

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Khaandaan ka Paandaan

Prologue

Won’t you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.

- Richard B. Sheridan

When I conceived this book as a gift for you, my grandsons and grand-daughters, you were not yet a specific thought in your parent’s minds. But I knew you. I have prayed for you and love you from the depths of my heart. Children of my children, for you I leave behind this treasure trove of memories. They will make you laugh, think, ponder, learn and treasure the little things that make life great.

With love

Daadi/grammy



Make Great Memories

There’s nothing like wonderful memories. I’ve yet to find anything more sustaining in times of happiness or sorrow. It acts as yeast in joyful moments leavening the dough so to say, and doubling the mirth to almost hysterical laughter. In moments of pain or loss, it fills the void with vivid images that bring back the good times. Learn to draw strength from these memories. Treat each one as a precious pearl. Gather them diligently and with care. String them together on the chain of memory and trust me…….whenever you are threatened by despair, you only have to finger each pearl like a rosary.


Chapter I

Let’s Start at the Very Beginning


( I must start with my father, your great grandfather, because he has been a guiding force in my life. I have learnt many of life’s lessons from him and he was so much fun to be with. Do look for what you can learn from the following snippets and if you don’t find a lesson, simply enjoy the reading.)



Shoot the Messenger


My father, your great grandfather, was my hero. They say daughters usually gravitate towards their fathers, but in our home of three girls and two boys, I was the only one who became close to him. I remember how if any one wanted anything, and had an aorta of doubt of its being turned down by Daddy, I would be approached, even by my mother, your great grandmother!


“Joy, go and ask Daddy for……”

“Joy ask Daddy if we can …..”

“Joy, you tell Daddy that….”


And so I was the messenger who was laid on the line. After all it’s the messenger who gets shot, isn’t it? Fortunately no such thing ever happened, hence my importance. I must digress a bit here to tell you why I had to play messenger. Because Daddy had a very hot temper, he also earned the undeserved reputation of being an ogre. And Joily-moily, as he would call me, was the only one who it was believed had a charmed life and would never be at the receiving end of his wrath. But I was still very wary. Call it survival instincts, if you will….tsk…tsk.


“Ok,” I’d say quite seriously and go to peek at him wherever, he was sitting.


At age six, when you are the fourth sibling and the youngest, and when the elder two are in a posh residential school in the hills, and think you are still as uncouth as they left you a year back, it’s an extremely rare instance to be sought out this way. So I made the most of it as this was one area where I could hold everyone to my judgment and decision.


“Not now,” I’d say importantly, if I felt it wasn’t the right moment to ask for anything.


“When he’s in a good mood, I’ll ask him” I’d say smugly and that would be accepted. And when I gauged the time to be right, the work would be done. Successfully I might add, because Daddy hardly ever refused me anything.



The raconteur and the romantic

Daddy was a great raconteur. We could sit for hours listening to his tales of WW II, or of his escapades as a boy, which I must add rivaled Tom Sawyer’s (to my mind) or of more informative talks on places, personalities, or folklore and superstitions ( some of which I shall tell you about later, I promise) He also loved the outdoors and shikaar, fishing, walks and picnics were always a part of his recreation. Picnics would be arranged at the drop of a hat. And when I say picnics it wasn’t only a trip to a picnic spot near-by. His picnics would take you to Agra from Delhi, or to the Bhakra Dam in Nangal from Chandigarh. If there was anything historical or worth seeing in and around our city of residence, it would merit a visit from the James’.


Daddy didn’t just take us around a museum, he’d describe in great detail about all the things that fascinated me. For instance, I would be glued to the showcases that displayed the coat-of-mail, weapons and the exquisite dresses of the Moghul rulers. All my queries would be answered with such vividness and detail of scenes in battle, or of the more public durbar-e-aam, and of feminine vanity and coquettishness in the protected zenana. How much was real and how much sheer exaggeration, which I think is a liberty a raconteur takes, has never been the point of debate.


This is how I developed a fascination for monuments and museums, which consequently played a part in developing more feminine qualities in me and the tom-boy died a natural death, or did she?


My favourite was the Red Fort, especially for the bathing area in the zenana with its fountains and flowing water, which never failed to captivate me. Even today when I think about it I’m amazed at the tremendous patience and imagination of that man, my Daddy. He never seemed to find it strange that I had taken a fancy to this particular area. I’d ask him to narrate (every time we’d visit Red Fort) how the hamam would have been and how exactly did a queen bathe in the open unashamed. Even today when I look back I wonder at my own attraction to a Moghul Zenana Hamam, at the age of eight! I found it a very beautiful setting and was captivated by the images of a beautiful princess or queen bathing in such languidness. But Daddy obviously found it perfectly natural and would never hesitate to launch out into a detailed account of how the perfumed water would flow, how the princess would be accompanied by her hand-maidens. And to queries about the women being rather over-exposed in the circumstances, he would stress that zenana areas were strictly out-of-bounds for any male. And it could mean instant death if any one was caught trespassing here, which always reassured me that my beautiful princess was protected.


Well, somewhere in the middle of the narration, in my mind, I would replace the Moghul Princess! Now you know why I liked the story……Whatever the childish fantasy was, the point is that I had a father who took me into the beautiful world of dreams; of wonderful possibilities. He nurtured my ability to imagine; and to fly away into realms of joy, beauty and love. And so the romantic soul within me was set free! Your Daadi is a die-hard romantic!


We shall continue tomorrow........