Twenty- five Seven

Death of a Proverb – Silence is Golden

September 7, 2014
Center drills, (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I woke up this morning to a pleasant silence, looking forward to a day of peace. Today is a Sunday and hopefully the noisy machines of the workmen in the building next door will be silent. For almost 30 years now, I’ve had the continuous sound of whirring machines, screechy drill bits, pounding hammers, and the dull sound of some work being done somewhere thanks to the incessant building activity in the neighbourhood. If it is not a new building that is being demolished, it is a road being repaired or a flat being refurbished, or it is a wedding being heralded with a raucous, band belting out old Hindi film numbers or worse still, the cacophony of a tuneless dirge played out on an electronic keyboard.

This in addition to the ambient sound of roadside traffic, ringing doorbells, incessant phone calls and constant babble seems to have made Silence seems an anachronism and SOUND being the buzz word of the day. From the moment we get up to the sound of an alarm, we are listening to something other than the voices in our heads. Waiting at bus stops or public spaces, private parties, family gatherings , hospitals, theatres , airport lounges and any place with more than two people in a room, one is alarmed at the various ring tones that go off and the ensuing embarrassed, frantic scramble to reach out and silence the offending instrument .

NOISE! NOISE ! NOISE! and even more noise seems to have become the death knell of that old proverb we were brought up on – Silence is Golden. As young children we were admonished that we should be seen and not heard and “Keep you finger on your lips” was the refrain of most adults we interacted with. We were shushed when we wanted to speak up against anything we considered wrong and were sternly told to keep our counsel, strongly being advised against answering back. But this seems to have been turned squarely on its head with all of us being encouraged to talk, to go out in the world and make ourselves heard. It is the squeaky wheel that gets the oil, exhorts the management guru who urges you to make your voice heard so that you aren’t lost in the quagmire of office politics with your discreet silence. Making yourself heard so that you are visible is all that life is about, a fact that has been brilliantly borne out by the recent Indian Elections – where silence has proved disastrous to our last Prime Minister.

But surely there’s a golden mean when silence is meaningful , when a measured silence speaks a thousand words?

This is the 7th post in the Write Tribe September Challenge.
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Locked inside

September 7, 2014

“Hurry up! What are you doing?????”

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nothing mother, I’m just twiddling my thumbs I say in my head as I am making that last minute Pee Stop before stepping out.

Bang! bang !bang ! I hear someone thump at the door with increasing frustration. I am frustrated too. Can’t they understand that all this hurry up and banging is only making me freak out? Obviously they don’t, for the tirade continues.

“Come out of there quick.We’re getting late”

The whole family was waiting outside, waiting for me. All dressed to the nines. Dressed for my sister’s graduation.

“You always run to the bathroom when it is time to leave. Why can’t you plan things better?”

Blame it on Grannie mom, I say in my head , YOUR mother , the one who always made us go to the toilet the moment we called for the lift. “Beta, always go to the toilet before you go anywhere. Who knows how long it will be before you get a chance.” Our retorts and pleadings that we didn’t need or want to go to the loo were met with strong stares- the raised eyebrows and protruding eyeballs, daring any unformed drop of urine to stay inside.

“I’m done, Mom, ” I say, quickly getting up and with a last minute look in the mirror open the door.
But, it doesn’t open. I jiggle the handle and it still doesn’t open. I try shaking the door but it just doesn’t move. A strange feeling starts up from the bottom of my stomach. It can’t be happening can it? “I’m stuck!” I wail. ” Mooommmm! Help!! I’m stuck.”

“What do you mean your stuck???” thunders my father. “How can you be so stupid!”

I’m not stupid Dad, I’m stuck an your shouting doesn’t make the door open. I can’t get out and your yelling is not helping. Go get someone to open it.

Someone on the other side of the door seems to have read my mind for I hear my brother’s calm voice telling them that he just had informed housekeeping and it wouldn’t be long before someone came.

There’s more jiggling of the door handle. From the outside this time. I hear the scratch of a hairpin. It must be my mother who’s taken it out. She is the original lock picker and has rescued many a trapped person. But this is the original sticky lock whose levers refuse to budge. I can hear something wiggle and something jiggle, but the lock stays firmly stuck.

“Be calm, beta,” she assures me, ” I’m trying to open this lock.”

“Don’t be stupid Sharda. You’re not Nancy Drew in some stupid detective novel.”

“Keep quiet a minute, let me concentrate.” Some more jiggling and wiggling. An ominous click but the handle doesn’t move. Not even a nano millimetre.

“Forget it Sharda,”

“Ya mom, let it be. We’ll wait for the housekeeping staff to get here. They said they’ll come.”

“Oh. Don’t tell me about housekeeping. They are completely useless. They never come when you call them. And if they were so good, this would have never happened in the first place. You go ahead. I’ll open the door in a minute. Then Shobha and I will join you.”

“It’s all your mother’s fault . Training the children to go to the toilet just as we’re ready to leave. Always we have to run and go anywhere.”

“Don’t bring my mother into this now. She’s been dead for over five years now. It’s your fault for booking us this in cheap student accommodation . Why couldn’t we stay in a hotel?”

“SSh, Ma, this is not the time to fight with Papa. Let’s just wait for a bit.”

” SHUT UP! Like mother like children. I’m not going to waste my time with you. I’m going now! If she has come all the way from India to spend her sister’s graduation ceremony in the bathroom, she is welcome to do so. But I’m not wasting my time.”

“Ok Papa, I’ll come. Wait, waiiiiit” and a shuffle of feet joined the receding footsteps in the hallway.

I can see my mother’s mind working, thoughts crowding her mind faster than she can think. Poor thing, caught between the devil and the deep sea. Should she follow my father and brother or should she wait for me? And miss out on our family’s moment of glory. Four years of scrimping and saving,the odd conversation on a scratchy phone line, occasional glimpses of a life shared online, gut wrenching moments of intense despondency, hours spent in worry over safety and security, a tangible and constant ache of an absent loved one at family celebrations and festivities.

Four years of all this, only to be stuck behind a bathroom door?

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.
A tea party for Ganpati

September 7, 2014

Today we were invited to a tea party – a party with a difference. Unlike an English Tea party, this one had a distinctly Indian touch with the main purpose being to pay our respects to the Ganpati Wow Dinga’s family brought home every year for his ten day sojourn in their house. Tea parties, quintessentially English seem to be at odds with Ganesha who is as exotic and Indian as it can get but this was by far the most enjoyable Ganpati darshan I’ve had in a long time.

We trooped in a little after half past four thanks to a traffic hold up but our hosts were none too worried by this slight delay. After paying our respects to the idol, we sat down for a spot of conversation before settling down to a cup of tea. And what a tea it was!

A silver tea service sat demurely in one corner of the table which was laid out with Royal Doulton china – quarter plates and tea cups with ever so fine ears , in dull orange, bordered with a delicate gold trim. We sat behind the waiting plates and soon the goodies came out – sandwiches and cutlets, crisply fried bhajias with a sweet and sour tamarind chutney, the bite sized besan ladoos and the Dish of the Day – patolya – a steamed rice flour pastry stuffed with fresh coconut and jaggery.

How I miss this kind of entertainment – the old fashioned tea party where one could spend a few hours of the afternoon in pleasant company and share a cup of tea.

This is the 6th post in the Write Tribe September Challenge

Death of a Proverb – Silence is Golden

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Locked inside

A tea party for Ganpati