Irritation Extreme

Irritation Extreme  (written to aid catharsis)

Allergy, says the dictionary; body’s abnormal reaction,

towards a person or activity, a strong aversion.

Hypersensitivity to the allergen’s reintroduction,

loss of sanity, logical thought, is the manifestation.

‘Pontifying’ pomposity, with flourish of words, uttered,

nerves grated, even as sheer irritation fluttered.

Irrespective of sanity, diabolical thoughts occurred.

Priding myself of logic, in the least mattered.

A witch with a broomstick, a cat and a wand, I wish I was.

In a spell to have turned him into a slimy toad, because.

He could have hopped, croaked, and not mattered, without a pause.

It would have been all for a good and worthy cause.

Mike in hand, loudly orating, he stood, podium atop;

'I am the mighty hoky-poky- tipy-topy-top-top

those who disobey me their heads go chop chop.'

Disdainfully ignored friends who begged him stop.

Witch, her cat and wand, on her broomstick swooping

black wand circling, fairy-dust twinkling, spell intoning,

'Heegees beegees, schmuking, humpling bumpling

to spirits of the kingdom nether, calling,

turn this odious frog into a toad croaking.'

Magic spell cast, he to the floor soon did drop,

Eyes beady, green and slimy to the nearest pond did he hop.

A kiss of true love would not change him from a frog to a prince.

The spell to break, a thousand pardons he has to beg, for his sins…

Soulmates

Soul Mates

Immeasurably at peace,

with trust immense,

unbreakable ties,

unshakable faith,

bound in friendship and love,

these two,

girl and her buddy

they dream, they sleep……

Beckoning Death

Beckoning Death

Heartbroken, the lover writes:

“Oh beckoning death, I welcome thee with open arms,

free me from the pitiless pain of a hurting heart.

Relentless sadness through every pore does seep,

burning and tearless, eyes, unendingly weep.

My ‘Love’ has left; my life-force gone,

Love’s scythe has cleaved my soul sure and deep.”

Consoling, the friend replies:

“Through sadness, hurt and such anguished pain,

through words of blood does sorrow speak….

is born a poem that wrenches the reader’s heart.

We have the ability to absorb grief

and we learn to live with our pain,

for life is for living, and live we must,

for tomorrow is but another day.”

Parting at death is so final in its physical expression.   At that instant, it is as though somebody else takes over within you.  Mind’s mechanism to inure against grief?  Soon enough that anaesthetic wears off.  Then anguish of loss manifests itself into words….

The Race

The Race

The crow to the owl:

'Giddayyup you slow-coach owl,

we have a race to win, faster...'

urged the jockey to his steed.

'Many a times I have urged you

not to feast before a sprint,

to my words you pay no heed.'

The owl to the crow:

''Cease your cawing you craven crow,

with eye just one, you see not,

crossing the finish line, we succeed.'

The race done

The crow on the victory block,

stands with the trophy held aloft,

squawking gaily, ‘we did it, we did it.’

The rosette-sporting owl in the barn,

hoots gleefully, ‘I knew it, we would do it;

timorous bird, I told you so, I told you so.’

This is the tale of the owl and the crow,

winning the sport, an aerial steeplechase,  

at the derby of the feathered folks.

My Mother and the Mumbai Floods

My Mother: Memories

Mumbai, July 26, 2005, the skies had been ominously laden since morning, by 3:00 p.m. the deluge had started, in earnest; the 4-lane highway, across our home, was slowly filling up.  I called my sister,

“Come home, or else you will need a boat.”

“We have people as far away as Kalyan; I will leave as soon as the HR decides, I will call once I leave.”

We live in Matunga/Wadala, Char Rasta, about fifteen minutes drive from Dadar, where my sister worked.

“Has she left?” my mother asked.

“She will come soon, Awwa (as we called her) don’t worry, there are others in the office,” I reassured her.

By 6:00 p.m. the roads had disappeared under a sea of water, all traffic plying on the road had stopped.  The suburban railway network, life line of Mumbai had ground to a halt. The rain was coming down in sheets.  

My sister had not called. I picked up the phone, and the line was dead.  I tried to reach her on her mobile…. ‘not reachable’ was what I heard.

My mother’s cup of 4 o’clock tea remained untouched.

*****

My mother, Shivaganga Shankar Dhekne, was born, on April 3rd 1921 into a family who lived in a three-storey mansion, her father being the chief auditor to one of the biggest corporate houses of that time.  

When girls seldom went to school, she would be driven to school in a horse-drawn carriage.  During festival times, their house was the cynosure of the entire city, with snaking queues to pay obeisance to the deity in whose honour the festival was being celebrated.  

She was a princess in her father’s house; the only thing she knew of cooking, was during mealtimes when food was brought to the table.

On June 6th 1935, not yet fifteen, she married my father, a tall handsome gentleman, without a square inch of land to his name, in times when wealth was measured in terms of acreage of agricultural land one owned. 

In the kitchen of her new home, she and her sister-in-law all of thirteen, were like the proverbial bull in the china shop.  Those were the days of wood-fired stoves (that blew smoke into your eyes) and clay pots, none of the fancy gas cooking ranges or non-stick vessels. 

In interest of family’s health, her father-in-law employed the services of a cook.  (My father had lost his mother and stepmother at a very young age, after which my grandfather never married…not for a dearth of proposals)

In the evening, with the household chores done, the two girls and their multitudes of cousins would play cards (which were considered highly immoral).  They would play until they heard the approaching footsteps of my grandfather, then the cards got shoved under the carpet, and the girls made a dash to the nether side of the kitchen, whilst the boys would bring out the slates and books.

*****

It was 9:00 pm the compound was no longer visible, and water was seeping into the flat on the ground floor.  The roads were knee deep in water.  Still there was no word from my sister.  I cleared the uneaten dinner.  

Television news channel reported flooding and showed pictures of office goers trudging through water as they made their way home to distant suburbs.  My mother sat on the sofa with prayer beads in her hand.

*****

My father was reading law in a different city and came home only during holidays.  She would hide behind one of the pillars in the pooja (prayer) room and call out to him, aho…. It was not appropriate to be seen speaking to one’s husband and a lady never ever addressed her husband by his name!

Husband and wife left their hometown, when my father’s job brought them to Mumbai.  

My mother learnt to cook from recipe books.  She was a perfectionist. She excelled. Her ladoos were perfect globes all equally sized, her chapattis, rounds that could have been drawn with a compass.  Their one room home gleamed with precisely arranged brass vessels and neatly kept household effects.

She was the strength behind my father as he climbed the corporate ladder. Then we were born, twins after fourteen years of marriage, where my father spoilt us, indulged us, bringing us whatever, we desired. It was 

Awwa  who ensured that we were set on the right growing-up track.  

She enrolled in an English medium school, and saw to it that we acquired skills such as dancing, swimming and all other things' girls are supposed to do and have. 

*****

It was past midnight. I woke up with a start, and I must have dozed off.  My mother was unseeingly watching the television beaming pictures of rains lashing the city and its hapless citizens, sitting ramrod straight on her sofa.

“Awwa, try and get some sleep.” I said.

“I am alright”. “Do you want some tea?” I asked.

“No, I am alright”.

We stood for sometime on the balcony overlooking the road, watching people as they waded through water.  

Some good Samaritans were handing out bottled water and biscuits.

*****

My mother, who came from a conservative background, never stopped us from attending parties when we were in college, she only stipulated we went in a group, that we gave her a contact telephone number where we were and that someone would drop us back home.  When our friends came visiting, or we had parties, she shopped; she cooked and had as much fun as we had.

Once on our way to the market, she tripped and fell, she had a bloodied nose.  We walked to the clinic of our family doctor, X-ray revealed a fracture, not once had she complained of pain.  Back home, she continued as though nothing had happened.

“Awwa, why don’t you rest?”

“And let you do the chores all by yourself.”

Her only drawback was that she could never express herself, what she said and what she wanted to say were poles apart, which meant we always ended up arguing.  

Our bone of contention was that she did not love us as Papa did.  She cared more about keeping the house; of which she was justifiably proud; more than us.  We could not have been more wrong.

*****

It was 4:00 am when the key turned in the lock, I had fallen asleep.  Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I saw my sister walk in.  My mother still sat on the sofa.  We were talking, laughing, remonstrating all at once, all together.  Only after my sister had retired for the night, did my mother lie down and rest her head on the pillow.  She was all of 83 years.

*****

Author’s note

The Mumbai floods of 26 July, 2005 when the city came to a standstill, in which 1,094 people died. Large numbers of people were stranded on the road, lost their homes, and many walked for long distances back home from work that evening. The floods were caused by the eighth heaviest ever-recorded 24-hour rainfall figure of 994 mm (39.1 inches) which lashed the metropolis.

·       

The Harvest Moon Dance

The Harvest Moon Dance

Circa 1966/67

I was in my final year, the eleventh standard.  It was the year St. Theresa, my alma mater was celebrating its 60th anniversary. 

Not yet fifteen, I was in the throes of my first love, . I walked with stars in my eyes, spring in my step. My whole world coloured in pastel shades of pink and blue, purple and yellow with huge dollops of glitter shimmer twinkle thrown in, sort of a fairyland.  Tinker Bell would have fitted in perfectly. 

It all started one evening when the St. James School invited us Tressies, senior boarders from standard ten and eleven, for their social evening.  Theirs, being a boys-only school and ours, a girls-only school. 

However, why we, Tressies wondered?  All these years, when we encountered them on our Sunday walks, their lordships did not deign us a glance, .  We were the dumpy dowdies as compared to the snooty Mares from St. Miriam’s Convent. 

Well, one story goes, that one night, after an altercation between a Mare and Jamie. Few Jamies climbed over the wall separating the two schools.  They made their way stealthy to the girls’ dorm.  Once there, they proceeded to snip the tips of bras hanging on the drying stand.

Next morning the girls woke up, aghast at the carnage the boys had wrecked and mortified at what was left behind.  As you can well imagine, all hell broke loose.  The Mares’, Sister Superior and the Jamie’s headmaster, we are told, nearly came to fist cuffs (may be a slight exaggeration).  

However, the long and short of it was, all cordial ties between the two schools snapped, and a frigid cold existed thereafter.  We Tressies, thenceforth, got invited for all their social and sporting events.  (We also think that our principal and their headmaster had something going, them being both single and ready to mingle.)  

For once, we girls were allowed to don our causal clothes. These which rarely saw the light of the day during the term. We moved from one uniform to the other.  We anyway packed the casuals and party dresses, hoping against hope that we might sometime, be able to wear them. 

The D-day arrived, dressed in our finery, we were herded, and driven in a tin-can school van.  We entered the gloriously forbidden territory of a boys’ school.  We were escorted into the school hall by the dragons (our teachers chaperoning us).  We hungrily took in all the sights, freezing them into our psyche.  We would drool over at leisure.

Very primly, we sat down in two rows facing the boys standing against the wall, on the other side.  They were in the crisply ironed uniforms; navy blue blazer over steel gray trouser and stripped tie of claret and navy blue worn over a pristine white shirt.  How delectable they all looked!

They were to select their partners for the evening. We waited with baited breaths, our eyes scanning the faces for the good-looking ones.  Soon the boys made their way over to us. One of the handsome boys walked in my direction.  I moved aside so he could reach the beautiful girl behind me.  

My heart stopped as he stopped opposite me, went down on his knee and asked me to be his partner for the evening.  


I could hear the audible gasps of the girls. ‘What does he see in her’, they were whispering among themselves.  I couldn’t have cared less; I was on cloud nine and in love!  The evening flew on winged feet as we danced, played musical knees and ate from the same plate. 

And soon, inevitably, it was time to leave. 

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked, as we waved them from the van. 

“Yes Yes,” I mouthed back, happily.

So started my glorious love affair, but you must bear in mind, that we were boarders, confined behind school walls, which we left under escort of teachers.

The next meeting with my prince charming was during our school fair.  I waited anxiously amidst all the stalls, keeping my eyes glued to the gates, waiting for my prince to arrive.  When suddenly I heard, an announcement over the loud speakers.  The next song is for Shloka, ‘and I love her’, by the Beatles. 


I whirled around to find him standing behind me.  We played games, ate at the various stalls, and superstitiously held hands for the rest of the evening.

We ran into each other again at a hockey match, the next time we met. It was pouring cats and dogs. We had to sit separately, he with his school and I with mine.  At the end of the match, as we all rose to leave, he quickly made his way towards me.  We both walked to the school van under his umbrella.  Thankfully, in the black sea of brollies, the teacher did not notice my gallant knight.

The highlight of our romance was the night, St. Theresa hosted the Harvest Moon Dance, and it was the culmination of the year’s festivities.  The venue was an open-air ground.  The trees bedecked with fairy lights.  The sky was sprinkled with stars, the moon just a crescent, the air sparkled in the winter’s chill, twinkling and tinkling to the sound of crystal bells and fragrance of Night Jasmine flowers. 

I was in a blue silk saree. Lipstick glistened on my lips, and Yardley’s Lavender graced my being.  I was all grown up.  My eyes had the sparkles of stars, my lips were rosy with smiles of joy and my heart beat like the jungle drums.

He was late.  I had already sat out three dances and close to tears.  Then he walked in.  Heavens filled with music of a special kind.  I looked adoringly into his eyes as we danced all night, the twist, the jive, the cha-cha and the last number cheek to cheek to the, ‘when the girl in your arms is the girl in your heart….’

It was March, end of the academic year, books, text, and note, took precedence over clandestine love notes.  (Those exchanged through the courier services of the day scholars).  Prince Charming of St. James morphed into Clive of India, turning sweet dreams into nightmares.  It was time for the board exams, slog, swot and study.  Examination Centers, seat numbers, question papers, answer supplements became the focus of attention.  Romance had taken a backseat.  Thankfully, the exams came quickly and were over just as quickly.

Then the farewell parties, we girls sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ exchanged farewell gifts and promised to stay in touch forever.  The day before I left for home; I met my prince at a movie theatre; we for the last time, held hands, and vowed to undying love.  It was goodbye to school days, childhood, and my first love.

Circa 2008

My mobile rang.  An unknown voice boomed across the ether, “Shloka, do know who this is?”

“No, I don’t, though you do sound familiar,” I replied hesitantly.

“This is Wing Commander Vikram Mehra…….., have you forgotten me?”

“Oh my god, Vikram, after all these years where are you?  How did you get my number?”  Laughing with sheer joy as questions poured from my lips.  “A Wing Commander, Sir, do I have to stand up and salute you?”  I asked grinning happily.

We are both happily married to different people.  He is a grandfather twice over.  He lives in New Delhi, I in Pune.  We remain friends, calling each other on birthdays and festive occasions.

Maybe we will meet some day and share an umbrella for the old time’s sake.  The memories bring a smile, and the air fills with sparkles at the thoughts of my first romance.

Feast at Midnight

Feast at Midnight

Down the memory lane, back to school days,

Once, I was appointed to look out for one our midnight feasts. The day scholars had brought in all the goodies. The venue was the school hall, which sported a huge portrait our erstwhile founder ‘Sister Sarah’.  It also had this great big piano and story has it; she could be heard practicing her mournful musical talents in the dead of the night.

Anyway back to my story, the head girl who was responsible for locking up, had promised to leave one door open.  However, to my utter disbelief, she had forgotten.  The food clandestinely smuggled in with great risk was stashed in the green room behind the stage.  So no change in the venue was possible.

Alternative, check the ventilators.  One of them, providentially had a broken pane, reached in and undid the latch, but no way could reach the door bolt (hands were too short). Now what to do?

My accomplice had a solution to the thorny problem, but in no way was she going to incur the wrath of the founder, so it was self, through the ventilator. Round as a pumpkin, it was akin to squeezing a pillow through a bottle.

I got stuck, trembling in my pajamas; I sneaked a glance at ‘Sis Sarah’, headlights of cars, driving by, shone straight into her eyes, staring at me in all the malevolence.  I sent her an unspoken prayer, unstuck me please; I prayed.  I think she smiled her sardonic smile.

I sucked out every bit of breath from my body and with a great heave ho, my partner in crime pushed through to the other side. I landed on my rear with an earth-shaking bump, undid the tower bolt, thinking of the choicest words I had in my extensive street vocabulary, to burn the head girl’s ears with.

We had a marvellous feast.  I nursed a sore posterior for a week.  I kept my memento of the ripped night suit for great many years.

I missed out a crucial detail, to avoid detection, my bed sported a dummy, made of rolled blankets for the torso and navy uniform sweater formed my head.

My bed-neighbour in the dorm so arranged her and my mosquito nets, that night inspection by our matron, with only a torch for illumination was a cinch.  Any closer inspection, would be deflected, "oh, she is not feeling too well madam."

However, on that day, I received a letter from my pen-friend. She heralded my name from the door, for a heart-stopping moment I paused, undecided whether or not to turn back. You see; I was stealthily making my way down the stairs, nearly half way to the venue. However, thankfully Daya quickly ran to collect it, advantage twin.

Thenceforth, every morning, prior to the assembly as teachers and students stood in neat rows, and to their bewilderment, made ten bows to Sarah’s portrait.  Thank you, Your Ladyship.  Thank you…….

One for the road,

Mom comes to visit her son Ketan and stays for dinner.  Ketan, as with new age youngsters shares his flat with a girl, Meera.

During the meal, Ketan's mother couldn't help but notice how pretty Ketan's, roommate was. She had long been suspicious of a relationship between the two, and this had only made her more curious.

Over the course of the evening, while watching the two interact, she wondered if there was more than met the eye between her son and Meera.

Reading his mom's thoughts, Ketan volunteered, "I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you, Meera and I are just flat mates."

About a week later, Meera came to Ketan saying, "Ever since your mother was here, I've been unable to find the silver chutney jar.  You don't suppose she took it, do you?"

"Well, I doubt it, but I'll email her, just to be sure.”  So Ketan sat down and wrote:

Dear Mother,

I am not saying that you 'did' take the chutney jar from my house, I'm not saying that you 'did not' take the chutney jar.  However, the fact remains that it has been missing ever since you were here for dinner.

Love, Ketan

Several days later, Ketan received an email from his Mother, which read:

Dear Son,

I'm not saying that you 'do' sleep with Meera, and I'm not saying that you 'do not' sleep with Meera.  However, the fact remains that if she was sleeping in her OWN bed, she would have found the chutney jar by now.

Love,

Mom.

Lesson of the day .....

Don't Lie to Your Mother...especially if she is Indian!

Custodian of Righteousness

Man in khaki, hummed and hawed,

self-importance swelling his chest,

competing with his pot-belly,

unhidden 'neath his uniform vest.

The little waifs standing before him

trembled with fear, caught in bush

with no other place to whisper,

tender words of love, in a rush.

His face hued purple, apoplectic,

spewing moralistic sermon,

feeding the media present,

halo of words, and a caption.

Box on his ears sent him sprawling

to the floor.  Girl cowered by the wall,

fearing the next blow that would come,

but did not fall on her at all.

Different fate awaited her

a deed planned in the beast's mind,

appease the lust building in his pit,

when he and she were left behind.

oh ye custodians of righteousness,

should your hypocrisy be unveiled,

we let you lose, to face the wrath

of the hungry mob that railed,

to lynch you, no mercy, no trial,

with as much compassion you showed

to the frightened innocent waifs,

you men in governance corrode.

In public, venerate women, 

as wife, sister and mother,

worship, goddesses incarnate,

and in honor's name, kill 'n clobber.

Nation of perverse beings are we?

with god given power askew.

Conduct code, set on helpless all,

except themselves, the chosen few,

the men in governance,

the men in power,
the men in control

Metamorphosis at the Beauty Salon

Metamorphosis at the Beauty Salon

 

Sometime in May at the height of summer, was at my hairdresser, trying to metamorphose from a beehive to a human.  I told my hairdresser, short, summer cut.  The cool comfort of the salon, was bliss from the searing heat outside, must have dozed off.

A tap on my shoulder brought me back to the land of living.  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, looked aghast in the mirror, blinked my eyes to confirm it was me.  What looked back was an army recruit with a regulation army haircut.

Ohmigosh!!  A veil would have been ideal. However, neither there was a veil nor would the earth cooperate, open, and swallow me up.  I paid the hairdresser for her efforts, a princely sum of Rs. 500/- for keeping me five nanometers away from baldness.

 Putting my chin up, shoulders back, took a deep breath and walked out, tripped, snapped the strap of my sandal, the proverbial ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’.

Disdainfully ignoring the smirks and sniggers, walked down the road, up to the mocchi (cobbler), looked at him straight in his eyes and dared him even to smile. (Had a look ‘I will scratch your eyes out’).  The poor chap fearing for his eyes quickly bent his head and got on with his work.

 Then this guy about twenty something, jauntily walks up from behind me, rests his elbow nonchalantly on my shoulder to balance himself.  Taken aback, I moved away.  He looked at me. His face crumbled in utter disbelief, apologizing profusely; he beat a hasty retreat.  He must have taken me for a tapori (lout), with my jeans and tee-shirt and the haircut. 

The mocchi and I burst out laughing. The mocchi sheepishly said to me.  “Memsahib, aap to ladka lagti ho, becahare ki kya galti hai?  (You look like a boy, how you can fault the poor guy)”

After all, the haircut was worth something.

And talking about metamorphous, here is one for the road……..

A middle-aged woman had a heart attack and was taken to the hospital.

While on the operating table, she had a near death experience.  Seeing God she asked,

“Is my time up?”  God said, “No, you have another 43 years, 2 months, and 8 days to live.”

Upon recovery, the woman decided to stay in the hospital and have a face lift, liposuction, and a tummy-tuck. She even had someone come in and change her hair colour Since she had so much more time to live, she figured she might as well make the most of it. After her last operation, she was released from the hospital.

While crossing the street on her way home, she was killed by an ambulance.  Arriving in front of God, she demanded, "I thought you said I had another 40 years?  Why didn’t ' you pull me from out of the path of the ambulance? "

God replied, “That’s because I didn't recognise you!”

Festival : Hurda

Hurda

In rural Maharashtra, it was still an agrarian lifestyle.

As children, during the hurda season, a visit to our cousin’s fields was mandatory.  A bullock cart with to white oxen would drive us from our home in the village to the fields. There were; no motor-able roads then.

The day and night to be spent in the fields, playing exploring, eating sleeping, so much fun for us city dwellers.

Food and drink were ambrosia from heaven.  Feasting would begin the moment we reached and continued through the day into late in the night.

Tender green grains, harvested and thrashed from the stalks, roasted in a dugout over hot charcoals. This to be eaten with stuffed aubergines and cucumber raita. There would be a host of other accompaniments along with a medley of milk puddings sweetened with jaggery

If there was sugarcane in the fields; then freshly pressed juice would be served, to cool down the spice.

Dinner would be by a stream of sparkling water.

We would sleep at night in the open fields, under the canopy of a black sky, twinkling with a million stars.