The warrior in me

Yesterday, I received an email from my society about cutting down the tamarind tree in my compound. I've written about the tree in my earlier posts. I was shocked, distressed, touched to the quick. It was as if someone was telling me that they would be cutting off my arms. I was so pained and fearful that I would lose my morning mate, the lush green that greets my eyes, when they are still longing to sleep, the birds tweeting and the squirrels scurrying about, that I felt the warrior in me rise. Exactly like the tigress who goes to any lengths to protect her cubs.
I was in a high-octane emotional state—furious, afraid, helpless and worried. I dashed off an angry letter to the members of the society, words spilling out like lava. I didn't realise then that they would hurt them, as much as their decision to cut the tree devastated me. Then, I worried some more that instead of stopping them in my tracks, my words would probably get them to react adversely. So anxious was I about my green friend meeting such a cruel fate, that I dashed off yet another letter, this time informing them that I would do everything in my power to protect it. I had decided to approach the authorities and some environmentalists in case I needed to.
Yes, I received a reply in which I was categorically told that I had used very harsh language. Generally, I am a very peace-loving person, not given to hurting people's sentiments. I apologised. This was not the time for confrontation. It was a time to befriend people, to build bridges, to do everything to garner peace and get off the collision course. Anything to save the tamarind tree.
I had sent a silent reassurance to the tamarind tree in the morning and promised it that I wouldn't let anyone harm it. I was quite surprised to find that I loved the tree, as much as I love my human friends and relatives. I also found out how much. I had not realised the huge impact it had had on my life till the moment I thought that I would lose my wonderful companion. It is possible, I realised, to nurture intense affection for silent creatures of another kind, who live with us, witnessing and perhaps, even documenting, our checkered lives.
For now, my friend lives. When I return home in the evening, I plan to stop by and pat its trunk. To tell it to be by my side forever. To express my gratitude. I think it will understand. I owe it. It's the one bright green spot in my life every morning.

My Closet

Don’t peep into my closet

I hide my soul there…

Some tears too, in a salt shaker

To be sprinkled as and when required

To add flavour to my insipid life.

My ego too, smoothened of its creases,

Lies neatly folded on a bottom shelf;

It will raise its head any moment, without warning.

My hurts are suspended over hangers

In a mock show of surrender;

They will have to be aired in the right season.

My sins, tied up in pure white muslin,

Are stashed away inside a tiny safe;

They knock on the door now and then.

Threatening to escape in broad daylight.

My shame is wrapped in old newspaper.

It’s been about town, a known face.

It rests in a corner, enjoying its anonymity.

Bits of my flesh cauterised by time

Are huddled close together in an airtight box

Lively accessories, waiting to be flaunted.

There’s more of me set aside in a pile

Disowned, neglected, feared, avoided…

Discarded, unwanted, forgotten, abandoned

Vying for my attention in the black hole

I’ll have to clean up my closet soon,

Evaluate each item, manage the mess,

But don’t turn the key yet,

Or open a crack to let the sunlight in.

For you don’t know what’ll enter the darkness

Or flee unnoticed, with a piece of my dignity.

- Archana Pai Kulkarni

Calm in a tea cup

Every morning, when the prospect of just lazing in bed feels inviting and there's just no way in which I can afford the luxury, I remind myself of the hot cup of ginger tea that awaits me. It's a ritual that not just energises me to take on the day, it gives me those precious few minutes to find my bearings and be with myself in silence. Actually, my morning beverage is a no-fuss affair. No chinaware and no tea pots for me. All I need are a steel glass and a steel plate and I'm good to sip.
I grew up in Matunga, surrounded by Tam Brahms. Coffee, to them, was like manna from heaven. It was their daily tipple. Our houses were extensions of each other and we could actually look into each other's kitchens without feeling like voyeurs or intruders. Every morning you could smell the fresh, invigorating aroma of filter coffee wafting through the neighbourhood windows and spot the next-door mama or mami standing in the large balcony with a steel glassful of coffee in one hand and a tiny steel vessel in the other. Then, they would begin to pour the coffee from the glass to the vessel, raising the right hand to a certain height while holding the vessel way below. The coffee would gush out in a firm, steady, stream, and fill the vessel. Then, the vessel would go up and the coffee would be poured back into the glass. Up and down it would be poured, from the vessel into the glass and back into the vessel and again into the glass several times, till it would froth. Only then would it be sipped with great relish.

Now, I'm not a coffee drinker at all. Tea's my poison, especially, if brewed with ginger and tulsi. I have very native tastes. And though I imbibed the habit of drinking my first quota of tea in a steel glass from my neighbours, I replaced the steel vessel with a plate. And, I don't perform the frothing ritual at all. I like my tea piping hot. I pour it from the glass into the plate and as I look out of my window at the lush tamarind tree  and take the first sip, the steam from the glass invades my nostrils. It generates a nice, warm, reassuring feeling on a cool, still morning. Squirrels scurry about on its branches, nibbling at something or the other. The Bharadwaj calls out, hidden among its leaves, its shiny bronze wings, suddenly flashing through them, like a ray of light. Other little migrant birds fly down and and perch on its arms and tweet incessantly, creating a sweet melody. The virginal blue sky looks down at us indulgently. A cuckoo coos, somewhere in the distance. Its mate replies and their jugalbandi shatters the silence of the dawn. 

As I sip my tea in silence, and listen to the bird orchestra, I have gathered enough vitality for the day. My mind is focused on the tea, my tongue is alive and receptive to its taste and my body senses an adrenaline rush. It's a meditative moment. Silent, peaceful, blissful and rejuvenating.
I guess, when one seeks solitude, one doesn't have to travel too far. One can find it hidden in the swirling recesses of a humble glass of tea.

My Grandma, The Time Traveller

Jani, my granny

My maternal grandmother Jani will turn 99 on August 5. While she is unable to walk, she’s full of spirit and vitality. Her mind keeps vacillating between the past and present. Now she’s here with you and the next moment, she’s at her childhood home in Ullal. Now she recognises you and asks after you and in a second, she stares at you blankly. Playful and lively in her winter years, my grandmother’s an enigma today.

Inside my grandmother, an ocean roars

Outside, surf settles on her skin, like gooseflesh.

Through the hidden alleys of her wizened veins,

Her bygone childhood runs amok, carefree.

Around her bed, the air regresses and laughs heartily;

Inside, memory reefs stand testimony to her turbulence.

Outside, coral beads weave a story around her neck;

Inside, her heart beats playfully in her backyard;

Outside, she forgets the rules of the game.

Inside, she’s at the market, buying a pair of red bangles;

Outside, she examines her bare hands wistfully

Inside, she’s five, pig-tailed, a merry fish,

Gliding back in time to sit on her father’s lap.

Outside, her lips part, a cry escapes, “Anna”,

And she scans every face for his kind, loving eyes.

Inside her, words well up, wave after wave;

Outside, her parched lips whoosh soundlessly.

Tides turn, storms rage, and she’s placid again, inside;

Outside, the tributaries on her face chalk new maps.

Inside, she rows her boat through lands forgotten;

Outside her hands grope for sand from umbilical shores.

Inside, she spots her husband hiding in an oyster;

Outside, she goes all coy, a child-bride again.

Inside, she gathers the priceless pearls of her tears;

Outside, she gifts away the treasures of her life in a will.

Inside she’s a dolphin, dancing with her little friends;

Outside, the music has stopped, her soles have cracks.

Inside, messengers bring her sad tidings from a dead daughter;

Outside, her ears long for the postman’s knock, news from beyond.

As she travels back and forth, inside and outside herself,

Timelines merge, she’s tossed about, and she swims aimlessly,

Till inside, a mermaid sings a soulful lullaby;

As the ocean calms down, outside, her eyes grow heavy,

And as she grows older, my grandma is a baby again.

Knowing grief

Dadu at his favourite spot in Indian Gymkhana

My uncle, Prabhakar Kamath, passed away on June 4. His death was not unexpected; in fact, it was very much staring him in the face for months now. Having lost my father to a rheumatic heart when I was just two months, I was brought up by him and nurtured with love, discipline, and a warm sense of security. I never lacked anything--not love, not the regular little things that are necessary to live and the special ones that make living life worthwhile. He spoke little. Very little, in fact. People in my house were careful around him. No, he wasn't an ogre but he liked his space. He spoke in monosyllables and from a very early age, I learned to read his approval or disapproval from the tone of those grunts. He introduced me to books very early in life. You could find a Chaucer nestling really close to a Shakespeare or Pickwick Papers or The Autobiography of a Yogi on our bookshelves. He read voraciously, when he wasn't at work at the Bank of India where he worked in a managerial capacity, or when he wasn't playing cricket. Yes, he was a Ranji Player, an opening batsman and all-rounder and went on to become the first Indian cricket coach to  pass formally out of a coaching college, the first one to be invited outside India for coaching (he coached Sri Lanka) and perhaps the only one to not earn a single penny out of the game. He was an honorary coach. Acknowledged by the cricket fraternity for grooming Wadekar, for contributing to Gavaskar's skills, he was also the coach of the Ranji cricket team, when Vengsarkar captained it and Sachin made his debut.
You could find us both eating our meals with either a book or a newspaper in our left hands, a habit I was told by many, was obnoxious, but which added spice to my meals. I still read when I have my lunch at work. It's a very special time for me. Disciplined to a fault about his exercise regimen, in the last few months, he was confined to his bed, having given up on life. The man who walked from Matunga to Kurla every day for years could not move at all. It was as devastating for him to accept his immobility as it was for me to watch him waste away. He stopped reading the newspaper, recognised me now and then, and sometimes his face broke into a smile when I visited him. His eyes would often fill up; I'm not sure it was because of the pain in his legs (he'd developed athlete's veins); I think it was the pain of being dependent and incontinent. It was because of the loss of freedom, the inability to call the shots, the incapacitation, the fear of turning into a vegetable. Diabetes, a surgery to repair a fractured pelvic bone, and a pacemaker--his body accepted it all, at first with reluctance, then resignation and then with indignation.  Somewhere along the way, I guess he decided that he wanted no more of this life.
I knew he would go; I knew he was in pain, yet I didn't want him to die. I wanted him to recover. When he breathed his last, I was away, at my own home. I rushed to his house, hugged him and wept but there was just no response. He was very very still and his face was surprisingly calm and serene, Buddhalike, as if he was glad to be rid of his pain. If that was so, I'm happy for him. But, what do I do about the pain in my heart? I feel orphaned. Without warning my eyes mist over and I long to see him once again. It feels like yesterday that he took me for a pony ride to Five Gardens and bought me a packet of peanuts or a large slab of chocolate. I won't be helping him scrape and grease his bats and put them against the wall to dry any more or watch him make an egg omelette for himself or share a piece of cheese with him. He held my hand and taught me to walk, he encouraged me to write as I sat by him when he wrote his sports column under the byline Hooker for Free Press Journal. He displayed my prizes and trophies in the living room very proudly. It made me want to top the class always. Today, if I try to be regular with my morning walks, it's because I've seen him do it religiously for years and know how important fitness is. If I write, it's because I've imbibed the pleasure of doing so early in my life from him. If I'm disciplined,he takes all the credit for it. Cricketers called him Joe. I called him Dadu. I was Archu to him. He's gone. I remain. And the memories too, beautiful and permanent to be relived. Don't mind my tears. They will flow, like my love for him. Rest in peace Dadu. Farewell!

Where I sit every morning

 

This green wooden bench is my oasis. After walking briskly for a good 50 minutes, this is the lap I seek. The lush green grass soothes my eyes. The bench gives me all the solitude I need. I sit there quietly for just about 10 minutes and feel refreshed and rejuvenated. It's here that I count my blessings, say my prayers and express my gratitude. It's my peace zone.  

The hill outside my window

I am tall

Outside my window, the hill stands guard

Hasn’t moved, winced or coughed even once

It never averts its gaze; I am pinned

Under a microscope, studied quietly.

I know it watches me every morning

Waits for me to slide the window pane

Compelled as I am to pay my obeisance

To look into its eyes, for a flicker of its eyelids

Or a twitching brow or at best a smile,

Maybe a nod of approval, even a frown…

I intrude into its space, inveterate trespasser,

My vision covers the distance in a jiffy.

Its body is taken; trees abound

The sky closes in; birds hover above

The breeze whooshes, the sun peeps out cheekily.

Everyday visitors staking their territorial claim

It’s undisturbed by the invasion,

Stoic, silent, still, strong…

A wizened rishi in deep samadhi,

Clad in old earthy, welcoming robes.

It emboldens me to advance unquestioned

To rob it of its calmness, to pilfer its peace

To steal its solitude, to make it mine.

As I close my eyes and breathe deeply,

I rise slowly to a full new height

I am tall, quiet and composed.

I know I can take on the world.

I am the hill…

- Archana Pai Kulkarni

I really look forward to my morning walks. But today, the early morning sun was merciless and the walk laborious. With sweat pouring down my body, I wanted to just give up and sit quietly on a cool green bench that was braving the heat under a shady tree. But, I persisted. Like so many others who had committed themselves to attaining a certain level of fitness. As I huffed and puffed and pushed myself, I saw this burst of colour. Cool, beautiful, spirited. It made my day. I have been smiling ever since.

What I abandoned

It's been a rather long sabbatical considering that I now have the luxury of house help and some breathing space. My hands don't look like a scourer any more, I can actually see signs of my nails growing, there is more than the pungent aroma of garlic and onions in my nose (I can feel and smell fresh, unpolluted air) and the cacophony of clanging utensils doesn't reside in my mind any more. Oh, but there's always something else to do: the books to read, the songs to listen to, the calls to make, the pending long chats with friends and the bills to pay. A friend and well-wisher gave me some sound advice the other day. She said, "If you want to be a serious blogger, you have to be at it every single day, without fail." Of course, like any other novice, I nodded my head vigorously, took a deep breath and resolved that no blog of mine would be left stranded without a post—never mind, if I am going to be the only one to read it for some time now. No, it's no state secret; it's just that I haven't yet gone to town about my new-found interest and the very few who know about it think that they shouldn't be taking me too seriously. Not that I have abandoned too many projects before but I distinctly remember one of the woolly type that I did. With great enthusiasm, I had embarked on a knitting exercise—with knitted brows too, for good measure. I was to knit a sweater for my little cousin. The wool and the needles were bought and some design books too. Only the best would do for my beloved one. I chose a fairly simple but wonderful design and with the speed of a seasoned seamstress (I don't know what a woman who knits is called....knitpicker?), I knitted the border. I was at it for an hour every day of the week, diligently, patiently. Somewhere along the way, I realised that though I loved the way the finished product would look, getting there was giving me these blinding headaches and my eyes some unnecessary stress and I didn't exactly find the exercise rewarding or rejuvenating.  I had been forewarned that after some time what looks like a highly creative endeavour is actually a mechanical, taxing exercise. This came from quitters and though I kept up the pretence of enjoying myself, I had to admit that there was a lot of truth in their observations. And, I didn't want to look or feel like a quitter myself. So, I took these long breaks—some as ridiculously long as six months and then resumed knitting again, often not knowing how to proceed. By the time I came halfway close to creating something that looked remotely like a piece of warm clothing, my cousin had grown four years older. Where, earlier, she would come close to me and ask me happily, "Are you making this sweater for me?" and beam even more when I would nod my head, she now looked at me with definite disinterest, some pity and maybe some scorn too. One day, as I held the piece in front of my eyes to survey my creative work, I was forced to acknowledge that it looked like a misshapen piece of something-that-could-not-be-named. It found its way quietly into the dustbin. The other time I had abandoned work was when I had tried to knead dough to make chapattis. I took a large plate, added some flour, poured water, kneaded some, added more flour, poured more water, kneaded some more. Either the flour got flooded or it felt too hard. The whole exercise went on till the dough assumed the size of a huge ball used by tall, sinewy basketball players. If my aunt, at whose place I was conducting this culinary excess hadn't stopped me in time, I would probably have made it to the record books for kneading the largest piece of dough on earth. I couldn't dodge this ball and the waste basket didn't have the provision to accept such monstrosities of the inedible kind. The gigantic blob frightened me and the prospect of rolling out 500 chapattis made me quake so much that I started howling loudly as if someone had abused me. My tears didn't melt my aunt's heart or soften the murderous look in her eyes, but she spared me after rolling out 10 shapeless, size 18, chapattis. I didn't even wait to see what she did with the rest of the dough.
I haven't messed up my blog yet and have no intention of doing so. This makes me hope that I will be here to talk, to share, to dare, to care day after day. And I am also wiser. These days, I buy readymade sweaters if I have to gift them. My house help makes the chapattis for the family though I can knead some really soft dough. But, I know that there are some things I won't and can't delegate. Like blogging. I'll stay here for sure.
PS. I had once abandoned Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook. Am planning to start reading it again once I finish with  The Help and The Woman Who Walked Into Doors and some more books. 

Maid arrives!!!!

Yesterday, life changed suddenly. I would love to say 'for the better' but I am wary of throwing a party so soon. Let me wait and watch and be sure. Guess what? At around 10.30 am last morning, a woman dressed in a yellow sari and matching blouse rang the doorbell. The watchman who guards the lobby during the day had sent her because he knew that I was in trouble and needed help around the house and felt sorry for me. News had travelled to him through the society grapevine. Honestly, I've never liked the watchman. He doesn't look like he is man enough to keep a watch on trespassers or grab a thief by his throat. He comes across as someone, who'll look disinterestedly at a stranger sauntering into the building, let him explore the premises and do his job without any opposition or questioning whatsoever. The guy has apathy written all over his face. But, for some unknown reason, the residents of the building are under the needle of his suspicion. At least that's what he conveys when he looks at us from under his forever knitted bushy eyebrows. You smile at him and he goes hrrrrmmmph. It can be unnerving, disturbing and infuriating. It's as if he sits in his chair the whole day, because he's been dumped there by someone, a sagging sack, with drooping shoulders, bent back and lazy limbs. And the guy actually felt sorry for me, the stone-hearted Sad Sack, who looks like he's incapable of generating any emotions, the way he wears his face, taut and unmoving. The ogre turned out to be an angel in disguise. Never had my judgment about people gone so wrong. But, what I learnt later sort of diminished my new-found liking for the man. I got to know that he gets a huge cut out of the whole exercise. How naive I was! But then, the fact is, he found a maid for me. Went to the end of the earth to get her, he told me. I think I heard him speak for the first time that morning. I did say that he is a grump who doesn't move a muscle, certainly not a facial one. And the maid did not come with an instinct to scratch. There's no way she'll get even the seven-year itch, as she's been married for 10 long years and is divorced now.
My mom scrutinised her neck carefully to check whether she had a rash and found none. But, this time, I'd beaten my mom to it as I'd done a quick check on that at the door itself. My mom also puckered up her nose to detect body odour but gave up. She made her pass through everything but the ink blot test and smiled approvingly. For the first time in days, she looked genuinely happy. Oh, I would have rolled out the red carpet for the maid but because of the super quick exits done by those of her ilk earlier, I decided to keep the grand welcome and celebrations on hold. No, I'm not a pessimist. It's just that my experience has trained me to be cautious. In the case of my earlier house help, well begun was half done. The proverb has to be applied to them differently. Oh, they begin really well and then flee, leaving more than half of the things undone.
Today, I found the time to blog only because she washed the utensils and swept and swabbed for me. I guess that's a fairly optimistic beginning. Hope is a poor drudge's friend.
By the way, my house help goes by the name Mamta, meaning love. I hope she lives up to her name and falls in love with my mom. Considering that my mom was asking me to help her so that she doesn't feel burdened and leave is, I hope, an indication of the time to come. She hasn't spotted her scratching even once, she hasn't nagged her at all and she actually addressed her as 'my child', a demonstration of endearment that even I wasn't subjected to, not once during my drudge days. This is nothing short of a miracle! Now, what does this one have that the others didn't? Actually, she doesn't have it--the ex-factor. I think she's here to stay. Shall we drink some chilled, minty vegetable juice to that?
I am suspicious of the watchman but can't help but feel grateful to him. I smiled at him the other day and thanked him profusely. And, he actually looked at me through his bushy eyebrows and beamed. Maybe I was wrong, Maybe he has a heart. Maybe it's not the sweat money he got. Maybe, he really felt sorry for me. Maybe.