Twenty- five Seven

A child’s love.

December 7, 2013

I’ve just returned from the funeral of my aunt-in-law, the centenarian aunt of my husband. This was the first time I’d attended a funeral at Chembur. The electric crematorium, though badly in need of paint, was clean. Patches of sunlight fell on the leafy compound and despite other mourners, there was none of the noise and crassness generally associated with the BMC. In fact it exuded an air of calm and quiet.

She was born well before World War 1 and had truly seen it all – the transition of an Empire, the birth of a new country,the emancipation of women, the breakdown of traditional society, the discovery of nuclear energy, the power of telecommunication and the evolution of thought over the last eighty years. While most of her contemporaries were long since gone, she did enjoy the company of those younger than her, especially that of her daughter who spent the last five years looking after her exclusively.

In fact it was her daughter’s devotion combined with her own good genes that really kept her going. As we condoled with the family, the daughter was calm and composed having come to terms with her mother’s imminent passing two weeks’ ago when she returned from a visit to the States. The daughter had hardly set foot in the US when her mother fell down and broke her hip. Despite several relatives telling her to continue staying in the States because her mother didn’t have a good chance of recovering she refused to listen to their well meaning advice , made the fourteen hour trip back as a middle aged lady because as she said : Even if my mother doesn’t make it, I want to cuddle her as long as I can.

Last evening as the old lady breathed her last, her beloved daughter was there holding her hand and sharing her love as she said in a way only a daughter can.
An Odd Day or a Bad Day?

December 7, 2013

Today was one of those strange days which start out normally and end abnormally. I got up as usual, had my breakfast as usual and got dressed as usual.I was about to step out to do my errands as usual when things started becoming unusual.

English: “My Wife and my Mother-in-Law”, a famous optical illusion. Appears in Puck, v. 78, no. 2018 (1915 Nov. 6), p. 11. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An unexpected inquiry from my mother-in-law about the keys to the bank locker set off a series of actions which resulted in our going to the bank locker to check it out. Now the Bank Locker is one of those hallowed places that merits an annual visit much like a pilgrimage, mainly to pay the fees. Very occasionally, we make an extra trip either to get something out or keep something in. But we never visit it to check things out. So this unexpected trip to the locker was not only not factored into my day, but it was also unfactored in the scheme of things done in the normal course of events. And it really rattled me, to put it mildly, because to get to the bottom of what triggered this off would have meant peeling off layers of double entendres, innuendoes, slights, etc.etc.

There was a cold silence in the car, a silence so palpable that you could penetrate it with a pick-axe. The normal forty minute ride seemed even longer and the five minute delay before we could get into the bank interminable. What happened inside the locker was even more strange than what I had imagined or anticipated : we went in,opened the lockers, took out a few things, examined them carefully and put them things back. They were locked with a finality that spoke volumes and the ride home was so frosty that if we had returned home even a minute later I would have suffered from hypothermia.

No one questioned the reason for this unexpected visit and life went on as though nothing had happened. But the bad vibes still lingered in the air.

Later that evening, after we had picked up Wow Dinga for his scheduled night stay with us, we heard the news that my husband’s centenarian aunt who was ailing, had finally passed away. My mother-in-law came inside to tell me the news, Wow Dinga was happily clapping away and I didn’t know how to react. Should I express my condolences which are par for the course when someone passes away or should I feel happy that this old lady who had been there, done that, seen it all, enjoyed more than her share of four score and ten and who was eventually living in a world populated by ghosts from the past, sustained by memories of another time, whose physical pain was so excruciating that she could barely moan, whose organs were slowly failing and who one had described in the past few days as someone who was “sinking”?

Anyone who has lived in a multi-generational family spanning eight decades can identify with these odd days that somehow manage to crop up. Most of the time life goes on as usual, some days are different because something unexpectedly joyous happens and some days are different because something inordinately sad happens. Whatever it is, life in a joint family is interesting and at times stressful but never ever dull.

The joint Indian family which consisted of several generations spanning various branches of family has now shrunk to more manageable numbers but along with the numbers, the physical shared space has shrunk too. Houses are smaller, demands are more. There are times when living together is fun – you always have someone to laugh at and someone to laugh with; there are times when living together is stressful – you have to mind your p’s and q’s and not step on multiple toes; there are times when living together is convenient – there is always someone at home to answer door bells and phone bells, sign for courier deliveries, do bank jobs, pay bills and there are times like this when suddenly things spin out of control and you feel you are in a continuous spin cycle in the washing machine.

Today was one such day.
Celebrating an anniversary

December 1, 2013

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

The strains of Lara’s Theme interrupted her thoughts when Vishakha was hands deep in soap suds.She was also deep in thought thinking of what she was going to wear that evening. Prashant was out of town and coming back just in time to catch the last few hours of their wedding anniversary and had promised to take her out to “Mainland China” her favourite restaurant. Her heart sank as Lara’s Theme persisted till she quickly washed off the soapsuds. That particular ring tone was assigned to Prashant and she dreaded this call saying that he’d be late or worse still, it was called off because…………

Pushing back her hair and quickly wiping her hands on her apron, she grabbed the phone before it stopped ringing.

“Yes,” she said hurriedly, a bit curt may be?

“Hi sweets,” whispered Prashant conspiratorially, ” I’m in a meeting just now. Getting terribly bored and thought I’d call to say I love you. Can’t wait for this evening. Bye, darling!” and he put down the phone before Vishakha could even say Hi. Why didn’t he What’sApp or even SMS, she thought a bit annoyed at having to leave the washing half way and yet flattered to think that he thought of her during an important business deal. Obviously their tenth wedding anniversary was a big deal for him too! As she went back to finishing the task on hand, her heart began to feel lighter. There was a strange kind of warm happiness enveloping her.

Later that morning she went down to the kindergarten round the corner, Twinkle Toes, with a big grin on her face to pick up her son.Tinku who came running to her with an exuberant “Mama!” He hugged her knees so tight that she almost toppled over. “I love you sooooo much,” he said as he plastered her face with a thousand kisses when she picked him up.

“Mama, today Pinki aunty said I was her pet,” and he went on and on about how wonderful his day in school was as they settled into the car. She put on Tinku’s favourite CD, and they sang along as they went home.

The rest of the day went off perfectly. Tinku didn’t make the slightest fuss as he had his lunch, played ever so sweetly with her before he nodded off for his afternoon nap. Vishakha was in bliss. What more could she ask for she thought as she felt Tinku’s soft body cuddled up to her.

At five o’clock when Tinku went down to play in the garden with Bai, she decided to get ready for her anniversary dinner. She quickly wiped off the chipped nail polish and dipped her feet in a basin of warm water to give herself a home-made pedicure. Andrea Bocelli‘s deep, seductive voice was playing on her CD player and soon she began humming his songs, transported back to their honeymoon in Tuscany. Those were the ten best days of her life, driving through the country side, stopping for the night at quaint little B&Bs, discovering small little trattorias in the ancient towns. Aaah, those truly were the days, she thought as she massaged her feet with the special foot cream she kept for days like this. She still had an hour before Tinku came up and she enjoyed her leisurely bath still accompanied by Bocellis’ mellifluous baritone.

With her makeup in place, she kept out her freshly ironed sari which she was going to wear after Tinku’s dinner and bathtime routine. That evening Tinku dazzled her with his good behaviour. He downed his dinner in a trice with only one session of storytelling. Nor did he linger over his bath and make a fuss to say good night to his bath toys. “Mama, what are you wearing tonight?” he asked curiously.

“I’m wearing that purple silk sari that goes swish,” she said and watched his eyes twinkle in appreciation.

“And will you put your perfume on me so that I can smell you forever and ever?”

“Of course darling,just let me get ready and I’ll dab some near your ear.”

She put on her lipstick when the doorbell rang. Vishakha rushed to open it. It must be Prashant, she thought and her heart began to thud at the thought of him standing there with his customary bouquet of red roses.

It was the Bhaiyyaji from next door who put out his hand with a steel catori, “Memsaabji, thoda jaman milega?”

Vishakha could scarcely hide her disappointment as she barked out to the Bai who was pottering in the kitchen, “Bai, bhaiyyaji ko jaman do!” What an idiot, she thought, was this the time to come to ask for dahi?

She hurried back to her room to spray her perfume and wear her slippers. Then she’d be ready for her handsome hero. She grabbed her clutch and looked for the bottle of Chanel No.5 that she’d kept specially for this occasion. Hadn’t I taken it out from the cupboard? she thought as she looked at the dressing table. Where was it?

Just then she got a whiff of the familiar fragrance coming from her bathroom. She went inside and saw Tinku bent over the sink. He was standing with the upturned bottle in one hand and the other outstretched, waiting to grab something. He had tears rolling down his cheeks as he wailed, ” Mama, I couldn’t catch the bubble in the bottle!”

A child’s love.

An Odd Day or a Bad Day?

Celebrating an anniversary