I first met Neetu a few years back. She was a neighbour. I remembered her as a sweet talking kid, rather a favourite of my wife. Recently, she came to our office with her dad. Dad was busy, so she was rather at a loose end. So was I. So I invited her upto my cabin. She said, she woiuld come as soon as she finished the coffee that had been ordered for her.
Returning to my cabin, I had almost forgotten about her. When she came in, she had a smile and an expectancy on the face as is proper for a girl out on her first date. We talked about the old days. Did she remenber our neighbours ? She did, except only us. she was however prepared to accept my assertion that we too were her neighbours. Establishment og friendly relations was not at all difficult. Very soon, she was cosy in my lap, chatting gaily and laughing a lot.
" What do you do in office ? " was a question that stumped me. I do not know how they do it but most children including my own, find out soon that all this talk about working hard in the office is actually a lot of humbug. So everytime that they ask this question, I am wary. " I read, sometimes I write and talk to people ' was my guarded answer. " Humphhh... " was her sole response which could have a variety of meanings. In the present case, it meant, " Well, you are a bit of alright. After all, you did not act superior and say I wouldn't understand. "
" Can you cook ? " I asked her.
" Well, I can make tea ".
" What about Rice or Chapatti ? "
" No "
" How did you learn making tea ? "
" Well, there was this Didi living next door to us and her mother was busy, so Didi let me make tea in her house. That was when I was young. I was only seven then. "
"How old are you now ? "
" I am eight ", making it sound like eighteen.
" Can you roast a papad ? "
" I have never done it but it is fairly easy. You buy a pair of tongs similar to the ones you use for picking up ice cubes and use them " , displaying her power of observation.
" Would you roast a papad for me when I come to your place ? ".
She nodded assent and our next date was made.
While this tete - a - tete was in progress, some people came into the next room and a rather loud discussion ensued among them. We had, therefore, to make our dialogue in some other form. Picking up a sheet from the desk calendar that she had carefully dusted earlier with her handkerchief, I made a doodle of a girl in pigtails and captioned it Neetu. I passed it on to her. In reply, she started to make one of me but did not succeed, so she gave it up. Picking up one more sheet, I wrote, Neetu is a naughty girl. She wrote back. No, I am not a naughty girl. Thank you.
After trading a few more insults, she came up with what she thought was an ultimate insult. She wrote, " You are my ontie ". I returned the paper merely correcting her spelling to Auntie. Disappointment and disbelief were writ large on her face. She was still unable to decide whether I was really feminine enough to accept her insult or whether the poisoned dart had made no dent in my armour when her father walked in to fetch her. May be, she will find out if and when she roasts that papad for me.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
BLACKIE, MY PET
We were enjoying Holi, the colour festival on the terrace of a house in our street. We had just moved in this neighbourhood and but for the shaking off of the inhibitions caused by the Holi festival, we might have taken some time to get acquainted with the neighbours.
After having played Holi among ourselves, we started ambushing the passes-by in the street with balloons filled with coloured water. We noticed the same activity from other terraces in the street as well. When there were no passers-by, we would fling balloons at people in adjacent as well as opposite terraces.
One little girl on the opposite terrace was valiantly trying to throw a balloon at me. Every time, her throw would fall short of me and i would encourage her to do better with the next one.
Next day, I found her standing in the street and crying. Asked what the matter was, she said that her father had not returned from the office and she did not have the key. I took her to our home. That ios how I acquired a new friend or how she came to adopt me and my family. She took to coming to our house every day and became more or less a member of the family. This is what happens wherever I am posted. Some or the other child gets attached to us and becomes an additional temporary member.
Her name is Shyamala and I call her Blackie. Blackie is 8 years old and very worldly wise for her age. Her mother, it seems, was away for quite some time and she lived alone with her father or " Fawther " as she would pronounce the word while referring to him. The father sometimes worked till late hours and Blackie would stay in one or the other house in the street awaiting his return. More often than not, ours was the house chosen by her.
By and by she took to helping my wife in the kitchen. Everyday she would come with a comb in her hand to get her hair dressed by my wife. She would play one or the other game with me. Mostly, it was cards.
Once I scolded her for some minor thing. Thereafter for a few days, she would address me as ' somebody '. If she was asked to enquire from me, if I needed tea, she would say " Does somebody need tea ? " If she wanted to play cards, she would say, " I shall play cards with everyone except " somebody ". Her feminine logic meant that I should force her to play as she associated coercion with masculinity. I would ignore her or try to placate her in a grandfatherly fashion or even cajole her in a little boy's fashion. This did not suit her. She wanted me to be a teen-aged male dominating his female playmate. My wife and mother would sometimes hint at the course to be adopted or rather not adopted with her but I would not budge. Finally we came to a compromise and she resumed speaking to me.
Once she seemed to suspect me of prying into her affairs. she assumed the role of a counter-espionage agent. Her first test on me was to bring a Panchtantra comic containing a story of a monkey who got his tail wedged below a heavy falling tree while prying into others' affairs. She expected me to behave in a mollified manner after this broad hint. I asked her bluntly why she wanted me to read this particular story. Why didn't she come out openly and say what she wanted. Her doubts dissolved, she served me my dinner to make up for her error of judgement.
I once told her that I wrote little pieces on women and children. " Would I write one on her ? " was her querry. " May be " I replied. Well, here it is, Blackie. Read it if you can find it, especially since you have gone into hiding expecting me to chase you like a Hindi film hero !
After having played Holi among ourselves, we started ambushing the passes-by in the street with balloons filled with coloured water. We noticed the same activity from other terraces in the street as well. When there were no passers-by, we would fling balloons at people in adjacent as well as opposite terraces.
One little girl on the opposite terrace was valiantly trying to throw a balloon at me. Every time, her throw would fall short of me and i would encourage her to do better with the next one.
Next day, I found her standing in the street and crying. Asked what the matter was, she said that her father had not returned from the office and she did not have the key. I took her to our home. That ios how I acquired a new friend or how she came to adopt me and my family. She took to coming to our house every day and became more or less a member of the family. This is what happens wherever I am posted. Some or the other child gets attached to us and becomes an additional temporary member.
Her name is Shyamala and I call her Blackie. Blackie is 8 years old and very worldly wise for her age. Her mother, it seems, was away for quite some time and she lived alone with her father or " Fawther " as she would pronounce the word while referring to him. The father sometimes worked till late hours and Blackie would stay in one or the other house in the street awaiting his return. More often than not, ours was the house chosen by her.
By and by she took to helping my wife in the kitchen. Everyday she would come with a comb in her hand to get her hair dressed by my wife. She would play one or the other game with me. Mostly, it was cards.
Once I scolded her for some minor thing. Thereafter for a few days, she would address me as ' somebody '. If she was asked to enquire from me, if I needed tea, she would say " Does somebody need tea ? " If she wanted to play cards, she would say, " I shall play cards with everyone except " somebody ". Her feminine logic meant that I should force her to play as she associated coercion with masculinity. I would ignore her or try to placate her in a grandfatherly fashion or even cajole her in a little boy's fashion. This did not suit her. She wanted me to be a teen-aged male dominating his female playmate. My wife and mother would sometimes hint at the course to be adopted or rather not adopted with her but I would not budge. Finally we came to a compromise and she resumed speaking to me.
Once she seemed to suspect me of prying into her affairs. she assumed the role of a counter-espionage agent. Her first test on me was to bring a Panchtantra comic containing a story of a monkey who got his tail wedged below a heavy falling tree while prying into others' affairs. She expected me to behave in a mollified manner after this broad hint. I asked her bluntly why she wanted me to read this particular story. Why didn't she come out openly and say what she wanted. Her doubts dissolved, she served me my dinner to make up for her error of judgement.
I once told her that I wrote little pieces on women and children. " Would I write one on her ? " was her querry. " May be " I replied. Well, here it is, Blackie. Read it if you can find it, especially since you have gone into hiding expecting me to chase you like a Hindi film hero !
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND I MERELY READ
Jeeves gets peeves,
Bertie is shirty.
The empress of Blandings
Is without her moorings.
And I am forlorn,
For my Wodehouse, I mourn.
Note :- I must acknowledge the contribution of my son Santosh, then about 12 years old in the composing of this little verse or whatever you may choose to call it.
Bertie is shirty.
The empress of Blandings
Is without her moorings.
And I am forlorn,
For my Wodehouse, I mourn.
Note :- I must acknowledge the contribution of my son Santosh, then about 12 years old in the composing of this little verse or whatever you may choose to call it.
IN PRAISE OF THOSE WHO CONFORM
Whenever I rebel against an event
Or a phenomenon.
I am only admitting that I do not
Comprehend the causes
Underlying that event.
The stronger my rebellion
The farther away am I
From the truth in the matter'
When I finally understand
What caused the event
I revolted against,
I hit upon the axiom
" What happens is right ".
For, what happens, is
A resultant of all the Forces
Of nature acting together.
And since even time, the
Fourth dimension has
participated, the result
Has got to be right.
Or a phenomenon.
I am only admitting that I do not
Comprehend the causes
Underlying that event.
The stronger my rebellion
The farther away am I
From the truth in the matter'
When I finally understand
What caused the event
I revolted against,
I hit upon the axiom
" What happens is right ".
For, what happens, is
A resultant of all the Forces
Of nature acting together.
And since even time, the
Fourth dimension has
participated, the result
Has got to be right.
IN DEFENCE OF THE NON - ELITE
Neither can art be eaten
Nor culture clothe a man.
It is farming that feeds one
And craft that covers him.
When food, clothes and shelter
Are adequate, can finer things come into play.
Priorities have to be given
What comes first at a given time ?
What indeed comes first ?
The tree or the seed ?
The hen or the egg ?
In the answer to that question
Relevant to the time, place and
Your circumstances, lies happiness galore.
Nor culture clothe a man.
It is farming that feeds one
And craft that covers him.
When food, clothes and shelter
Are adequate, can finer things come into play.
Priorities have to be given
What comes first at a given time ?
What indeed comes first ?
The tree or the seed ?
The hen or the egg ?
In the answer to that question
Relevant to the time, place and
Your circumstances, lies happiness galore.
Monday, August 15, 2011
PANTS DON''T MAKE A BOY
Four year old Preety is a delectable dumpling sweet enough to eat. She laughs a lot. She has also a lot of variety in her laughters. Only the discerning can understand what she means by each kind of laughter. She walked into my life one day last year, accompanied by her parents and a baby brother. Since then, she has been enchanting me with her laughters.
On that first meeting, I asked her, her name. " Preety " she said and laughed. This laugh meant, " Look at this silly uncle ! He does not even know that I am Preety. The next day, as I was about to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and found Preety at the threshold. She looked at me and feeling that I had not paid sufficient attention to her, laughed. Now this laugh could only mean, " Wow ! Aren't you glad that I have come ? " naturally, i had to make amends for my behaviour. I picked her up and announced her arrival to my wife.
Another day, I started telling her that I too had a daughter also called Preety and that she was in Delhi. " Then whose am I ? " she asked bluntly. I had to reply that she too was mine. To this, she laughed meaning " So now you have come round, eh ? "
Once she came in when we were having snacks. I asked her if she would like to join us. She gave no reply but walked upto the dining table, picked up a banana, peeled it, took one bite and laughed. This time it meant, " How amusing ! Soes one behave so formally with one's own ? " And with that laughter, she adopted my wife and myself as her own.
I have yet to see a person with such an expressive laughter. Each and every laughter of hers has a different ring, different meaning to it. Once she returned from a longish vacation. We came across each other in a public gathering. On seeing me, she gave me a " So glad to see you after such a long time " titter. Partly because she had changed somewhat but majorly because I was lost in a reverie, I responded with an automatic smile that was a bit synthetic. She seemed to sense this and laughed again. This laughter sounded different and my reverie was broken. Previously I had only looked at her but now I noticed her. it was then that her second laughter registered on my mind as " Is it so long that you do not even recognize me ? "
Her most memorable laugh was given when we all were going to a party together. She came in, dressed in pants and a bush shirt. " So, you have become a boy ! " I exclaimed. She smugly said " Pants don't make a boy " and laughed.
On that first meeting, I asked her, her name. " Preety " she said and laughed. This laugh meant, " Look at this silly uncle ! He does not even know that I am Preety. The next day, as I was about to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and found Preety at the threshold. She looked at me and feeling that I had not paid sufficient attention to her, laughed. Now this laugh could only mean, " Wow ! Aren't you glad that I have come ? " naturally, i had to make amends for my behaviour. I picked her up and announced her arrival to my wife.
Another day, I started telling her that I too had a daughter also called Preety and that she was in Delhi. " Then whose am I ? " she asked bluntly. I had to reply that she too was mine. To this, she laughed meaning " So now you have come round, eh ? "
Once she came in when we were having snacks. I asked her if she would like to join us. She gave no reply but walked upto the dining table, picked up a banana, peeled it, took one bite and laughed. This time it meant, " How amusing ! Soes one behave so formally with one's own ? " And with that laughter, she adopted my wife and myself as her own.
I have yet to see a person with such an expressive laughter. Each and every laughter of hers has a different ring, different meaning to it. Once she returned from a longish vacation. We came across each other in a public gathering. On seeing me, she gave me a " So glad to see you after such a long time " titter. Partly because she had changed somewhat but majorly because I was lost in a reverie, I responded with an automatic smile that was a bit synthetic. She seemed to sense this and laughed again. This laughter sounded different and my reverie was broken. Previously I had only looked at her but now I noticed her. it was then that her second laughter registered on my mind as " Is it so long that you do not even recognize me ? "
Her most memorable laugh was given when we all were going to a party together. She came in, dressed in pants and a bush shirt. " So, you have become a boy ! " I exclaimed. She smugly said " Pants don't make a boy " and laughed.
THE UNSUNG BREADMAN
I call him Breadman because he gave people their daily bread. he was a cook employed by the son-in-law of our neighbour. Whenever the daughter and son-in-law of our neighbour paid a visit, they brought him along. He was a deaf-mute and hence could not be left alone. He could not hear even a temple bell rung next to his ear and could only make incoherent sounds.
Barring this handicap, he was in excellent health. He was a good cook with a strong sense of smell. He got a lot of pleasure when the food cooked by him was appreciated. His eyes would light up like a pair of diamonds and he would make guttural sounds. He was great fun to us children.
If he was annoyed, he would drop metallic utensils on the floor or start playing music with a roller pin on metal containers. We would rush to the kitchen and ask him to stop the noise. " What noise ? " he would gesture, thereby indicating that what disturbed us had no effect whatsoever on him. Very often, he would go on doing the work in hand without the slightest sign of disturbance.
Once, we were playing cricket in the compound. He came and watched us for a while. Then he asked us what we were doing. I wrote in the dust with the help of my finger that it was a game called cricket. " Can I play ? " he gestured. We were too happy to get a good fielder whom as a batsman, we could easily dismiss, being a novice.
Most of us thereafter, malingered in the fielding. The cook would gleefully hop in long strides to the ball anywhere in the field. he took a special pleasure in catching the ball in the air. he was at first perplexed as to why the batsman was not given out everytime he caught the ball in the air. It took us some effort to explain to him the rule that the ball had to be caught in the air before it touched the ground after leaving the bat. he violently disagreed with the LBW rule on the ground that being hit in the legs was sufficient punishment to the batsman. By the time his turn came for batting, he had learnt all the rules of the game even if he disagreed with some of them. He was the last to bat and we vied with each other to bowl to him in the hope of earning a cheap wicket.
One after another, we bowled. Leg spin, off spin, googly, pace and so on. He held the bat like a club raised above his shoulders. Unerringly, he would smack the ball whether it was short pitched, good length, over pitched or full toss. As we grew tired, we started bending the rules, then making new rules such as the batsman having to field the ball, if it crossed the boundary line and finally outright cheating. nothing worked. By this time, the news had spread and some college going boys joined in. The distance between the stumps was surreptitiously reduced. The older boys had even lesser compunction than us in regard to the rules. They threw the ball at him instead of bowling. The deaf-mute batted on.. It was getting dark and we appealed for bad light. He rejected our appeal on the ground that he could still sight the ball. Finally some bright chap suggested to him that it would be a great honour if he retired. he did so with a K-R-E-E G-A-H kind of sound.
Instead of us chairing him, he chaired us, two on his shoulders, one on his back and two in his arms. He romped his way to the kitchen and deposited us on the floor simply by shaking himself.
There and then we resolved that we might hazard being on the wrong side of Sir Donald's bat but never again, would we ask this breadman to play with us. How about sending such a one to rescue our tiring, tiring, tired players on their losing forays abroad ?_
Barring this handicap, he was in excellent health. He was a good cook with a strong sense of smell. He got a lot of pleasure when the food cooked by him was appreciated. His eyes would light up like a pair of diamonds and he would make guttural sounds. He was great fun to us children.
If he was annoyed, he would drop metallic utensils on the floor or start playing music with a roller pin on metal containers. We would rush to the kitchen and ask him to stop the noise. " What noise ? " he would gesture, thereby indicating that what disturbed us had no effect whatsoever on him. Very often, he would go on doing the work in hand without the slightest sign of disturbance.
Once, we were playing cricket in the compound. He came and watched us for a while. Then he asked us what we were doing. I wrote in the dust with the help of my finger that it was a game called cricket. " Can I play ? " he gestured. We were too happy to get a good fielder whom as a batsman, we could easily dismiss, being a novice.
Most of us thereafter, malingered in the fielding. The cook would gleefully hop in long strides to the ball anywhere in the field. he took a special pleasure in catching the ball in the air. he was at first perplexed as to why the batsman was not given out everytime he caught the ball in the air. It took us some effort to explain to him the rule that the ball had to be caught in the air before it touched the ground after leaving the bat. he violently disagreed with the LBW rule on the ground that being hit in the legs was sufficient punishment to the batsman. By the time his turn came for batting, he had learnt all the rules of the game even if he disagreed with some of them. He was the last to bat and we vied with each other to bowl to him in the hope of earning a cheap wicket.
One after another, we bowled. Leg spin, off spin, googly, pace and so on. He held the bat like a club raised above his shoulders. Unerringly, he would smack the ball whether it was short pitched, good length, over pitched or full toss. As we grew tired, we started bending the rules, then making new rules such as the batsman having to field the ball, if it crossed the boundary line and finally outright cheating. nothing worked. By this time, the news had spread and some college going boys joined in. The distance between the stumps was surreptitiously reduced. The older boys had even lesser compunction than us in regard to the rules. They threw the ball at him instead of bowling. The deaf-mute batted on.. It was getting dark and we appealed for bad light. He rejected our appeal on the ground that he could still sight the ball. Finally some bright chap suggested to him that it would be a great honour if he retired. he did so with a K-R-E-E G-A-H kind of sound.
Instead of us chairing him, he chaired us, two on his shoulders, one on his back and two in his arms. He romped his way to the kitchen and deposited us on the floor simply by shaking himself.
There and then we resolved that we might hazard being on the wrong side of Sir Donald's bat but never again, would we ask this breadman to play with us. How about sending such a one to rescue our tiring, tiring, tired players on their losing forays abroad ?_
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