From a Granddaughter to her Grandmother

I kissed Daadi on her forehead as they wheeled her out of the CT Scan lab. She was asleep; and I prayed that she gets a good night’s rest. After all she had had a tough day with multiple tests having been done, which in her weak condition she had endured with much grace. 

As we got home, my thoughts wandered to when I was feeding her dinner. It saddened me to see her frail but I was content that she was under good medical care and would now improve. So the next day I was hopeful and did not call to check on her until the evening when I learnt that she had developed a wheeze. This was not a good sign. As soon as I could finish work I reached the hospital. I saw Daadi briefly and then all of us came back home. She was conscious and had given us the permission to go home. 

We had juzt about stepped in the house when I got a call asking us to come back to the hospital; pronto. On the way there were three calls following up on our whwreabouts. I stayed calm. It had to be something, yes, but that it was nothing major I was certain. I was sure she would come home. But it was not to be. 

Having suffered a massive cardiac arrest she had been put on ventilator. All in a brief span of 45 min; and in another some she was gone! Just like that, she left us. All of a sudden and before any one of us could prepare ourselves she was gone. Without a warning, she left us. All of her 90 years, flew by, all in about 90 minutes. With her ended an entire volume of the family history, suddenly opening a treasure trove of memories. 

The first wave that crashed the memory shores was filled with a grandmother’s good night stories - stories of Kanha stealing butter, stories of Narsee Mehta’s unwavering faith in Kanha, stories of Kanha’s unconditional love for Sudama. The list is endless and the lessons remain for life. Her aura was that of Meera, and why not, she was named Radha! 

The next splash to hit was filled with a grandmother’s indulgence - her indulging grandchildren and herself with lip smacking chaat for which the vendor was especially called home, indulging grown up grandchildren with take out food while her own children ate home cooked meals, indulging in and savouring sweets at the cost of normal food even till her last days. The mystery of the family foodie gene is now resolved! 

The third wave tickled me with memories of a grandmother’s innocent and complete belief in her grandchildren- innocently getting tricked into believing that a healthy grandchild had seriously taken ill just at school time, completely believing that teenage granddaughters were with her in the hospital to help her wound heal while overlooking their constant hospital cafeteria pizza orders, in all earnest innocence accepting a granddaughter’s declaration that any attempt to teach her English was futile. Why the same, much older now, grandchildren cannot as easily convince her own children is a conundrum! 

Going through old photographs, seeing her smile and bless, there is a surge of emotion churning within me. They say she is in a better place. It is true, but the granddaughter in me croaks that the better place is here amongst us. They say she was blessed, of course Kanha adores her,  but the granddaughter in me already misses her in person blessings. They say all that they can, but the granddaughter in me still sighs because no words can fill the void that has now been created...

A Memorable March Monday Morning

It was a cool and windy March Monday morning. Before the break of dawn, everyone had gathered at the appointed place, at the given time. The men were dressed in traditional Indian attire and the women were glowing in all their finery. As I looked around, it was not just the gold jewellery that stood out, but it was also the mix of the best Kanjeevaram, Banarsi and Dhakai sarees. Not in abundance but still visible were Bandhani, printed Tussar silk and a handful of bright chiffons. With the perfect drape, matching accessories and just the right out of make up, these women were chirpy, eager and chatty. And no, for all those wondering if this was an early morning wedding, no it was not. It was the occasion of early morning darshans of Lord Balaji at his abode in Tirumala. To complete it all, what was I wearing? A normal red cotton block printed salwar kameez; and I felt small. 

No, it was not my clothes thay made me feel small ; but the love and devotion that this congregation had for the Lord. Many of them had infants with them. Some had come with infants and toddlers. Yet others had accompanied the elderly unable to walk properly. And none of this had deterred any one of them from bringing out their grand attire and dressing up to meet the Lord. I had only myself to take care of and yet all that I had on different were the red glass bangles that mother had bought the earlier day at Tirupati. I was not even wearing a bindi, something that I love and do on a daily basis. Why? Because I had forgotten to get some....

I was feeling small because my vanity hit me in my face as I saw women with clean shaven heads. Hair is the pride and the worry of most women. Ask some who spend tirelessly in styling and maintaining the mane on the head. After all it does add to beauty; but the clean shaven heads spoke about devotion and unconditional love. They were of all ages - young ones in their twenties, married women in thirties, menopausing women and the senior citizens too. And with clean shaven heads they wore their favourite sarees and jewellery because the Lord deserves the best! 

My first memory of coming for Lord Balaji's darshans is from about 22 years ago. The grandeur displayed by the pilgrims and the commercial aspect of the holy place had bothered me deeply then. I was uneasy and not able to comprehend what I was witnessing. And then, out of the blue, without my asking I got my clarifications. 

Post darshans we were all walking to collect our Prasad when a book seller stopped me and asked me to buy a book of the story of Lord Balaji. I refused at first but then got mother to get me one. As the train chugged out of Renigunta station, my book came out. Somewhere within the story the explanation of the commercialisation of Balaji temple came about; and I will probably remember it to my dying day. 

Legend has it that the Lord, who was a cowherd in this mortal world, fell in love with Devi Padmavati - the daughter of a king. To marry her, he thought he needed to be able to muster a standard of living and so off he went to Kuber, the treasurer of the Devs. While Kuber agreed to loan the required amount to the cowherd Lord, he asked how would it be repaid. It was the answer to this question that got me my clarity -," My devotees who come to pray to me in Kalayug will help me repay this debt." (I don't know whether we are helping the Lord keep his promise or are we paying our own debts when we pay for the services at Tirumala; but I do know that a visit to Tirumala is meant for realising that total surrender never goes amiss.)

The story over, I sat looking out of the train window, when the old lady sitting next to me asked if we were returning from darshans of the Lord. I said yes, of course, and even then I remember telling her how it was so much like a grand wedding. To which she said, " If we can dress up for the lesser mortals of this world, should we not do the same when we are coming to meet the one who has given us all that we have?" The teenager in me got it, but not quite. The grown up woman in me, today, not just gets it but probably repents not having done the same. 

What made these March Monday morning darshans special was that despite all my limitations, the Lord was once again merciful and gave beautiful darshans that made me want to fall at his feet just there. My mind was silent and eyes on the Lord as I was pushed into the sanctum sanctorum. My hands remained folded and my eyes focussed on His ShreeVigraha as I walked backwards and was pushed out of the temple. But all through this push and pull I had the Lord watching me get His darshans; darshans that left me humbled and feeling blessed...

On the flight back home I watched the setting sun. Seeing the sky morph its colours, I realised how the day had seen my emotions and being change. I had transcended from feeling small to being grateful to finding peace and joy in the knowledge that my Aradhya is watching over me... Under His watch I hope to be able to fulfill my commitments, render my responsibilities and realise my dreams. May God bless us all.

My Lamhe with Chandni - She who makes me sing and sigh at once

The woman in me smiles with a racing heart, as the moment approaches when Rohit surprises an unsuspecting Chandni at her doorstep; hale and hearty. The romantic in me has tears in her eyes and quivering lips, every time, when Kunwarji professes his love to Pooja; after he has broken her heart. The professional in me is thrilled and wants a high five with Chandni, as she tells Lalit that she will not attend a dinner because it is not her job. The friend in me sighs for my buddies across seven seas, as Pooja listens to Premji elaborate on his kinship with Kunwarji. The daughter in me withdraws and curls her toes, just that little bit, when Rohit’s sister taunts Chandni’s family.

I could go on and on about Chandni and Lamhe; the chiffon sarees and white salwar kameez that Chandni wore, the rooted in traditions and yet contemporary Pooja, the ever effervescent on the outside and yet the replete with emotions, well both Chandni and Pooja. But while I can sing odes to the characters and of their traits, the truth remains that they were so touching and real because the great Sridevi portrayed them. Her immersion of herself in the characters made every action, every reaction and every feeling of the fictitious person actually her own. In fact the reason these movies have struck a chord with me is because while viewing them I don’t think I can differentiate between the me, Chandni or Pooja.

Every time Sridevi took centre stage, there was an ease with which the character got moulded in the different nuances of the storyline; allowing the viewer to identify herself with the protagonist. And, well yes, that is the reason that she could carry movies on her shoulders in an era when Bollywood needed male actors to be the anchors.  Chalbaaz is another one that had steam only because of her. Sadma, one of her early movies, may have had the exemplary Kamal Hasan in the lead but she stole the show. For someone like me, not a movie buff, to remember these movies speaks volumes about the actor that the late star was. She truly made her audience her own.

When I saw the trailers of English Vinglish I was disappointed to see Sridevi’s new facial features. Well it was her body, her life and so her choice. That I preferred Chandni and Pooja to Shashi, in appearance, was my preference. Yet when I went to see the film, I once again found myself identifying with Shashi - her unconditional love for the family despite the daily humiliation, her keen desire that her husband accept her with her limitations, and ultimately her determination to prove that she could learn a language even if it was only to get the respect of her husband and children. Only Sridevi could bring life to an imaginary individual such that they seemed as if they were the person next door! And to think that those portrayals will have to suffice, and there will be no more movies to look forward to, saddens even me, not a film aficionado.

As I was writing this post a friend called and somehow the conversation went to Sridevi. She reminded me that Jaya Bachchan in Silsila has depicted the vulnerability of a woman exceedingly well. Madhuri Dixit in Pukar, in a chiffon saree on the snow topped peaks, has oozed love and passion making the saree equally sexy. Preity Zinta in Veer Zara has brought to life love and strength of a soul mate, without melodrama. And there are performances worthy of note by the great performers like Rekha, Kajol, Rani Mukherji etc. But well none, none of them in my view, had the ease and panache that a Sridevi performance had. Only Sharmila Tagore could probably match up to her, in my view. But then while she was spell binding in Anupama, hilarious in Chupke Chupke and profoundly endearing in Amar Prem; Sridevi portrayed the helpless agony in Jaanbaaz, the exuberance of the Chalbaaz, and the longing commitment of Benazir in Khuda Gawah, all with the same poise and élan that was a Sridevi trademark.  

For someone who is not a movie enthusiast, it is unfair to pass judgements. It is but only my humble opinion as I can sing, sigh and romance with every Sridevi performance. Ab aur kyaa kahen, woh thee hi aise screenwaali jise parde ke saath saath dilon pe raaj karnaa bhi aataa thaa…

A Crime and An Aggravated Political Assault

I was preparing to go to bed and decided to skim through my twitter feed. On most days it helps me catch up with updates and sometimes even go to bed amused with my readings. However, today what I read had my insides knotted and mind knitted. In the last thirty minutes I have not been able to do anything, let alone try and sleep.

The headline read, “West Bengal horror: Tribal woman gang-raped, iron rods inserted in private parts; Opposition slams Mamata Banerjee.” Of-course what has me tangled is the completely beastly act committed against the young woman. But what has me additionally riled up is how the opposition has politicised the misery of one innocent victim. Yes, there is always an opportunity for the underdog to score a brownie point against the one in power. But at the cost of someone’s misery, misfortune and mortification! That I think is a mirror of how shallow we have become as human beings.  

As a woman I wince even at the mere thought of iron rods and to try and think what the poor soul must have gone through is sending agitated shockwaves from my head to the toes. Then to consider that politicians want to use the description of this ghastly act that she has to live with to slander the ruling party; to use her story in daily news to gain mileage and win support, is making my skin shrink and blood vessels crawl. As a woman I am feeling vulnerable and as a citizen reprehensible! The woman in me is seeking safety and the citizen in me is searching for respect and dignity!

Each time such an incident happens in the country there is a national outcry to hang the perpetrators. It is assumed that the death of the demon will bring calm and quiet to the victim and create a threat for anyone wanting to commit such a heinous crime in future. No punishment handed to the culprit can probably bring peace to the sufferer. However, allowing her to not relive the horror every second will help her move on and find normalcy sooner. So why do the politicians make the wounds of the victim deeper? Only to wind up emotions that could potentially win a few extra votes! If the attackers are brutally selfish, these supposed leaders are venomously venal! In a country that boasts of women having been Prime Ministers and Presidents, this hypocrisy is a loud cry of decaying values.

If our leaders light a fire, Indian media only fuels it further. Think about it, which media house will ask these politicians to stop in their tracks? Which publication will call upon citizens to gather evidence to help bring justice and not show case political debates on this topic? Which broadcaster will refrain from sensationalising this atrocity further by adding that this happened in a state ruled by a woman chief minister? None! Because they all want their TRPs and their advertisement revenue! And the easiest thing that sells is the one that incites emotions, as we are an emotional society. That one thing which is our biggest strength is misused by our leaders and media to our own detriment and we don’t even realise it.

Yes I am sensitive and touchy and excited at the moment. Yes I am annoyed, provoked and feeling helpless. But that is because I am a woman and I do not understand why someone in pain cannot be left alone to heal...

http://www.firstpost.com/india/west-begal-horror-tribal-woman-gang-raped-iron-rods-inserted-in-private-parts-opposition-slams-mamata-banerjee-4360105.html