Maa and Me

My present job and my current circumstances leaves me no space to breath. So that explains the trickle of my posts.

On 22nd May 2008 I became a year older. Undoubtedly it was my busiest birthday. I rushed out of home to reach in time for a call.

These days I drive to work. It takes me anywhere between an hour to an hour and fifteen minutes. A far cry from my beautiful walk to work in Bangalore and Kolkata.

Usually I touch the feet of my parents if they are around during my birthday. But in my hurry I forgot to do the same this time.

The day was so bad at work that I returned no less than 10.00 pm. June gave me my best birthday gift ever - a hand drawn joker. Thats her favourite drawing. Whenever she draws something meaningful it will be the joker with a hat. One of my colleagues, Devleena said "She pictures you." I hope that is true. I wish I can stay that way to her.

Mom and daughter planned a nice surprise but my late entry spoilt it a bit. The hand drawn birthday card had contributions from Baba and Mun as well. The shirt was just like I would have picked up.

June was singing the "Happy Birthday!" song. Her first reindition ".. happy birthday to papa." Her second ".. happy birthday to my papa." Her third ".. happy birthday to my dear papa." Today I asked her how much do you love me. She said as much as a train.

So while June was singing, Maa was silently watching, having fun and taking pride looking at her pride. But when June sang the last line "... may God bless you... may God bless you." I could feel a hand run down my head and someone adding to the chorus "... may God bless you.. may God bless you." That was Maa, looking for an opportunity to bless because I did'nt give her one in the morning nor remembered to give her one when I was back home.

That is so typical of how we have been right through my life. We rarely speak. We rarely show. By her own admission she has never bought a piece of chocolate for me ever. Niether has she admitted to have given me a kiss even when I was a chubby cheeks. There were times when we have not spoken for months. There have been times when she lost faith in me. But I don't think in the worst of our moments she ever gave up on me.

I have seen her grow as a mother during my awareness years. A brilliant student she was married at seventeen into a family where it was easy to get lost. It was the time when my grandfather was the king and the kingdom was ruled by her two daugthers. Today I have a sense of what she had gone through.

She often dreams that she is losing all her teeth. By her admission she has a weak heart. But I have seen her strength when we were going through the toughest of times as a family trying to make ends meet. She stood tall during our fall from grace. Bit by bit the pieces have been put back in place.

She was the neo-conservative mother of the 1980s when the sight of a girl around her son was a sacrilege. Egged on by my grandmother she kept a close watch on her straying son. But I saw the same Maa rock so well with my unwed girl friend. Since then I have also seen her transform as a mother-in-law.

I still remember when she touched my head when I came back from Bangalore, my dream completely shattered. Now each day, when I drive out of our apartment she stands at one corner of our balcony watching over me. Each day, I am sure, during that moment she prays to God for me and for us. One of the few solaces in life is that she will not stop praying ever.

Cognitive Dissonance

I admire Lord Krishna and I admire Bill Clinton but I wasnt sure why. Now I know -Cognitive Dissonance. A small excerpt from an article I was reading in The Economist.

Born a modestly well-off villager, Mao lived like an emperor, carried on litters by peasants, surrounded by concubines and placated by everyone. Yet his most famous slogan was “Serve the People”. This paradox illustrates one aspect of his brilliance: his ability to justify his actions, no matter how entirely self-serving, as being done for others.

Psychologists call this “cognitive dissonance”—the ability to make a compelling, heartfelt case for one thing while doing another. Being able to pull off this sort of trick is an essential skill in many professions. It allows sub-standard chief executives to rationalise huge pay packages while their underlings get peanuts (or rice).

But Mao did not just get a stamp from a compliant board and eye-rolling from employees. He convinced his countrymen of his value. That was partly because, even if his message bore no relation to his actions, it expressed precisely and succinctly what he should have been doing.

The Highs of Fatherhood

June's first complete portrait drawn without any assistance or any external trigger.

June surprises me and in turn I surprise myself.

Its easy to gloat about your kid's achievements because its a definite high. And sometimes when you are narrating her escapades to others you tend to exaggerate. I admit I did that a few times. But thats taking nothing away from what glimpses June has given till now.

So while I hear this soulful collection of music on pandora.com I was tempted to mull over the highs of being a father.

Inspite of the fact that I could not identify whether "it" was a boy or girl, holding my own child for the first time was nothing less than orgasmic.

My vision was blurred, the sounds around me dimmed out and my only sensation was in my hand. And then when she gave her first irritated look at my attempt to take her first photo I was ecstatic. She was human after all.

From then on there have been numerous "highs". Like the first time she actually smiled at me.

Initially it was more about the physical firsts like crawling, walking, running or falling down. Each moment like these and many more are snapped in my memory.

Slowly as she has grown up I am seeing the human in her getting shaped (or deshaped!!). Her ideas of a bad girl. The differentiators between a boy and a girl. Her sense of style. Her choice of taste. Her appreciation of sound. Her fascination about some colours. Her recognition of shapes. Even her response to different sounds. Her mimicry of others. Most importantly her grace. Her likes or her dislikes.

And each moment I can see I am already starting to judge her around the choices that she shows. Is she like me? Is she like her mom? Is she like someone else? But at the end of the day, she is like herself. She is June.

There will be more to come I am sure. So while she grows up I hope I can sit back and enjoy the show. Good luck June! Each day you are arriving a little more.

One of June's Favourite Song

So it is her parents'





He would always win the fight

Bang bang, he shot me down
Bang bang, I hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, my baby shot me down.

Seasons came and changed the time
When I grew up, I called him mine
He would always laugh and say
"Remember when we used to play?"

Bang bang, I shot you down
Bang bang, you hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down.

Music played, and people sang
Just for me, the church bells rang.

Now he's gone, I don't know why
And till this day, sometimes I cry
He didn't even say goodbye
He didn't take the time to lie.

Bang bang, he shot me down
Bang bang, I hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, my baby shot me down...

P.S. - Fortunately June doesnt understand a word of it...

Back!!

January was my first "dry" month for a long time. I wrote this post at 2:00 am on 5th Feb. But I am posting it now. Doesnt it tell something.

Six months is a long time to be away from home, to be away from India. So when I was at Gate 4 of JFK's Terminal 3 I could feel India right away. Curiously this gate is tucked away in a non-descrepit corner of an otherwise swank airport. It is dark, small and to be reached only by a narrow alley, almost like the dark underbelly of JFK.

The space behind me in the queue had decreased suddenly. I could feel the breath of the man behind me. The patronizing tone of the airport staff was back. Everything seemed more nosier and so overcrowded.

The Auntyjis and Dadimas looked out of place. Uncomfortable in their ill-fitting jeans and long overcoats. Assuring me that I still wasnt in any Indian airport but JFK. Here, for those last few moments no prying eyes would talk about their clothes. For those last few moments you could be lost in a crowd and you can be you.

I boarded Delta 16 which would take me to Mumbai. By the end of the trip I hated Delta and would not fly again with them. Their airhostess are almost like old hags. They put on a condescending tone in every plane going in or coming out of India. As if they are giving everyone a masterclass in travelling ettiquette. The few Indian and Pakistani crew that are on board are at all moments disowning their own creeds. Almost pleading to their foreign counterparts "I am so sorry about them".

The food at Delta has variety only on the menu card. "What would you like, Western or Vegeterian?" the middle aged lady smiles. I reply with a smile "Indian Non-Vegetarian". The "Rogan Josh" in the menu card got me going. She repeats her question "Western or Vegeterian?" with the same fixed smile. I thought I was inaudible and unclear as usual. So I repeated "Indian Non-Vegeterian" with an even broader smile. She repeats her question once again "Western or Vegeterian?".

This time the smile had shrunk to a smirk. I was surprised, I raised my voice even further - "Indian Non Vegetarian". This time I ensured my smile was even broader. And then she gave up and said "There is no Indian Non Vegetarian". This time with as much sacrcasm as a sambar made in a non South Indian household.

Why the hell was I given a fancy menu card. I couldnt hide my own sarcasm when I replied "WEEstern".

The immigration was smooth. I proceeded to belt no. 6. "My dear India" was screaming me a welcome there.

People knocking my leg with their luggage cart. Pushing and shoving as if the world is about to stop in the next 30 minutes. People were already soliciting to take my luggage. The signposts in the airport were again less intelligent, less intuitive some would say. I couldnt find my way and after sweating (yes, I am sweating again) around with my huge pile of luggage I am finally waiting in the domestic terminal of chattrapati Shivaji Hawai Adda for my flight to Hyderabad.

Hyderabad, where my wife and daughter is waiting for me to return "home". I wish I could land there and say "Oh honey! I am so glad to be back". When did I start calling my wife "Honey". But it is just a wish and wishes rarely come true.

P.S. - I did hug my wife un-Indian ishtyle but I could not manage to say "Honey"