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.

Sleepless in Mumbai

Night is here, but I am sleepless. Still a few more hours before dawn breaks, but I want to hold on to something, and the fear that it could disappear if I shut my eyes, keeps me awake. Right now, at this moment, I am biding my time. And why not? This is possibly my last week in Mumbai this year.

I am leaving the city to re-live an old memory and though, it is what I always secretly wanted, it has just dawned upon me that what I am about to leave will now be another memory that someday, like the other, I would want to live again. 

When we move on, we leave a lot behind us: Family, best friends, good friends, not-so-very-good friends, college-mates colleagues, enemies, well-wishers, acquaintances, and all the many stray incidents that remind us of them. In fact, just today, I happened to catch-up with the initial set of friends I made, when I first came to Mumbai back in 2003. In the span of a few nostalgic hours, I was taken back to St. Xavier's College, where I first studied, before my mind rattled into the present. 

What it did was project to me a 10-year graph of how Mumbai came to mean what it does to me today and what Mumbai made of the Jane, who is fortunately or unfortunately, so different from yesterday. When a city does so much to you, you don't just feel obliged to it, but also begin to absorb it in your veins and make it your own. Its pride, fears, comforts and insecurities begin to course through you, and then before you realise, you two are inseparable. You become it, and it becomes you. Today, I owe to the city, as much as it owes to me. 

It owes me time, that I could never have enough of, and I owe it gratitude that I have always grudged to part with. But now, as I lie awake, sleepless in Mumbai, I feel the urge to give the city its due, even as I secretly hope, that it would give me a little of something from its kitty: some more time.

Time to do what I didn't do; time to tell some people that I love them; time to tell a few others that I may always hate them; time to get to know some people better; time to give someone a chance; time to see a place that I never bothered to seek out; or may be a little more time to hoard all the good memories I had here, so that I can pack them up in a suitcase and take it wherever I go.

Like the day when my three best friends Tess, Blessy and Nadia and I walked the entire stretch from Marine Plaza to Churchgate at 4 am, soaking ourselves in the first real heavy showers of the monsoon season. We were the only four girls on the streets of the city, and were quite enjoying our unexpected night-time stroll, when Nadia suddenly panicked and suggested we take a cab and head back home. It was the only real-adventure we had as a gang, and how I still miss it. 

Then that trip to Essel World with Tess, Blessy and my family (Saby, Steven and cousin Karen), and how we bravely took on every single ride, despite some of us threatening to launch on a puke-fest, now and then.

Not to forget that ticket-less train journey from Pune to Mumbai with Deba and Nadia, and our brilliant plans of hiding in the Indian toilet if one of us saw a ticket checker approach from the other coach. And also that trip to Matheran, with me and Neha singing 'Gazab ka hain din' as we walked through the woods, even as Hiral gave us a cold shoulder and refused to have anything to do with us.  Or may be that 23rd birthday of mine, where we played Taboo all through the night, till as early as 7 in the morning with the D'Costas (Edric and Brian) trying all the possible tricks, even those not mentioned in the books, to see themselves through a victory. I also saw some of the most forgettable films with the cousin duo, which happened to make those memories all the more worth it.  

It is somewhere during the same time, that I had a period of musical bloom as a mezzo soprano/alto in the choir group Singspirator. During my four-year journey with them, every Christmas season took on a different hue; the sheer wonderment of performing for a houseful audience during the carol nights at the NCPA, paved the way for a beautiful festival season. Not to mention that it made me more musically sound. 

Then there were fond memories with colleagues (now friends): Of those after-edit meet walks with Aru, our heart-to-heart discussions about everything under the sun and the mouth-watering stops for daabeli or saabudana wadas at Maamis; Of my 27 hour-long train journey with Ipsi...her never-ending nuggets about her personal life, interspersed with the crazy food-binge at every halt, made that trip one of my favourties till date, Of those after-work parties at Megha's house where Tasneem once slipped down the window and tried to walk up the balcony grill, and where Aditya happened to get excessively involved with Megha's loo, refusing to even come out.  

And lastly, how can I forget my first real adventure in the city: when Lisa, Kruti, Saniya and I, along with 100 other students from the Science batch in junior college, mass-bunked to watch Love Actually at Regal, lapping up Colin Firth and Hugh Grant like remains of chocolate sauce on a spoon. 

Yes, I am taking them all with me in my tiny little suitcase of memories. And no, may be I am not leaving this city forever, but then what can a sleepless and bored girl in Mumbai do better than recalling these, and many other good old days of yore, and penning them down. Now that fatigue has set in due to the arduous packing, I shall end here. I may not sleep yet, because the city still owes me time. But I did my part, and all I feel now is plain gratitude. 

The Lowland: A tale of two brothers and beyond

It takes only one incident to change the destinies of many. Pulitzer Prize winning author Jhumpa Lahiri’s second novel since The Namesake, The Lowland, is a striking reflection of this sad reality.  It is sad because the novel at its core disturbs our own peace, makes us want to reach out to a relevant past, help change an action, set fresh wheels in motion and reclaim what is lost in not one, but many lives.  

Set in post-colonial India in a middle-class Bengali household in Tollygunge in then Calcutta, the novel sheds light on the Naxalite movement — a peasant revolution  —  that emerged in the Naxalbari district of West Bengal in the mid 60s, and spread like wildfire among the urban youth. In the process, it also becomes a revelation on how the revolution dismantled a family and dissolved many a hope.

Subhash and Udayan Mitra, brothers born only 15 months apart, were inseparable as children. As kids, Udayan’s daring and fearlessness drew Subhash in; despite being the older of the two siblings, he not only became a participant in Udayan’s daredevilry, trespassing into Tolly Club and stealing golf balls, but also often acquiesced to his ways, joining school a year later to assuage a stubborn Udayan, who “protested at the notion of Subhash going without him”.  

Having done exceptionally well in high school, the two brothers for the first time, part ways joining different colleges on either side of the city. In their separation, though brief, they unknowingly etch out different paths for themselves. Udayan, who by then is gravely affected by the government’s apathy toward the peasant cause, hopes like always, to excite Subhash’s interest. And like always, Subhash, who is both amused and fascinated by Udayan’s passion, also tries to reach out, only this time unsuccessfully.

Their distance grows wider when Subhash secures a fellowship to pursue a PhD in oceanography at a university in Rhode Island. Continents apart, it appears that their separation is sealed, with only letters written sparingly by Udayan, initially glorifying the movement and Mao Tse-tung’s ideals, and later about his elopement with a young, voracious reader Gauri and life back with their parents, who are unaccommodating to his new bride. 

Nothing draws him to Tollygunge for a while. Nothing, but a telegram from home: “Udayan killed. Come back if you can.”

He returns to find his family ruined. His grieving parents won’t talk; Udayan’s wife Gauri, a ghost, carrying her past in her womb, is now an object his parents are willing to wash their hands off. Upset by the developments, and at the same time, seemingly attracted to Gauri, Subhash makes her a proposition of marriage and offers to take her to Rhode Island, to save her the ignominy of his parents and rid her off her haunting past. Gauri, who finds it hard to distinguish Subhash’s voice from her now-dead husband, hesitantly accepts his offer.

From here, the narrative takes a turn, which one wished could have been dreamy, and just like Subhash believed, a hope for a better future for his brother’s wife, the child she carries, and for him too. But Lahiri, who at her best is the master of the unpredictable, weaves a poignant tale, in which her characters’ melancholy-driven impulsiveness continues to drive her story.  

Gauri gives birth to Bela, but in her she sees Udayan, her own failure at preventing him from being involved in the movement, the blood that is still fresh on her hands and the reason for all her sadness. Subhash, who in Bela, sees the cause of all his joy, hopes to one day secure her mother's love. His only fear is that his daughter will someday know that she is not his. Back home his parents rot; their grief compounded by their second son marrying the same woman they could never accept. In doing so, they are denied happiness, twice. 

The story moves, but moves with so much sadness that it makes you feel heavy from within. The characters alter between living in the past and dealing with the present. In the end, happiness is retrieved, but grudgingly. 

Lahiri’s work took me back to another powerful writer Mahashweta Devi’s play Mother of 1084. While it may appear to be a socio-political commentary, at its heart it is very emotional; there are no judgments being made about the movement, there is just gloom; it is a reflection of lives altered with an action, for some considered ennobling, for some unpardonable, but for a few, a tragedy that unveils itself differently with every passing day.

As a diasporic Indian writer, Lahiri’s work becomes an important critique on grief that can never be escaped, even continents away. You take it along with you, weave a life around it, in the quest of happiness.

What is most interesting is that Lahiri gives everyone a chance to tell you their story, not with the intention to justify their actions, but to convey what needs to be heard. Her narrative once linear, slowly and craftily shifts, between the past and present. Her intelligent craftsmanship does not disappoint, when in the end, she transmits to her reader the voice that you have most waited and wanted to hear. The Lowland, like most of Lahiri’s works, is worth many reads, mostly for the strong-hearted and the politically-charged.