An open letter to my mother (and so many like her)

Dear than dearest Ma,

My friends think I am slowly turning out to be like you. I don't know what makes them say that because in many more ways than one, we are a whole lot different.

You, for once, ask too many questions and dole out uncalled for advice. I still don't know how and where to exercise such authority without appearing bossy or seeming meddlesome. You also have a great threshold for life's knee-jerking surprises - little wonder you don't grumble or whine - while I make a relentless effort to show my disdain for everything that doesn't make me happy. It's also amazing how you get us to act without having to scream your lungs out. I, on the other hand, take from dad and assume that raising my decibel levels can sort half of the world's problems, including my own. Then there is the surplus amount of sugar you fuel into your tea, when my coffee is generally bitter and I know how much you detest that. 
Obviously, our differences are not as distinct as pepper and salt; yet, when they surface now and then, we cannot ignore the friction it causes.  

But the other day, I made chicken curry for dinner and your son (and my brother) said my food reminded him of mummy. I was pleased, just like I was when my friends told me that they thought I was becoming you. It honestly, felt like a job well-done.

Come to think of it, it's actually very strange because I have been quite vociferous about hating the things that don't appeal to you - like hanging out until late into the night; going for overnight picnics/treks or not staying at home enough. 
If my friends asked me why I couldn't join them, I would not mince words when blaming “my strict mother” for it. I even tried lying to you once, and it made me feel guilty for the rest of the year, so I quit that option.

Then there were the millions of questions you asked me about the things I did or the friends I hung out with, and your blunt opinions about some of them. 

Of course, you keeping such a tight leash on my life, made me angry.

What I forgot, however, was to be grateful. Grateful to see your face when I woke up each morning or grateful when you made me my coffee, just how I liked it. 
When the people who I most sincerely trusted hurt me, you became my sounding board. You listened to me patiently, saying nothing more than what I needed to hear. It's uncanny how you know my secrets, without me ever having to share them with you; it's also strange how you can sense am low by just listening to my voice or seeing my face. Again, I had forgotten, how to be grateful. Because, even if I was, I never told you how fortunate I was to have you in my life or did not once remind myself that this is the mother I would like to be someday.

Surprisingly enough, you've never expected gratitude. You keep indulging me, even when you know that I forget to thank you for your goodness. You also reprimand me when needed, though it never goes down well with me. You take the brickbats in your stride, and you continue, just like a mother would – just like only you could.

The good thing is that living away from you for the last year and more, has only made me see my life with the clarity that you expected me to have - all along. Now, though am beyond your scrutiny, my every move continues to be guided by you in absurd ways. When I cook something nice, I hopelessly wonder what you would have to say about it. If am out too late, I keep looking at my watch, worrying whether you would have appreciated it. If I buy something too expensive, I try to figure out ways to let you know that I have over-spent. It's stupid, because these are things where I enjoy little interference. But am always searching for your approval, even if I don't tell you so.

Your morals and values have filtered down and found a narrow and winding path into my life. Your views, sometimes judgmental but mostly honest, have also begun to rhyme with mine.

I think sometimes about how my life would have been, hadn't you helped me shape it. You convinced this reluctant girl to take up music and learn to play the keyboards, when she had zero talent for it. You motivated her to pursue a career in journalism, when she wasn't quite sure about it herself. You encouraged her to be stubborn and multi-task to accomplish the million-odd dreams she had lined up for herself. You did not stop her, when she decided to leave home for a while, even though it made you sick to the pit. You allowed her to be her own person and taught her to be you. 

When I see myself now, I cannot ignore the faint reflection I see of you in there. I have become you as much as I never thought I would. And we don't need mirrors to prove that.   

Yes, I do have failings. I am lazy, self-deprecating and downright cynical; but all these failings are my own, which you have unfalteringly tried to repair. But take comfort. If we have to go with what my friends and family claim, you are succeeding, slowly and steadily - molding one of your own, in your likeness.

All through these years of growing up, I was probably idolising you without even realising, and was secretly hoping that someone would spell this out for me, without me having to do so. Thank God for the people who keep reminding me that I haven't strayed, and that I am still the daughter, you wanted me to be.  

Happy Mother's Day Ma! Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers who sail through the rough seas and yet manage to brave it to the shore, just to protect, love and guide us.

When Harry Met Sally Through Her Mommy!

I was once on a matrimonial site. Yes. Not a big deal, I know. But just for a month, "I accidentally found myself on a matrimonial site."

This happened at a time when the world - my mother and friends Inc. (in particular) - was busy trying to get me married. Obviously, my mother did not know how to begin, since repeatedly letting people know that her daughter was "grown up enough" seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. "We need to start somewhere," is what my friend - who became mom's spokesperson during these trying times - said, to convince me. I reluctantly agreed, lest I sounded stubborn and non-cooperative, which I usually am. 

"But no name, no encouraging details or photos," I forewarned the crowd of anxious folks. I only agreed to fill in obnoxious compulsory boxes of information, which the matrimonial site asked for. 

In the end, my profile looked something like this: 26/Female/Catholic/Dark/Heavy. 

No one seemed convinced. How on earth would I land a suitable boy for myself with such incredible honesty. Nobody dared to mention it. Mom, who had married her childhood sweetheart and didn't know how the mechanics of matrimonial ads worked, felt the strains of having her daughter objectified within such ludicrous categories. "You are beyond all this," she sighed.    

There was some prodding though - to probably fill in more personal information, "I write," or "I loved books," and that I had a "Masters qualification". At least then, some like-minded boy would approve, was the hope!  In the end, she had her way and partial truth was made accessible to the world, on the other side. But a month later, mom quietly gave up. The men were probably not to her liking. And so, as per a mutually-agreed upon deal, the account was deactivated with full family approval. She has finally come to terms with the situation. Doesn't mean that she hasn't stopped trying, praying or what-not! It suits her, and many mothers too. They are meant to worry. We are meant to be the cause of this worry. The equation of cause and effect doesn't work any better. 

But I write this not because I have an issue with arranged marriages. I don't even want to raise a stink about how we women and men (as well) are objectified in these ads - hasn't enough been said about it already. I am just amused by how it all pans out. And how blind dates set up by parents or family, seem like an almost honest attempt at a union of two individuals.  

A chunk of young Indians of marriageable age are on matrimonial sites. A major chunk of these are too embarrassed to admit it, while an even bigger chunk has quietly handed over the baton of finding prospective better halves, to their parents. Another sizable chunk has already been successfully married in such orderly fashion. While another good chunk is still on the waiting list. Just for the record, am talking "chunks" because I have no data or stats to prove my point. I don't think such fluff of a blog post, deserves this anyway. The real problem is not the number of times, I repeated the word "chunk," but those who are forced to be part of this chunk.   

A friend of mine has been making three hour-long train journeys to her parents home every weekend, to "meet boys". And during the few minutes that she sits with these grown up boys, trying to exchange a healthy conversation, she keeps looking for some spark, connection, etc, etc.
"How am I supposed to know?" she asks. "After all, I am to spend the rest of myself with him." 

I don't know either. Though somehow she is confident that she will be married soon. Such is the way of the world. We don't find a groom, but we know we will be married. That's eventuality. And such eventuality scares me. When life becomes so predictable that you know the end result without knowing who will help you achieve it. When honestly, I would rather have it the other way.    

Another friend has kept a count. 27 men, she last told me. That's the number of wasted dates. Mind you, that number also reflects her capacity for patience and nonsense. Most importantly, how does one expect her to make a sound choice after being thrown with so many options. We joke sometimes - she and I - as to how she could pull a Katherine Heigl a la in the film 27 Dresses, and invite all the men she has seen, to her wedding as a token of appreciation for leading her to the "man of her dreams". 

Speaking about the man of our dreams, this new driver that I am, was trying to get out of a crammed parking alley. A cute chap saw me struggle and tried to guide me from outside with hand gestures. When I finally managed to get my car out, he knocked on my window, I rolled it down and he broke into small talk, ending it with how, he hoped to accidentally bump into me at a coffee shop the next time, and not a parking lot. He dropped a hint or two, so that I could share my number. As a response to his kind offer, I came up with a very filmy retort: "Of course, we shall meet again. This world is too small..." 
I drove away, soon after. We parted on a good note. We exchanged smiles, and the regular, "will see you around town soon". But it didn't hurt twice that I had pulled a fast one on a nice looking man.  

It feels good to have this choice sometimes...the choice to choose which stranger you want to have your coffee with, which stranger you would like to have a conversation with or who could be allowed to help you at a parking lot.

Meanwhile, parents everywhere are praying. But, we shouldn't care. As long as we have this CHOICE, nothing else matters.  

P.S. Am not anti-arranged marriages...just saying! For all you know I could land up in one. 

A miracle in 2014

Within the bunch of the many wrong things that happen to us, are the right ones. And within the many right ones are the small little miracles, which are only revealed when we allow them to happen to us. 

I am a believer. A believer of miracles, fate, twisted tales, destiny and serendipities. And because I see it happen so often in the lives of the people that surround me, including mine, I don't take these miracles for granted. 

Every time I chance on something that seems remotely close to a happy coincidence, I make a mental note. This story is one such note that I would rather write about than leave embedded in my fleshy memory.  

Dad woke up this morning, telling me he had a horrible dream. He was so terrified that he broke out into a cold sweat. 

"What was it?" I asked casually.

"You decided to go back to India."

"Why did that scare you so bad?" I prodded. 

"The house was empty, again. I was alone. Will you leave?" he asked, just to assuage his fears.  

"Of course, not. I won't leave without you." 

He suddenly looked relatively calmer.

What just transpired, took me some 23 years behind. It was 1992. We were in Oman, again. And it was my first day at school. I was inside my classroom. Sitting beside me, was not another student, but dad. My hands refused to let go of his.

"I am scared," I remember telling him, between sobs.

"Why?" If I recall, he was tearing up too. 

"I can't sit alone here. I don't know any of them. Don't go," I cried.

"I am not leaving without you," he promised. 

And just like that, I had stopped crying. He had kept his promise. 

Mom tells me that dad called in sick at work, and stood outside my class the whole day. Thanks to the glass doors of my classroom, he passed by occasionally, without disturbing the teachers, so that I could see him. 

I wouldn't like to draw parallels here. Because that's not why I was reminded of this tale. I think it was more about this beautiful relationship that I shared with dad, which until last year I had been so oblivious to. 

Over the course of 2014, we've shared more than just a roof together. He brings me what I like - chocolates, I bring him what he does - junk food. We spoil each other and also, reprimand the other, after having done so. He tries to make me more like him - asocial, and I try to teach him the perks of being a social fly. We fight, we argue, we cry, we cook, we go for long walks - and all of it together.  

That was my small little miracle last year. The miracle was in knowing how much I loved what I had always loved. The one person - among the many - I had been taking for granted throughout. 

All this while he had kept his promise. I think it's time I kept mine.  

     

The Village

The Tank

Banganga

“…And then I saw you, and my soul whispered, ‘doesn't she look familiar’. I said, ‘she does’, but I couldn't place you from this time or place. So I asked my soul, ‘if it knew since how long back had we known each other’? And it replied, ‘since forever’.”  

“Since forever.”

That’s what he first thought when he saw this woman sitting on the jagged, moss-infested stone steps of the tank.

Her blue cotton skirt was partially inside the green pool of water so he didn't know where her feet ended. He gauged from the length of her back and the broadness of her shoulders that she was tall, probably taller than what was just normal.

The morning sun glistened and shimmered like sparkling stars on water. He saw it, even as he saw her observe it. She was smiling; beaming helplessly. It made her feel happy and he could not tell why.

They were at a considerable distance from each other – he standing and she sitting, both on different angles of the rectangle – enough for her to not notice that he was noticing her.

Rukshad was a photographer, an amateur one. He didn't love Mumbai, as much as his parents did. But today, at the tank, beauty had snatched hate off some of its glory.

Banganga - it was a beautiful place. Here, it seemed like another world from another time had not only been preserved, but had continued seamlessly, undisturbed and unaltered, even as everything changed or manifested into something new. The stoned stairways on all four sides led deep down to a bottomless pit from where a natural spring drowned each step as it rose, disappearing layer by layer. Legend had it that Laxman, the brother of epic hero Lord Ram, had shot an arrow on this earth, eons ago; water sprung soon after to feed the thirsty elder brother. Some claimed that the arrow was shot after Sita – Ram’s wife – had sought pure water for a temple offering.        

Rukshad’s friend had told him of the tank.  

“Very few know about it,” he was told. “Go visit it, you may get some good photographs that could land you that job,” the friend had advised.

He wanted to intern at the photography magazine desperately, so he came here. But now, he was more than just stunned by the magnificence of the place. And then his eyes fell upon her, and he did not know what had left him more spellbound - the tank or the girl sitting by it.

It was strange, this attraction he felt for her. She was ordinary to look at, not somebody anyone would take to on the first glance. Her hair was tied up messily in a hasty bun with strands falling carelessly on her face. There was something about her very presence though, that felt familiar.    

So while he toyed with his SLR, shooting aimlessly, his mind kept travelling back to the woman. But he parried his view the moment he thought she had become aware of his presence. She was still sitting there. And he realised that the water had risen a bit, because her skirt was now hidden knee deep.  

She looked at him, first casting him a nervous stare, but then smiled. It was a very knowing glance. Before he could pull himself together, she was waving at him, asking him to come hither.    

Rukshad didn't have time to think of what was happening, so he quickly walked to the other side, down the slippery steps, carefully towards her.   

“Photographer?” she asked.

He nodded, fumbling with his words, struggling hard to give a reply.

“You want to take my picture?” she asked questioningly.

If that was the excuse he would have to give for those stolen glances, he had no other choice. He sheepishly took the bait. “Yes.”

“Okay…go ahead,” she said, and pushed her hands behind, to hold herself back in a tilt, as if readying for a pose.

After fiddling with his lens, Rukshad took a couple of photographs. She smiled and posed without complaining.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said. “What will you use this for?” she asked.

“Job interview.”

“Oh! I hope you get it then,” she said.

And, as if no conversation had happened between them, she went back to treating her eyes to the green of the waters. Her face looked calm, but lacked the curiosity that he had for her. There wasn't an ounce of emotion, to reveal what was on her mind. She hadn't even bothered asking if there was a way she could get hold of the copy.     

Rukshad moved back quietly, not knowing whether it would be polite to ask her, her name.

He left Banganga soon after, taking the steep stairway that was butted by old homes and temples on either side. It was only when he had climbed up to the exit that he realised he had forgotten his lens at the tank. It was an expensive zoom lens and he remembered asking the young woman to hold it, while he busied taking her pictures.

He rushed back to the tank. As he walked down, a slew of thoughts ran through his mind. Rukshad saw it as a sign; a sign that they weren't over as yet. May be, he would gather some courage, and ask for her name or probably, her number. They would meet again, and then...

Were they meant to be?

The last thought struck him when he just reached the tank. He immediately looked in the direction where he saw her last. But there was no one there who resembled her. He glanced around the tank, assuming he probably got the spot wrong. She had just been here five minutes ago.

For a moment he thought that she had followed him to return the lens. But he knew deep down that she never really would. She had appeared to be in a daze, not to be disturbed or stirred. 

From the distance though, he could see something cylindrical, a few steps above where she had been seated. His lens had been waiting there, beside a pair of red sandals. She was nowhere around. He sat there till dusk, hoping she would return to take the shoes that he presumed were hers. She did not.

He got the job the following week. It was her picture that did the trick.

He would remember this woman “since forever.”