When I asked my mom 'why she let me go?'

It is strange how sometimes we want something so bad, and days later, the same thing appears like something we could have done without. Stranger is the yearning for something that you thought you wanted to escape. It is a vicious circle. What you desired, you don't want and what you once didn't, you now want

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Sometimes, we fit the pieces of our life's puzzle incorrectly, but when we realise that the puzzle we put together looks rather, imperfect, it hurts. May be, because you always thought you would get it right. Or may be, because you invested a lot of energy into putting it together. Either ways, the end result could let you down.

I'd be honest, leaving my home city was the toughest decision I ever took. After years of cleaning other people's' stories and punctuating their lines to read like grammar dished out of Wren and Martin's rule book, I thought it was time I concentrated on my own story. I hoped that the grammar rules I learnt over the years, could nullify the impact of this bumpy ride. But neither did the commas, nor full stops help. All I have now are exclamation and question marks.

I threw one such question to my mom recently. I asked her “why she let me go?”

Her smile suggested that she knew the answer even before I had posed the question. “How else would you know that the pieces of your puzzle were fit incorrectly. It looked so perfect from where you saw it.”

Did she call?

It was two hours since his eyes had escaped sleep, but it was still too early for dawn. Walking restlessly in the woods that encircled his home, he saw darkness recede slowly. The sky had taken on a deep purple hue, a colour he had never witnessed before, despite having lived here for over 25 years. It was strange, he wondered, how the village opened itself to its people. Here, there was something new everyday; something of which he was yet to see. Now, it was the colour of the sky, tomorrow it could be the manner in which the rains poured from above. He amused himself as he strolled, trying hard to keep his mind away from what was disturbing him. But even as he forced himself to think otherwise, those thoughts kept interrupting him in flashes.

Like that day when it had poured incessantly. His son hadn't taken an umbrella, so he rushed to school on his cycle, caring little about himself. When he arrived 20 minutes later, he was soaked and trembling. His son was dry, having nestled himself under an awning. He ran to him, covered him in a tattered jacket, placed him on the top tube of the cycle and took him back home. That day, he was running a temperature, and a bad one that too. The family doctor had suggested taking him to the hospital, if it got worse, but he recovered a week later. Then, he remembered how his son came to him, hugged him and said innocently, “Dada...when I get rich, I will take you in a car, so that you don't get wet or sick.”

Today, his son was rich and had a car; and though he got drenched a time-too-many, no car had come to his rescue.

“What are you doing out there?” his wife yelled from inside the home.

“Am checking if the mangoes have ripened,” he lied.

“I know exactly what you are up to...come back right away. It's only 5.”

“Not sleepy.”

“Oh...then come, I'll sing you lullaby,” she teased.

He walked back quietly; he knew that she was disturbed too, but was tough as a nutshell to show it.

At breakfast, he finally brought it up.“Will she call?”

“Who?” she asked casually.

“Our son's daughter.”

“I don't know.”

“She should right...after all, we are her grandparents. She should take our blessings.”

“I don't know,” she said again, pouring coffee into his mug. And then as an afterthought said, “Your son never told us about it. Don't expect the call. Don't think about it...please,” she requested.

“She's getting married today. How can I not think about it?”

“We weren't invited.”

“Because, he thought we were too old to make it for the wedding.”

“Don't defend your son,” she said immediately.

“Should we make the call?”

“Don't add salt to injury.”

He rose angrily from his chair, “Don't do this...don't do that...don't...don't..don't...is that all you have to say.”

“Yes, because I am your wife, and I do not want you to be hurt,” she said calmly.

They did not raise the issue again, not until late in the night when they were lying down on their bed, staring vacantly towards the ceiling. Each thought the other was sleeping. But sleep was hard to come by, not today at least.

Why weren't they told? They wondered. What had they done? They had just one child, a son. He may have lived continents away, and never bothered to reach out to them after he left India 20 years ago, but now to learn about his daughter getting married from another relative in the US, tore them. Over the years, they had come to terms with their loneliness, but they had thought little about being neglected. Today, after having been denied this small happiness, they felt lonelier than they had always been. Their eyes welled up, but they tried hard not to whimper lest they stirred the other.

At around 2 in the night, after hours of restlessness finally took its toll and pushed them to sleep, a phone call woke them up. The old man nervously rushed out of bed and went to answer the call...his wife was anxious too, but did her best to contain it.

On the other end, he heard the sound of a man; it was a voice too familiar to forget, a voice that was their only connect to their blood, a voice, which now ached in drunkenness.

“Did she call?” the man on other end inquired, his voice stammering. “Did she call?” he repeated.

“No,” he said, a little perplexed.

“She did not call me either,” he said, sounding equally disturbed.

He looked at his wife who was standing beside him, earnestly waiting for a reaction. His face that had grown paler today, was slowly gaining colour. She saw his lips widen and curve into a wicked smile. 

“Is it her?” she asked.

He handed over the receiver to her. She could here faint sobs on the other end. It was her son.

For the love of constellations

I love constellations, and my dada (maternal grandfather) loved the stars; just today, I was reminded of a conversation we had eons ago. This tale is from a past that I even cherish to date...Dada would have been a month short of his 101st year, if he were alive today. But, instead, he chose to be among the stars!

We were looking at the stars. Only a few were visible to us; but each shone brighter than the other, standing solitary, and doing their best to pale the blackness in the sky. He was counting them, but I was making out the shapes, tracing my favourite constellation 'Orion' and asking dada to look yonder, to get a better view.

“It doesn't look anything like a hunter,” he said mockingly.“I don't know why they named it that. Can't figure out the head, hands or legs....Stupid astronomers! Count the stars instead, it is more fun.”

“That's boring, and we did that yesterday,” I interrupted.

“And how many did you find?”

“Ten, may be.”

“I found 25. Clearly, you didn't do a good job of it kaali maina (that's what he called me).”

“Because I am not interested dada,” I clarified. “I'd rather look for constellations; we just learnt about them in school last month and it is so much fun...dada see...see the Ursa Minor,” I said, on suddenly noticing a new constellation, pointing my index finger towards the sky with uncontainable excitement. “By the way, it is also called the little bear,” sparing no moment to boast of all the knowledge I had recently acquired.

“You mean chotta bhaalu,” he asked, translating it for me in Hindi, just to check if he had heard it right. According to dada, English was a peculiarly funny language; one with too many words sounding the same, but meaning a lot different. It was always better to make things clear, he would say. I nodded, ignoring his strange insistence for translating homonyms.

He gazed back at the sky; his eyes running in the direction I had pointed; he squinted hard and in a banal tone, replied, “Hmm, I think I also found his elder brother, bada bhaalu.”

I did not know whether he was referring to Ursa Major (great bear), or if he was mocking me; I believed it was the latter as dada had claimed ignorance when I first mentioned the concept of stars taking on different shapes.

“Anyway, I won't show you any more constellations, because you don't seem interested,” I said, upset by his jibes.

Dada smiled, and lurched forward from his chair to get hold of the cane that was resting on the ground.“That's like a good girl. You carry on with your project, I am going into the field.”

“Why?”

“To look for more stars...the view is way better out there,” he said; and may be he sensed my disappointment, because he quickly added, “So that we can bring all those stars together, and create more bhaalus in the sky.”

The Patient

We were walking on dry leaves, its sound crisp and rustling in our ears. Today, we weren't holding hands; may be she had forgotten the warmth of my fingers when entwined in hers, or may be I did not want to remind her. It was better this way, walking within searching distance from each other with only our silence for company.

She did not notice, but the corner of my eye was occupied with her. The frame of the side of her face sloping on the nose, then curving on her lips before slipping to her chin. She still looked so regal in her frailty that I could not help, but be besotted. Even now, I wanted her.

"How are you?" she asked. It was not the first time she had spoken, neither was it the first time she had asked me the question since we met today.

"Am fine," I said for the fifth time.

Her mind seemed to meander again.

When we reached the curve of the road, she turned to me and inquired, "Do you know me?"

"Yes."

"Why are we here?"

"For a walk," I said assuringly.

"That's nice."

We continued back on the route that we had taken from the hospital. She seemed lost, trailing behind me. When we were young, and when there had been no reason to forget, she had once said that I was the last person her mind would possibly erase. But today was so different. She did not seem to recognise me, like I wanted her to.

We threw sparing glances at each other, smiling uncertainly...I thought I saw dimples, but they too seem to have vanished like her memory.

"How are you?" I heard her say again. And like the loyal man of a beautiful yet nagging wife, who feigns calmness, despite being disturbed, I replied, "Am fine."

When we reached the hospital, she reached for my hand and held it tight, just like she always did; her face broke into a wide smile, making her eyes smaller than they already were: "I had a nice time," she said, "We should go out again."

But all I could muster, was "Am fine."

I think I was nervous; her smile had enveloped me, overwhelming me with deep sadness; my mind began racing. "Fine, fine, fine," I could hear myself repeat.

Her hold on my hand tightened...I could see her leading me in, inside the building and then into the room. "It will be fine," she said, and rested me on the bed.

I saw a nurse stroll in: "Is he okay doctor?"

"Yes, I think it's a fit. His mind's been playing tricks. He will be better soon."

"Where did you go?" she asked her.

"He wanted to go for a walk, so I took him along."

Sarah, Sarah...I am fine, fine, I repeated.

"Doctor," the nurse said.

"Yes."

"I think he was hallucinating about his dead wife...she too, had Alzheimer's."

Distance makes sugar-sprinkled coffee tastier

A couple of my friends who diligently follow this blog, (usually out of boredom and mostly out of the pressure of being tagged on Facebook every time I update it), might have noticed that my last few posts have been overwhelmingly nostalgic to the point that it gives them a headache.

I wouldn't deny that I have been doing a bit of soul-searching over the last few months, and willingly and out of no compulsion, jumping from the frying pan into the fire to find out how everything could have been so right in my life, and how for a change, I could do some personal damage by getting it all wrong.

No, I am not talking about my professional decisions here; though I must admit that I am already exhausted of answers when people ask me: “Why Muscat?” or “Didn't you have an awesome job in Mumbai...again, why Muscat?” or the same question, put differently, “Oh! You definitely needed a change. But, tell me, why exactly Muscat, why not hmm say a holiday in Greece...it could help you recharge.”

Thank you friend! For the record, air-travel to Greece and my subsequent stay, that you so benevolently suggested, would probably cost me all of the pitiful savings that I accrued from my last job. You could, however, exceed your benevolence of words in kind, by funding such a trip of mine and I assure you, I would definitely pay heed and oblige to any such wild suggestions in the near future.

I had my reasons for this sabbatical and while on the outside it might not appear Greece-like fancy, this city is equally beautiful and appeals to my voyeuristic sensibilities. It is also second home; and I definitely know more people here, than I would in Greece. And did I forget to mention that I have help in the form of my rockstar dad.

But here again, like I feared, am reeling under a strange nostalgia and can sense the growing emptiness deepen with every passing day. Didn't I just tell you how for long, I had been trying to get it all wrong. Now, when I say wrong...it is more to do with weaning myself from my mother and the lovely city of Mumbai, with the balance tilted more towards the former. And over the last five days of my stay in Muscat, I have finally come to realise how so-very irreplaceable my mom is.

When I make myself a mug of coffee every morning, I am reminded of my last day in Mumbai (for this year) when I complained about the extra sugar mom had added, not realising that for a while, I will be making my own coffee. Interestingly, when I made my own coffee on the day I was heading for my new job here, it was so heavily drugged with sugar that it gave me a headache. Now, I just let the sugar be, cause it reminds me of her. May be, just may be, distance makes sugar-sprinkled coffee seem tastier.

Not to mention, even as I was write this post, she sent me a voice message on Whatsapp giving me some tips on how to conquer this motion sickness (read: not loose motions) that my mind has suddenly taken fancy to (Mothers will always be mothers; they sense it when you miss them). Thanks to Whatsapp, she has also found this incredible way of sending me letters (since she belongs to a generation that hates typing): She writes these amazingly motivational long letters, and then gets my brother to capture them on his cellphone camera and Whatsapp them to me. My phone now boasts of a tome of hand-written letters. Talk about living in an age where one otherwise thought that letters had ceased to exist.

I am also reminded of her every time I cook something awful. In fact, just yesterday I made ussal that seemed to be pulses boiled in spiced broth. At least now, I won't ever criticise mom for making boring food (a rarity), because mine have definitely raised the bar on how bad it could possibly get?

Meanwhile, my darling dad is helping me cope with my mopey and remorseful situation, but I wonder for how long. Every time I break into tears, I see him freeze, and soon after, so do my tears. I won't cry, I promise myself, but man life is really difficult without mommy dearest. It was solely my decision to put myself to test, but now and then, I see myself failing. The only assurance is her voice, promising that she will be here soon, even if just for a while.