The Son Shine

 The thirty first of May was real special for Aai last year because both Raju and Sanju were to meet her after a break of about seventy five or so long days. Before the lockdown, she was used to Raju's weekly visits and Sanju's Sunday long-n-distant calls. Hungrily she would wait for both. The lockdown disturbed that routine. So the eager wait for the day. Even otherwise though, the last day of May was special for them both because it was Sanju's date of birth.

Actually, the division was rather neat. Raju was Aai's favourite son, while Sanju was Papa's. That did  not, however, mean that the spheres never intersected. The softest corner that Aai had for Sanju, and Papa for Raju, would gain on depth what it might lose on width. Papa loved Raju very deeply, while Aai had a special bond with Sanju. One of Aai's nursemaids would repeatedly tell the story of how on one particular afternoon, Aai was talking of Sanju, and she said Pinaki, and stopped for breath, and the next minute, Sanju was at the doorstep. For that nursemaid, it was nothing short of a miracle!

Sanju was Aai-Papa's good sonny boy much much before Riviere. Papa once had athlete's feet. Sanju used to personally clean his toes every day and night, apply the necessary anti-fungal cream, keep his feet dry. Without fail, he would follow the set pattern. What was remarkable about this Bhakt Pundalik behaviour was that Sanju was in his late teens or early twenties, a time slot most boys reserve for multiple other more interesting activities.

Aai had truckloads of stories of Sanju's childhood. He was a very healthy, happy baby full of life. Her parents loved Sanju. too. He used to wait for us at the doorstep and declare to her from the gate itself, "Aai, pore aali", and, God knows why, she loved that sentence as if it was a sant vachan/a quote from some saint. Once when he was really very small, he was determined  to be quite adventurous, and decided to explore the space beyond the boundaries of the home and hearth. He had just started walking then. Raju looked at the rather exciting sight most philosophically, and reported it to Aai rather dutifully. Till she could run after him, get him back, her heart was in her mouth, like the time a scorpion bit Sanju in his babyhood. As he was a very Johnson type of smiling baby till that point, it must have been most soul wrenching for her to hear him cry. 

Personally, for me, my heart used to be in my mouth  when Bhau Mama used to make him wrestle with Vinaya who was almost double his size then, and she used to advance at him most menacingly, and directly hurl herself at him. I suppose, that was the only time anybody could hold Sanju by the scruff.

Aai fetched him to-n-fro to Pillay's nursery and primary school every day. She would sit in the Sarasbaug temple till his school would get over.  If Prakash Mama would be there, he would share the duty. To begin with, he would find it extremely difficult to locate his nephew from amongst some fifty kids who looked almost alike in the skimpy uniform. After that the duo would return home while Mama would ask Sanju's opinion about whom he would prefer as his Mami amongst all the girls they met all along the road. Any number of times, I have got him home double seat on my cycle. Sitting comfortably on the carrier/pillion seat, he used to without fail advise and guide me about how to ride the bicycle in the traffic. 

Actually, Sanju was selected for the Dnyan Prabodhini. I do not exactly remember why it was decided not to send him there. Papa was then at Sholapur, Balu Mama was busy with the `beginning of the year' activities. I remember once going with him to the Education Board Office@ S.S.C.Board Building or in the Camp Area for Sanju's admission in to the fifth standard. As Papa was at Sholapur on a transfer, and Mama was busy, the great duty of taking Sanju's admission in Garware High School fell on to my fourteen year old shoulders. I still remember the argument I had with Gawade Sir. What had happened was that the Pillay Primary School would curiously draw a red line under the marks of the topper in the subject. So Sanju's school report was full of red marks. Gawade Sir hence said,"his report card is full of red marks". By that time, I was dead tired moving from the school office to the Principal's office, kind of saat-so phera's/errands. First, my eyes filled with tears at the great injustice to my brilliant brother.  Then, next moment, Rani Laxmibai seemed to inspire me, and I fearlessly gave Gawade Sir a huge long lecture, or rather a piece of my mind, on how he should have carefully looked at the report card, and realised how my young brother is actually a superb student. He was rather taken aback at my spirited support of my brother's merit, but the poor soul, a generous man, was rather indulgent as it was his error of perception. He obviously gave Sanju the merit based admission. But, towards the end of the great interaction, he asked me, "Why do they underline in red the marks of the best student?" To which I answered with the courage of "I did not eat the turnips" variety, "How am I responsible for their system?" Thus began my anti-system stance against the educational establishment which has its roots in Sanju's childhood. 

I had another brush with the educational variety of authority when Ashtaputre Mavashi told Aai that Sanju is a chatterbox in the classroom. I denied the accusation most politely but most vehemently with the theatrics of a "milord" typology. Sanju knows how we studied in the last couple of days  for his Marathi and English papers when he was an S.Y.J.C student. Aai got irritated finally that my tuition was encroaching on his ablution times. But we completed the entire portion in record time, and had covered it so well that he got eighty plus in both the languages. 

Sanju's career as an engineer, his jobs , his introduction of new soft skills even at home, his gardening, his cooking, his skill in many arts, his cricket, everything was a source of joy for both of them. They loved Kunal for his own sake, but also because he was their favourite son's son, and just as Sanju was  a good son, he has been a good father, too. Aai always admired his parenting skills, his tolerant support of Kunal every which way. For Papa, separation from Sanju was so terrible that he wept inconsolably at the airport when  Sanju left for the U.S. Equally intense has been Sanju's strong bond with Raju. But that is their theme. Aai loved his strong ties with her brothers and his cousins. Sanju has been a wonderful Kaka, but that is Amar-Siddhu's domain. I would rather end this May Day special with a famous quote:

"Whenever I look at you, I am reminded that I was able to produce something good in this world. You make me so proud of all you achieved, and will  achieve. I love you, my son!"

pratima@"ithun drisht kadhate"/Aai's favourite song, I think, meant for Sanju

     

Consolation

"Our thoughts and prayers are with you," reads one. "She is gone from our sight, but never from our hearts," assures the other. "In this tragic moment, I hope you remember all the joyous moments you shared," advises another. You know they all mean well. 

Of course, there could be a `mean' one, too. You, for example, apologise to the organisers  who depended on your half-an-hour-long presentation. In addition to the customary phrases currently easily accessible on the internet, they shoot back, "do not worry about your presentation, We shall have it some other day'. As if! 

Yes, there are some truly heart felt ones, too. "We understand it must be tough for you. But we know you are strong," assert a few, while many more empathise with you in subtle, sensitive ways, leaving you absolutely astonished that you were after all so well understood, and by so many, and despite your in-my-shell introversion. A young colleague calls ten times to find out if you are all right, while colleagues who know you rather well feel that work would cure you.

Per yeh dil hai ke manata hi nahin! You dream travel dreams that could shame a `road(ie) movie' at least, if not the Oscar-winning "Nomads" itself. In each such dream, a happy journey with her, often with both of them, is awfully interrupted, and you wake up with such a woeful wail in your throat that it could melt any glacier faster than all carbon crimes of the entire world.  

You know your Freud well enough to know this cannot go on. You immerse yourself in work. You design yourself a day. You allot time to each creative corner. You consciously watch comedy programmes, You protect yourself from harmful contacts. You do try every which way. Per yeh dil hai ke manata hi nahin! 

Then you realise that there are others in much worse conditions. The covid victims, for instance, whose near and dear ones could not even have a proper closure as they were not even allowed the one last look at the mortal remains. The horror of your loved one closeted in a plastic sheet, denied the proper last rights is a grief that would Antigone-ise any one, you admit you did not have to suffer. How about the Covid orphans, you rationalise. When a horror movie called a pandemic is unreeling around you, you g(r)asp, you cannot constantly disturb the p(e)ace of the dear departed soul, or those around you, with your laments.

A calm tries to settle down in your soul. You realise in your dreams , she, at times they both, actually look truly contented. In a way, you admit then both of them are always there with you, in your thoughts, in your hearts. Consolation prizes are not exactly bad!

pratima@calm prevails

What is in a name?

"What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet," said Shakespeare. Oui et non, peut-etre as the Frenchies would say. True,words are linguistic conventions. A cat is a `chat` in French, `gata' in Spanish and `Katze' in German;   but the animal is the same furry feline.

Yet names are important because they give an identity, be it to a person, to a city or to a country. Hence these bitter battles regarding English-icised names, et al. Often the furore could be beyond petty party politicking as well.

As for individuals, names matter a lot, they sculpt an image. This image precedes the person. Do not we all create a stereotype through the name even before we have met the person? At times, our pre-conceptions jell; at times, they are diametrically opposite to the person thus named. May be, that is why the Silicon Valley colleagues use abbreviations of Indian names that they anyways cannot pronounce.

Aai,  I must say,  gave us all lovely names. Sanju and Raju, even the pet names for her sons, are also rhythmical.  She wanted to name Sanju `Piyush' because he was so full of life as  a baby, while Ajoba wanted to  call him Purushottam. As for Raju's name, Parag, it is so modern, so hip for those days that he must have had a very easy run amongst pals.   

I love my name. It has a softness, gentleness of its own. At times, I  interpret it as prati-ma, do not fight, do not get in to arguments, an advice I have to often give myself. The word means an image, basically. I often tell myself what I should thus represent to myself so that my ideals remain intact. The term means sculpture as well. So it helps me weed out the unwanted in myself, the way a sculptor designs a statue. A name to live for, in brief. Yet another interesting aspect is that all the names, including Aai's, begin with a `p', a letter that is almost in the middle of the alphabet, which once again suggests to me an idea of balance and equanimity. Indeed there is lots in a name!

Let me end the blog today with

`nam nahi gum ho jayega

chehera chahe badal bhi jayega!'

pratima@honourable title   

SuperMom

 Super-mom is generally a term associated with a woman who juggles a family and a career. A la Ms Indira Nooyi. Often the term is related to what in the American parlance is known as the `tiger mom', too. Is it not possible to look at the moniker in yet another way so that it includes both the ghare and the bahire?

`Super' need not then merely mean more of an achiever. A la this usage, it appears more quantifiable. Let us try to give it a qualitative slant. Let `super' be superior. All the equations would then change, and the very formula would be more inclusive, less rigid, right?

A supermom, may be, by the very profile of the concept, is more individual oriented. Nothing wrong with that. Should be so as well. A woman's self-fulfillment matters the most. But a 'mother' includes `other'. In my opinion, a good mother inculcates in her child this inclusive feel that, I think, has been and is essential.

Such a mother need not be highly educated, may not have a salary cheque that is six digit rich. But she enriches her child's life in value oriented re(de)fining. Aai, for example, taught us how to be generous and kind through precept. Let me give a concrete example.  

Sumi chi Ai was a maid who cleaned vessels at our place. She was really poor. She was  a widow. Her stepsons, older than her, would bother her for the two room tenement. She was almost considered a mad woman. Every which way, she was a targeted victim. Aai was her only succour, and Aai performed that role really well. Aai generously took care of her simple needs, be it some food daily or a cup or two of tea that she would be denied at home,be it a pair of clothes or be it letting her be when she would really be down due to her problems. Never even once did Aai raise her voice though occasions thereof would be multiple. Every faux-pas would be  mildly explained, generously overlooked. 

In other words, such a superior mom lives the Geeta Vachan of "shuni ch schwapake ch" that Sant Tukaram extols as well.   For a cur, too, and for the birds that frequent her garden, she would have a morsel. And without any public(ised) stance of animal or nature welfare! It is this feel of gentle goodness that make `her children rise and bless her' as the Bible puts it.

As thus was Aai, let me conclude the blog today with "nothing is so strong as gentleness coz real strength is genuine gentleness'.

pratima@genuine grace 

Love at First Sight

Love at first sight! The most romantic idea sold to us by Bollywood films. "Subhanallah, pehli dafa hai /wallah, aisa hua" would the croon intone. Lyric after lyric, film after phillum. In the first flush of Sufi obsession that engulfs many a teenager. this "Laila ko dekhna hai to/Majnu ki nazar" stuff  is quite (in)toxic(ating). A mature novel like "Pride and Prejudice" sure corrects the illusion.

Do you think this dream of `love at first sight' is quite real? As for me, I am absolutely convinced that it is a fact. Want proof? Go to  the rather rickety Godrej cupboard, get yourself the family album, have a look at the pics of your babydom and childhood. So goofy are the snaps that you shudder with sheer horror. But, hey, look carefully. In the corner of that terror is the illuminated presence, your mother and your father. At times, alone; often, together. Lighted from within. The best proof ever of love at first sight.

Can you imagine a bawling-away-to-glory bod of wrinkled skin, bald head, a toothless mouth? Disgusting appears the very description! Hey, that is us all, the baby or the newborn version. What a sight to behold after nine long months of confinement(s) of all sorts, and the death-in-life kinda experience of natural birth! A creature that looks rather like a baby monkey, not to forget the matsyavtar/fingerling or the varahavtar/piglet that formed the bedrock of life according to the Purana's. A sight to design depressions of all types!

But, hey, no, Mother to that imp, she is actually brimming over  with love at the very first sight. Actually a vision that should give nightmares, but the father is bursting with proud joy. What more proof can there be of love at first sight?

This love at first sight, moreover, grows with years. No disappointment diminishes it. Ever forgiving, it never disappears, however harsh the child's words and/or actions could be. Tender yet tough, it disciplines us, the little devils that we are, it shapes our selves, it never disfigures our souls though. It flowers forever, blooming more with each stage of our growth. It is love that alters not with Time's compass. In fact, the older it is, the deeper it grows. Hosanna to that affection. Long live Love at First Sight!

Let me end the blog today with a sweet tribute to the best love at first sight feel:

"Chanda hai tu, mera sooraj hai tu

  oh, meri aakhon ka tara hai tu!"

pratima@ originary affaire de coeur

Mother: Missed Much

Why is it that I miss Aai much? For one thing, a mother's love, like the father's as well, is unconditional. One need not consciously acquire it, why, one need not even deserve it. Parents are the only people who love you as you are, even when they know you through and through. So instinctual is this bond that everybody loves his/her mother/father.

I think though that I liked Aai beyond this visceral, elemental feel. I appreciated her as a person as well. She had a very interesting personality. The thing I most liked about her is that she never held grudges. Nothing used to rankle her eternally. This does not mean that she did not understand others' bad behaiour or nasty comments. It is just that she knew how to let go. As a result, she would never indulge in gossip, neither in the family circle nor in the neighbour hood. I have never seen her sitting around in lazy afternoons with the `girly gang' to chitchat about others. She would rather stitch clothes, prepare a unique dish instead.

Yet another quality I truly liked was that she could laugh at herself. The first time she prepared chocolates at home, they were rather hard. Pandit Mama used to mercileesly tease her about it. Very loyally I used to defend her, but she just used to laugh it off.  

  In fact, a feisty lady, she had a lovely sense of humour. Her naughtiness was without malice though. Basically, it added to her zest for life. That she had in abundance. Hence she most zealously completed courses that dealt with the writings of Sant Ramdas, Sant Dnyaneswar, and Sant Tukaram.  She actually read the refernce books I got her from the S.P.College library. She genuinely tried to understand their vision of life. She so excelled in the studies that she was a rank holder. Not only did she assiduously help her classmate complete it, she later worked as a trainer, as an examiner on the Sant Ramdas course. This was in her sixties.

She was very systematic and neat about evrything. No distraction could drag her from her focus. No wonder, she would not binge-watch the T.V. serials eternally. She loved instead  multiple other activities such as solving crossword puzzles, reading, improving on her singing and drawing, and so on. Long would be a list of the hobbies and interests of this generous and romantic soul who believed in a very positive way about the best that is yet to come. And so she is a mother missed much.

On her second mensual death anniversary, let me complete this tribute to her with an `altered-to-suit-my meaning' quote from an anonymous author:

" Don't cry for me now I have died

   for I'm still here, I'm by your side,

   My body's gone, but my sririt is here,

 please don't shed another tear...

I'm in the sunrays gifting you the day

I'm in the taste that makes your food tray

I'm your laughter, I'm your pain

In your thoughts I shalt forever remain 

Whilst there I can never be gone

Don't cry for me, don't be forlorn."

pratima@in memoriam

 

A Brief on Grief

How time flies! Tomorrow it would already be the second death anniverary of Aai month wise. Sixty solid days are aleady over! 

Unfathomable, unbelivable it appears that days, months just fleet by, the world goes on with its macro/micro ways , why, you yourself carry on with life, with your daily personal and professional responsibilities. Nothing changes in a way, and yet nothing is the same. Ever again.

One grieves about this crushing routine which has neevr stopped for and will never wait for anyone, anything.In a way, grief includes this paradox of the transience of all that appeared permanent, and the perpetuality of all that is ephemeral. Very complex is this emotion, this feel, this idea called grief.

At times, it is very physical. It makes you feel cold, cold like the last touch of the mortal remains. Grief is at times the emptiness that you can see, the bed she would never again occupy, her favourite cup you would not dare touch given the fragility of your own emotions, the photo she has framed herself into for an eternity. Her abscence is a presence yet. At times, you can hear grief, in some line of a song that is borne on the air. You sense it in some distant fragrance, too, why, it is everywhere, always, already present, even in a distant faint echo of some child calling out to her mother.  

Basically though, grief is this bottomless pit that buries you the moment you yet again realise the abscence that is present forever. Grief then becomes the memory which you are constantly prying open. This emotion is quite a vortex, of happy togthernesses, of wild regrets, of a constant cross-examination that re-plays every mo(ve)ment till her last instant. You know very well that she had grown very fragile, you understand that she would have suffered a lot in Covid times, you accept that she lived a full, contented life and that her calm exit had a dignity that suited her way of life. And, yet, the grief never goes away, chases you like your own shadow.

Intellectually, you recognise all the stages of grief that every bereavement brings along for everyone. Yet its intensity cuts like a splintered shard. Even when grief cannot ever be compared, you rationalise that a parent is irreplacable. That is no consolation though. Forever envelops this whirlpool of grief that sucks beneath the calm exterior. Anyways, you do not ever want to wallow in a cheap senti-n-mental show-off. Every tear, each sob you hide from the prying, curious stares trying to guage your grief. All the well meaning, kind advices and commiserations cannot calm you down. And then you realise, to grieve or not to grieve, that is not the question. Grief happens! 

Let me conclude with my take off on Maya Angelou's tribute to Nelson Mandela.

Her life is done, she has gone.

I shalt never forget you or Papa, your partner

I shalt never dishonour either

I shalt remember forever 

I shalt yet be happy that

you two lived for us, 

taught us all that is good in us

and deeply loved us.

 pratima@grief-n-loss 

This is no Country for Old People

The title of the write-up today is a take on the first line from Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium", and continues in a way the theme of the blog yesterday. Let me begin the blog with the assertion that ageism marks the Indian ethos now. What exactly is ageism?

Ageism is an attitude which discriminates against a person on the basis of age. It is indeed rather cruel, and absolutely , pathetically vicious. It often makes one suspicious of the motives behind it. Let me give you an example from cricket,  the quasi-religion of our country. People who would not be able to hold the cricket bat straight to hit a four in the `gulley' cricket would be holding forth on when a Dhoni or a Sachin should retire! The legends were literally harassed in to retirement. After all, they have set records at the international level. Surely they would know how much cricket is left in them. Why would they drag on to make a fool of themselves? But who can advise the advisers?

This attitude of `use-n-throw'  was earlier never a part of the Indian ethos. In fact, grey hair were revered. Their wisdom born out of experience was validated. It was honoured as a lodestar that shows the right direction. Given the LPG paradigm shift and the resulting `golden handshake', the parameters started changing. The exponential growth of the population and the job crunch  began to appear diametrically opposed. In the glorification of the Indian `demographic dividend', the age old respect for the experience-enabled wisdom was washed away. The cultural ethos changed as well. The community living of the joint family variety gave way to individual space(s). As a result, the old population, often absolutely non-productive, seemed to be an ungainly burden. Why, the government had to usher in a law for taking care of old parents/relatives!

How is this issue related to the central focus of this blog? A fall-out of the open as well as implied ageism is ignoring the health of the elderly, both by individuals and the system. True, geriatrics and gerontology have been academic foci since the beginning of this millenium. Indeed, number of old age homes have sprung up in big cities, though the plight of the aged in small cities and/or village makes imagination stagger. In big places, with mock concern, they may call you granma/Ajji or Kaku/aunt, but would they accord you the respect due ? Big, fat chance!

When I had to take Aai to hospital due to asphyxiation because the powder of the prescribed tablets got pushed down her wind pipe instead of the food pipe, the general tone of the Emergency Room and/or the ICU doctors was I was wasting their time. Otherwise, the suggestion was I should allow aggressive intervention, making you wonder at the entire curious logic. 

It was not as if the second wave of the dreaded Covid was at its peak. Certainly not. Even during the epidemic, do not the healthy old people have any right to emergency medicine? The nurses in the ward, especially, would treat every old patient as if she is a burden to be borne. No hospital reduces the treatment fees because the patient is old, does it? If not, why the indiffrence? Hence the title of the blog today.

People around would be no better. Relatives who would show up just twice or thrice a year would hint year after year that now would be `the' time. And it was supposed to be a joke, giving rise to sniggers! An old person, ravged by twenty odd years of blood pressure and diabetes, may forget a detail or two here or there, or may get confused now and then. Absolutely normal, in my opinion, as I have been the caretaker. But the direct comments and indirect smirking suggestions would tear one's heart apart. Tough time being old indeed!

I would conclude the blog today with a quote from Yeats again: 

All that man is, 

All mere complexities,

The fury and the mire of human veins.

pratima@old deserve to be treated as gold.

  

Intervention for the Mother was the Birth of This Doctor!

 Aai always wanted me to be an M.B.B.S. doctor. My scholastic achievements assured her that I comfortably could be one. Once, moreover, when a rather big sized cockroach entered her ear, attracted as it was by the fragrant flowers she was wearing, a twleve year old yours truly had with simple pincers managed to remove it without any pain to her. She was hence convinced that she had given birth to a great surgeon in the making. Papa would have been very happy if I were to join the civil services. Neither, however, forced their dreams on me, or on Raju and Sanju, which was rather rare those days. Not only did they encourage our choices, they, moreover, supported us in every which way.

Once they started aging, however, the necessecity of my medical interventions became a reality. Often, during my visits from Hyderabad, I used to conduct memory tests for an unsuspecting Papa to prove to him test finally that his cognitive functions were in superb conditions, and that there was not even a distant possibility of any dementia. 

Once Aai started facing the ravages of old age, my latent medical talent emerged as  a quasi-"sambhavami kshane kshane" avatar. All along, I, anyways, had been an avid reader of medical fiction. I loved looking up medical encyclopaedias as an alternative sphere. I wrote a well researched article or two on genomics for a highly respected Marathi magazine. My Wedesday articles for the Hyderabad edition of the New Indian Express were received well by the medical fraternity. As literary criticism necessitated it, I knew my Freud and Jung rather well.

So I could discuss with her physio the exact muscle and ligature involved as if after Gray, if anybody knew anatomy, it had to be me!We bandied terms rather efficiently and effortlessly. Soon syncope and ischmia types became my best buddies, while sorbitrate, vertin (and its exact valency), the m.d (oh, it stands for mouth dissolving!) tablets were my bed fellows. As doctors would anyway say that caretakers had to finally arbitrate/decide, yours truly took it to heart. I soon realised that it is pharmacology that maketh a doctor. G-guru, here cometh thy disciple, I chanted, and once startled an M.D. practioner by casually mentioning that one of Aai's diabetic medicines was an alpha blocker which may not exactly jell with a b.p. medicine he was thinking loudly (to his disadvantage!) of prescribing. The poor old gentleman stared quizically at me as if either me or he or both had lost the marbles. But he had to give in. A look at the strip and, voila, I could locate the medicine. Once a rather famous heart surgeon was trying to convince me why it would be better to go for angiography. He tried to baby talk to me, and most indulgently asked me what I would do if she were to suffer syncope yet again To his utter dismay, I responded quite casually, "why, I would put two sorbitrates of the m.d. variety under her tongue, call the oxygen ambulance, get her partially resuscitated, and get her here." For about three minutes, there was a total silence of what literature calls the pregnant variety.

Not only could  I gleefully bandy terms, quite a hospital surfaced at home. I kept charts of her  blood pressure and the fb (fasting blood sugar) and pp (post prandial) sugar levels with such efficiency that any nurse could easily sub-peona that duty to me. Hypoglycemia, oxygen concentration, temperature gun, all such and many other nomenclatures of the medical variety rolled off my tongue with an ease as if they were long lost buddies.

No wonder then that despite her white coat syndrome, she would not even notice it when I administered her epidermal injections. I taught myself first aid. Once when she fainted near the bedroom door , I tried the chest massage so assiduously and vigorously that she came to immediately, and said in a rather pained but most firm manner, "I am okay". After that encounter of a rather scary kind, there were not any immediate ischemic incidents. I think I can guess why!

 I encouraged her to practice alternative medicine. All types of Pranayams, omkar, the works! She would get bored, not I. She had to mention hasta mudras, books would be by her bedside, charts above her headstand. She wanted reiki, books in English were translated so immediately that the energy flowing though me must have tired her. In her last illness, I learnt how to nose-feed via an R.T. and how to measure urine levels so fast that nurses mentioned my skills to Pooja, it seems.

Her local G.P., cum family doctor, once said that I was her best doctor. From the corner of my eye, I tried to find out if the lady was trying to pull my leg. But, no, she was not. Her comment was genuine and sincere. Yet all this 'fast' acquisition was no use when her heart attack played a cruel hide-n-seek with me. Why, I nose fed elektral to her, and when I came back to raise the bed support so that she would not fall off the medical bed cum bubble mattress in her sleep, the game was over. So badly I lost it that now I know why it is said, cure thyself, doctor!

pratima@M.A. (=medical apprenticeship)

They Mean the World!

 It is a truth universally acknowledged that grandchildren are indeed special to grandparents. Not a weak, but the weakest, spot they are for the grandparents. No crime has any punishment in that world. Parents who were strictness personified for their own chidren have hearts melting faster than the butter when it comes to their children's children.  This generalisation holds true generation after generation. No wonder, even a rather glutteral, harsh sounding language like German has the gentlest terms, Oma and Opa, for the grandmother and the grandfather respectively.

The grand equation, twice removed from the original, is a mushy mystery. The eldest generation pampers silly the youngest, often bypassing the middle one, may be, because the grandchilren are an assurance that a part of them would continue to flourish long after they have left the world. This elemental desire for continuity is the deep seated Darwinesque force driving the very universe, flora and fauna included. How can homo sapiens be any exception?  

The supreme magic of the sheer affection for the grandchild hath Aai- Papa in its thrall, too. Amar, who celebrates his birthday on May 23, could get away with anything. Neither liked it if Amar or Siddhu were so much as scolded. Neither Aai nor Papa had never ever even so much as slapped either of us. So if their grandchildren were beaten up, there literally would be tears in their eyes as disciplining through discourses was their method.

In their turn, grandchildren adore their grandparents, too. Ensconced in Papa's arms, Kunal used to love watching for hours on end the dredging machine with its mechanical arm. He loved the bus rides, too, as he would always get the window seat and he could also get to ring the bell. Amar would wake up without any alarm so that he could accompany Aai for the early morning Bhajani Mandal performances. Without fail, every evening,  he would go with Aai to the Ram temple nearby  . During the little walk, eternally on would be the typical, treble, high pitched childish chatter. Both of them loved the "ABCD" dress Aai had stitched for them.  Siddhu and Aai used to have deep discussions on the phone immediately before and after the telecast of the Hanuman serial. He loved only Aai's version of Ramayana and Mahabharata as bedtime stories. Once he got a flower from somewhere near Neel Heights because Papa needs flowers for puja.  Endless would be such stories because Kunal and Amar spent a major part of their childhood at Mukund Nagar. Distinctly I remember, and have neatky stored, their letters, Kunal's pics of Papa's tenth day rites. 

Time passes by. The grandchildren grow up. Their worlds widen. The constant companionship of the early childhood, that promised the elders a return to the very spring of life, withers away, but the bond binds the wor(l)d weary old lives. Aai used to love it when I showed her even the latest pic's from their d.p's! The very house would rejoice with their loud guffaws and louder debates and discussions. She used to eagerly wait for their visits. Papa's joy would know no bounds when Sanju family and Raju family would come to Mukund Nagar for festivals. If the children were not brought along, both would feel bad and very sad.

Time flies away on supersonic wings, life slips away like sand through fingers. A grandparent may be no more, but continues the forever 'grand' wish that for their brightest babies may the bestest be in store, blessings that design destinies forever. Hence let me end my piece today with a take on 

Akele hai ham  to kya gam hai

Chahate hain to bhi hamare bas me kuch nahin ab

Bas ek zara saath hon tumhara

Tumhare to hai hum!

Pratima@ek tha bachpan     

Number, Number is indeed, the Name!

 Today is indeed an unusual day. It is the twenty-first day in the twenty-first week of the twenty-first year of the twenty-first century. Rather a marginalia in this new millenium that has already seen so many muddles that we could wail with W.B.Yeats, "Things fall apart, the center cannot hold/Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world".

When such, such are the times, some succour seems inevitable.  Many numerologial mutations of names and surnames ( the Corona mutants cannot metamorphose that fast!)  arise hence surreptitiously. In Aai-Papa's generation, it often used to be the religious practices. At the time of the Ganapati festival, for instace, every durva dal had to be a triune. The Lord loved twenty-one modaks as the offering. The bilwa dal reflected the trinity of satya-shiva-sunder. Why, Bramha Deva and Dattatreya had three heads. Most all gods had four hands. Nothing seemed amiss in such representations.

Personally I feel it was a celebration of abundance. Surely it was not merely rigid ritualism. Life was more relaxed then. People were closer to Mother Nature. The intoxicating rush that life, despite Covid, today is was yet to invade personal spheres. Hence the festive feel of fecundity, I suppose. 

Number, number, was the name of the game, to tangentially quote the famous James Bond one-liner. No wonder, for Aai-Papa, merely just the two of them was never company, we three were the core of their togetherness. Often they sacrificed their inseparableness for our sake. Why, not just us, even the larger family was never a crowd for them. They had a largesse of heart so rare, and lost, absent in today's wor(l)d of `I, me, my, mine'. They found, and revelled in, the magicalness of the many. Let me hence conclude this vignette today with

ek dunni do, do dunni char

choti, choti baton me bat gaya sansar

nahi bata tha, nahi batega

Aai- Papa ka pyar!

Pratima@strength in numbers

Music be the fruit of love

 The "Aandhi" song which was the finale of our blog yesterday undoubtedly captures the filial relatonship, too, if read in the context. I quoted it though because Aai loved it. It was one of her favourite songs.

I suppose, the much loved songs interestingly reflect the personality of the listener. Aai loved the lyrical, rich and soft melodies of yesteryears. More than prayers, mostly these were romantic songs, often duets. So the `Chitrahaar' programme was the staple food of Mukund Nagar weekends. Often at nine o' clock in the evening, I used to switch on television channels such as `Mastii' or `9X Jalwa' or `B4U Music' or `Sony Mix' as these would play till midnight old Bollywood classics. At times, a particular channel might replay the songs. Toggling  between the channels would then be the solution. She preferred such programmes to the typical serials of which she saw very few, and, that, too, the prime time Zee Marathi types.

Which songs did she like a lot? Mostly, it was the singer rather than the lyricist or the composer who decided her choice. Often, it could be the actor/actress as well. "Aap ki nazaron ne samaza" was a top favourite so much so that in her last stay in the hospital, she used to be happy if I played it. The Lata/Madan Mohan classic, penned by Raja Mehdi Ali Khan, is one of the best examples of total devotion and dedication in love. Need I say more?

As for Marathi songs, it was a medley of bhav geets, devotionals, and natya geets. Every morning, the radio would be switched on at six-ish. Our childhood mornings were thus inherently  melodious. Her favourite most  Marathi songs were "Dev jari maj kadhi bhetla" and "Ithun drishta kadhate". Even the nurses in her last stay in the hospital used to tell  me that "Ajji looks the happiest now" as I used to play these in the evenings. It is my suspicion that the first of these was meant for Raju, and the second one for Sanju. A lot these two songs would tell you about her mothereliness. 

As for the instrumentals, she loved the `shehanai', and she was justifiably proud that every Diwali, our record player would wake up the lane with the Bismillah notes. Her weak point, however, was Kunal playing on his guitar. For the silver jubilee celebration of Raju's wedding, Kunal would be practising "sur mile" in his room. We were then at Sanju's as it was the Diwali period. Kunal would repeat the same note/bar till he perfected it. For her ears, it was divine music though. For months on end, I would be regaled with the same story of Kunal's grand practice. I tried teaching her how to play the banjo, but that was not to be.

In her late fifties, sincerely she learnt the introduction to basic ragas as the bhajans she used to sing were based on these. Her group got  a prize for the rendition of " Shur amhi sardar". And yet the best song in her opinion was Sanju's bathroom singing of "Papa kahte hain." She was rather proud that he was learning how to play the flute.

Many, many, and more memories play musical chairs in my mind. The only fact they repeatedly prove is my titular take on the evergreen Shakespearean quote. Now these sweetest songs tell the saddest feels though.

Let me end with 

gana aye ya na aye

gana chahiye!

pratima@music moods      

Daughter is the Mother of Mom

 The title of this piece today is so obviously a take on William Wordsworth's famous quote that it indeed needs no recounting. Vastly different, however, are the foci. If  Wordsworth's poem talks of the beginning of a new era, the title of our blog today is the exact antithesis of the feel. 

Actually at times in our life we are indeed the parents of our parents. The best example of that phenomenon currently would be the way the computer native Gen-Next guides the computer illiterate parents and their parents, making them rather tech savvy in the process. 

Every Gen-next most often is wor(l)d w(e)ary as well. Our elders try to protect us from the ways of the world thinking we know nothing. In their own way, the children, however, are better judges of the contemporaneous reality. In other words, children are parents of their elders, too.

When, however, your mother or father feels feeble and fat-uous due to the frailties old age is heir to, the emptiness of such cliches stares you hard in the face. To begin with, it is soul scalding to see your childhood idol/ideal,  whom you once considered invincible and your ultimate protection against every possible problem, inch by inch enter the other world. You might think of yourself as Savitri incarnate. In your mind of minds, you know that there is no cure to old age. No senior citizen versions of either Arunima Sinha or Sudha Menon, right? 

Much worse are the reactions of others. Forever judgemental, they are dismissive of the agony of the elderly relative. It infuriates you, your ineffectual anger cannot, however, ignite the spark of life in the dimming eyes and dulling years. When your best intentions thus meet mockery, meaningless appears your care-n-concern coz wearying you out is the worrisome thought, namely, am I merely pleasing my own vanity trying to thus enact the Fedora myth? What exactly is that she would want? Does she feel a loss of dignity, obeying the orders of the child whose tantrum she may have tempered once?

Does Cordelia indeed know what Lear cares for? Much more scorching is the searing honesty of Simone de Beauvoir's memoir of her mother dying of cancer. I wrote a piece on it in Menaka some years ago. Neither the author nor the editor was without a jitter regarding its reception, especially given the unmistakble mother glorification in our very ethos.

Much water has thence flown under the bridge. Even in the Bollywood imaginary, a suffering Mother India of the Nargis variety is replaced by a 'cool' Reema Lagoo version. And, yet, a daughter can never mother her mom in the real sense of the term. It is more a process of `other'ing her and your own self, your fury for multiple causes adding up, scalding you more. Well, no heart leaps up when one beholds the evening shadows gather in their folds the origin of one's own species!

To sum up, the following lines suit our filial relationship as well:

Tere bina zindagi se koi shikwa to nahin

Tere bina zindagi bhi lekin zindagi to nahin.

pratima@(m)othering     

Marriage Matters

 Marriages are fixed-n-made in heaven, they say. The adage appears coined to describe Aai- Papa's marriage. They were from two far flung places of Maharashtra. The only similarity between Pandharpur and Kolhapur was that both were major pilgrim places. Those days marriages mostly used to be fixed/arranged within the intimate circle of relatives/acquaintances. There surely was not any such connection between the Agnihotri's and Kulkarni's. 

Wonder of wonders, neither had seen either before the actual ceremony. Too incredible to be true, it may appear now. Indeed it was so! Aai for sure saw Papa for the first time when she garlanded him. There is a vague possibility that, after the marriage was fixed, Aai was again asked to come to Kolhapur under some pretext or the other. Probably Papa might have seen her then, at least from a distance. Aai absolutely had no such opportunity.

What a complete faith in their parents they must have had! Wonder of wonders is that once the destiny thus broght them together, the shared fate was their unique creation. Marriage mattered a lot  to them, they made it work despite all the differences. Now that neither is any more with us, their marriage matters because it has many an interesting missives for us. Hence these marriage matters on their wedding anniversary!

A Lifetime Ago

 

Foreign Biren

 Never in her wildest childhood dream would Aai have thought of going to the U.S.of A. She grew up in a small town. Undoubtedly, Pandharpur is the spiritual capital for-n-of every Marathi soul. For humdrum practical purposes, however, it is a provincial place without the hi-fi glamour of a metro. Initially, in fact, when she was suddenly pushed in to that vortex called the impersonal, fast Mumbai life, she had close encounters of the terror variety. From Pandharpur to Kolhapur to Bombay, in a span of about five months must have been tough for her. She once narrated the lonely feel of staying in a huge building all by herself after Papa and Bhau Mama would go to office. Once she wanted to get wheat flour, it seems. Venturing out thus turned in to a nerve wracking nightmare when she would not find either the lane or the buidling. She used to be afraid of speed and traffic, too, as she had met with a grievous accident in her childhood. Given such a profile, she was hardly the ideal candidate for a visit to phoren/biren. 

Her sons, however, started frequenting the far away foreign shores. In his generation, Raju was the first one to go abroad. By the end 80's, he had visited many countries. Next, Mandar, Sanju, and then an endless stream of cousins was to soon settle abroad. Aai was jerked out of her India bound inertia by the quirk of fate. When suddenly fate twisted her tale in to a tragedy, Sanju decided to take her along with him to America.

It was the wisest decision ever. Given the totally different environment and the absolutely new contexts that she had to adjust to, her oozing emotional wound started healing partially. Sanju indeed eternally deserves all the benedictions ever possible for making her stay at Riviere extremely cosy and caring. He took utmost care of her every emotional need. Literally he made the phoren-biren a warm home for her. Sushama supported his sensible and sensitive treatment of Aai. Kunal had always been with her ever since his childhood, and at Riviere, they became best buddies. Aai had countless kind stories full of love nad affection of her stay with the Sanju family. Sanju showed her as many nearby parts of America, beginning with the autumn fall to the Niagara Falls. 

What I admire the most about her sudden, most unexpected visit to phoren-biren is that she has written down every detail of her journey, her stay, her emotions, kid Kunal's worried cry about how his Granma would return to India all alone. Her notebook is full of detailed entries by the day of her stay. Even the letters she wrote have their rough drafts in these diaries.  Such are the detailed descriptions full of intense emotions that sometimes I wish Papa had heeded my suggestion, and gone there for a most welcome change. 

Let me sign off this bitter-sweet anecdote with the traditional wisdom that there is no phoren/biren. Home(land) is where the heart is!

Pratima @ Sanju's sagacity at Riviere

Movie Magic

Khushwant Singh has penned a lovely portrait of his grandmother. The piece is often used as a lesson in school and/or college textbooks. You might have hence read it. Quite possible that as a Khushwant Singh fan, you have read the delectable piece as a part of his ouevre. That is not the moot matter right now. Let us straight come to the point. In his memoir, Khushwant Singh records his childhood embarassment when his Granny would talk of her childhood games or how he was actually bamboozled when she would mention as a youth his grandfather, the family portrait old man with a flowing long white beard.

I suppose, all of us are guilty of this guileless crime. We tend to forget that the elders whom we hold in awe and reverence had their own heydays. They, too, must have had their youthful fancies is something that does not easily occur to us. As for Aai and Papa, they both loved mainstream Hindi films. Of course, the films of the sixties and early seventies were quite innocent and idealistic, too, as our country was en amour of the newly acquired independence, and the cynicism and disappointment rather rampant now were yet to set in.

As avid film watchers, both of them had their favourites as well. Aai liked Mala Sinha, while Papa found Vaijayanti Mala a better actress. When Raju was about six months old, they decided to watch the then blockbuster, the superhit "Mughal-e-Azam". The film began in royal earnest. Soon Madhubala started the "Mohe panghat pe/Nandalal ched gayo re" ditty. Even as a child, Raju did not like the injustice against a beauty. Most chivalrously, he loudly raised his voice against Emperor Akbar. The fellow movie-goers did not exactly appreciate his protest. Poor parents had to leave the movie hall nursing their son's rebellion!

Such adventures apart, we have together watched films like "Ghar Ghar ki Kahani"  and "Aashirwad". I remember, we used to watch the films in Apollo Theater in Rasta Peth. Aai used to take the three of us there. We used to board Bus Number 6 at the Mukund Nagar bus stop, get off  at Nana Peth bus stop where Papa would be waiting for us as his office was in East Street. In attendance used to be water bottles, biscuits, the works.  Sheer fun and excitement it used to be. 

In my late teens, I made Aai watch parallel Art cinema a lot. Of all these films, she liked "Swami" a lot.  But the film she loved the most was "Pather Panchali". I made her and Raju-Sanju come with me to the S.P College Ramabai auditorium to watch it. She absolutely adored the scene when Apu's mother, Sarbojaya and his elder Sister, Durga make him ready for the school. I suppose it reminded her of Raju-Sanju's childhood. The real reason, I suspect, was that the child actor who had played the young Apu looked exactly like Sanju as a child.

They both encouraged us to watch films, and not only of the "Bhakt Prahlad" variety. I remember, once just the three of us went to watch "Bees Saal Baad ", a horror film cum murder mystery/who-duun-it. Sanju was a primary school kid then. The moment the marauding hand would appear on the screen, he was a little jittery. The third time some naughty fellow screamed from the last row in the balcony, "eehh, aala re, aala", and the whole cinema hall burst in to laughter. I saw "Aakrosh" with Sanju, while when our family saw "Sholay" with Balu Mama, he provided a supplementary sound track as he had repeatedly watched the film, and heard the sound track as an LP record umpteen times. One Diwali, our family and all the Mama families watched "Shakti" together. Wonderful experience it was as the entire last row was ours.

I have watched countless films since then as I like films tremendously. I have completed a film appreciation course, passed with Distinction the HCU film making/TV Production course, assisted as the co-director for eleven EMRC films which have been broadcast on the Doordarshan channel. I can thus undestand a bit of  film making, and all its stages, from scripting, pre production to post production. Even during the pandemic period, I am in to a few film courses  Well, my reviews of film festivals and my tributes have been published in highly respected newspapers/magazines/portals. These have been appreciated as well. Why, my review titles used to be  quoted as one liners in newspaper advertisements. I suppose,  I could try all such fundas because Aai and Papa initiated my phillumbazi. I would like to sign off with a take on the "jeena yahan, marna yahan" song.

"Dekhna inhe, sunna inhe,

inke siwa ehsas kahan,

Ji chahe jitna saraho inhe

films thi yahan, unki magic rahegi sada".

Pratima @phillumbazi 

Colour Code

 Let it be any social/cultural gathering these days, be it a literary meet or a family get-together or one and/or all of the very many phases of the big fat Indian wedding, Colour code is the key word. Gone are the days when wearing the same colour and/or pattern would be thought of as being " band wallah's". The similar, the merrier is the password these days.

As a result, cupboards overflow with rainbow colours of clothes and  accessories of myriad modes and makes. Did Aai have such a privilege and prerogative, I wonder. Oh, yes, sure I know her favourite colour though. The option opened up in a casual chat about choosing something or the other. I forget the details. I do feel, however, that her colour preference reveals a lot about her self, her personality.

Her top most favourite colour was yellow. It is the colour of her favourite most flower, champak. It is the tint of the newly risen sun. It is the hue of the mustard fields in full bloom. In brief, the colour of hope, of new beginnings, of emergent well being and prosperities. That indeed was Aai's profile, too. She was an ever shooting fountain of hope, of enthusiasm, of positivity. Despite the very tough beginning imposed in the initial stages of her marital life, she was absolutely sure they both would finally have a win-win solution to most all problems and difficulties. And sure they did it.

Just as her preferred colour reflected her zest for life, it was the colour of royalty in her opinion. She was a Leo according to the lunar calendar. Be it the light golden skin tone of the kingly animal or its grace, she loved the uniqueness of her zodiac sign. She believed hence in a royal bearing, free of cheap meanness. Hence the choice of the background palette of this blog dedicated to her.  

Her colour code and its revelation of her inner being was truly apparent, I would say, in the later stage of her life. Once she dedicated herself to the "golden light" (her phrase and faith) of religion and spirituality, pale ochre ( a mix of light yellow and white) was her tone. She hated the white of the widow. The pale turmeric of health and purity became her new self. 

In a way, she needed no colour code. Like the limpid water that becomes the colour it is mixed with, she adapted herself to each context and every curve of her life. I would like to sign off this colour chronicle with the apt Bollywood song ,

"pani re pani 

tera rang kaisa

jis me mila do

lage us jaisa"

Pratima@colour code

        

Seema Alpe's Tribute to her Aatya

Madhura's tribute to her Aatya

My Aatya Padmaja Agnihotri

Atya was a special lady in my life. As a child when I visited her she showered her love and made me comfortable. Pratima, me, Raju , Mandar, Sanju would visit Parvati early in the morning. When we would come back Aatya would give nice rava khir instead of milk as I disliked milk. She would say never over eat keep little space in your stomach .Now I understand the meaning of this phrase.

Her day would start very early around 4.30. She would cook and give dabba to Pappa who would leave house by 5.15 am. I remember her Chaitragaur decorations. Many bhaubij celebrations too.

She was fond of flowers and had nice garden then too. After she became free from her duties as a mother she started learning Dnayneshwari, Geeta ,Manache Shlok. She had joined bhajani mandal .She did every thing with great interest. She stood highest. For her, learning never stopped.

She would love to talk and narrate nice incidences.

When she visited Bandra she would make yummy jilebies at home as Nana was very fond of them. Panditkaka would visit her house during his lunch time as his office was nearby.

Atya was lucky to have 9 brothers. All siblings had special bond.

Festivities

 Have a look at the photo of Aarti's Haldi ceremony that I have uploaded this afternoon. Aai was then in her late sixties. Infectious, however, is her enthusiastic participation in spite of her creaking knees and aching back. Despite the deep focus of the photo, what foregrounds her is her abundant joy in the festivities.

Aai truly loved celebrating festivals. It is Akshay Tritiya today, right? She would make me take out her Akshay Patra from the cupboard safe ( Never ever would she use it otherwise. It was meant only for this purpose), she would make a special rice pudding in it, kheer made of ground wheat would be the prasad for the special pooja and Vishnu Sahastra nam recitation. Every festival would be celebrated with the same fervour and faith. Never ever would she forget even the lesser known festivals. Papa was a step ahead of her in this field. His daily pooja itself would last an hour. On special occasions, he would be up at about four o' clock in the morning for the elaborate preparation and execution of the entire process.

We have thus grown up in the midst of fervent festivities. Padwa with its neem chatani and the special sugar mould festoons ( one each at the local Ram Mandir and at the Saras Baug Mandir as an offering was Aai-Papa's special demand), Dasara with the mandatory Saras Baug visit till 1998, Ratha Saptami to welcome the new solestice, Holi Purnima which was her date of birth tithi wise, mention a festival, it would be an occasion at our place. Aai was simply superb when it came to culinary arts. So be it Puran Poli, Gula chi Poli, Pakatale Chirote, the delicacy would just melt in the mouth. The more intricate the recipe, Aai would excel at it.

Festivities never were mere rituals either. Aai made them very artistic as well. The Diwali kandil, greeting cards and the special killa taught us many miniature and major skills lasting a lifetime. On the Bhaubeej Day, she used to decorate the entire front yard with lovely colurful rangolis. She could put up rangoli on water. She would plait simple flowers in to beautiful weaves, and, that, too, without any needle-n-thread, to offer unique floral pooja on the Nag Panchami day or for the Navaratra Hadaga. And all of this alongwith countless fesivity specific eats and sweetmeats. How much untiring energy must have gone in to the whole of it!

Real special was her Chaitra Gour decoraton. Each year, there would be a unique new theme. She would put up a triadic structure, beautifully presented with lovely decorative patterns, and  the lowest layer used to be "eats and fruits". Her "panhe" (raw mango preparation) and "kairi dal" and "usal" on this occasion tasted heavenly. Even the daily pooja by Aai, and even Papa, used to be a visual treat despite the simplicity. The fragrances associated with every festival and each pooja still waft in my memory.

Undoubtedly, each such festivity must have been a huge drain on her energy reserves, however much we all may help in our own small ways. In her opinion, however, they were necessary for the well-being of her family. Sure they subtly had a tremendous effect on each of us, making us tenacious, neat and arty in our own ways. Most importantly, however, these festivities ingrained in us the joyous feel for life itself.  This positivity, despite all the trials and tribulations, is what would help us always in our lives.

Let me sign off this celebratory feel with the joyful tidings of Diwali, so typical of our childhood. The traditional ditty celebrates a togethernes of the entire household, the domesticted livestock, included.

Dinn Dinn Diwali  (oh, hello, oh, hello, Diwali)

Gai mhashi owali   ( Honour the liestock please)

Gai Mhashi konachya? (Whose flocks are these?)

Mula balanchya!           (Of the children of the family)

Mule bale konachi?      (And whose babies are these children?)  

Aai -n- Papa chi!          (Of their parents, forever lovin')

Pratima@ festivities.

Aarti"s Tribute to her Aatya

Aarti's Haladi Ceremony: A Pre-Marriage Ritual

 

Two Generations of Siblings! In Memoriam to the Elder Pair of Siblings!! RIP, Aai and Arun Mama @ Arun Mama's First Death Anniversary!!!

 

Motherese

 Aai used to call me "Rupu". Look at the very nomenclature. An abbreviation of a Marathi term for silver. Both fair and lovely, right? Priceless, too. In every sense of the term `priceless'. What a wonderful value addition to a child's, especially a daughter's, vision!  

That is motherese for you. Psycho-linguistics may define it as a mother's gibberish language. For a child though, it is the lilting, iyrical, and ultimate gatepass to that magical world called chilhood. Equally worthy was Papa's pet name for me. He would always call me "Jayu", indirectly instilling in me the `never give up' attitude. Thus parents prepare us for a lifetime.

Motherese plays a central role in such a self imaging. As it is, neuro-linguistics and psycho-linguistics inform us that the first six years of a child's life are centrally important in a child's over all growth pattern, and especially in the baby's emotional well-being. The way hence a mother talks to the child defines-n-refines the small one in a big way.

Motherese, let me clarify, does not merely mean a mother imitating the baby's stutter stupidly. An adult may think that the child likes such syrupy sweet talk. Children, in fact, dislike it because subtly they feel you are not treating them with the respect they think they deserve. I remember how Kunal, my nephew, reacted with a stare full of utter surprise and total disbelief, when I suddently started a `cute' conversation, used as he was to a normal, regular adult like tone. In brief, our talk constructs the child's wor(l)ds. Hence the importance of motherese.

Motherese puts the child at ease, so to say. A mother sure corrects the child, his/her speech patterns, behaviour modes. Sure such pruning is needed, too, for an all round growth of the child. A mother, however, has a feather touch while she thus edits out the unwanted aspects in her baby's being. Hence the importance of motherese.

Why, the stories we heard at bedtime, the songs Aai would hum to-n-for us, the gentle scoldings we had to gulp down alongwith food, all these expressions-n-words that have " made" us, all these are forms of motherese. May linguists make what they will of the incomplete sentences, the repetitions, the range of vocabulary, the intonation ingrained in motherese. In real lived lives, however, the incomparable motherese makes the childrenese actually.

Let me end this discussion with a much debated character from "The Tempest" by Shakespeare. He is Caliban, the native, who wildly takes Prospero to task for "learning me your language". We know better though. That is what a mother does, too.  She hues a (wo)man from a savage, not very noble at that. "My profit on it" , a child, unlike Caliban, would have to agree, is I could comfortably live and sleep  with "sounds and sweet airs that give delight, and hurt not" so much so that "when I waked, I cried to dream again".

Signing off with a much loved song, a perfect example of Bollywood motherese,

"lalla lalla lori

dudh ki katori

dudh me batasha

munna kare tamasha"

pratima@motherese

The Goodliness of Small Things

 What exactly is that we inherit from our parents? Genes, for sure, as medical science tells us. The Y chrosome, or the abscence thereof,  that goes in to the making of our genomic sequencing, and hence the gender identity, is indeed the filial bequest. If, however, that were all that we fall heir to, the whole of the human species should have been clones of each other. Luckily, the reality is different. 

Siblings, for instance, refract the traits of each other , and,yet they reflect each other as if they are mirror images of one another. Where does the unmistakable similarity come from? The way our parents 'design' us has to be the answer to that question, I believe. As we come in to our own, we may try to maraud that mould. Yet the mode makes us beyond doubt.

This mode is made of many a thing, most often small than big. Habits it could be. The desire to be presentable, considered one of the major soft skills currently, is inculcated in us by our parents, right? Remember the way Aai would have to run behind us all over the place just to get teeth brushed? The tap may run dry, but not Aai's constant scolds till the baby of the family would look spic and span, right?

More than merely such physical details (why, we are heir to hair, or loss thereof!), it is the major to minor aspects of behaviour patterns and character sculpting that give us our USP. Initially, at least, our parents provide such paradigms. I, for instance, love to read because Papa would often gift books. I still have all of them. Both of them were very happy that my English teacher gave me a notebook as a special gift as I was the "spelling bee winner" of my batch. Writing a dictation daily, both in English and Marathi, was an additional, and compulsory, item of homework. Scrap books of great quotes, for instance, had to be neat. No wonder, my first ever poem was published in the school magazine when I was a twelve year old, and my transcreations, in "Kishore", in my mid teens. They both loved to write. Even their letters were not typical. Papa used to send me guideline essays as he was posted far away at Solapur when I was an S.S.C.student. 

Why, the three of us had to run a bank of-n-for ourselves that indirectly ingrained in us money management. Aai used to cook hyper delicious stuff, yet it was the family rule that the first serving in the plate (even if one disliked the item, the gourds in my case)  must be polished off that built our health. As for mental strength, we were encouraged to participate in each and our activity. Winning was secondary. Preparation was primary. Why, at home itself, Aai used to conduct all sorts of competitions, essay to elocution. on every occasion, be it Tilak Jayanti or the Independence day, and participation was not an option.  Aai, rather than I, used to be more enthusiastic at the time of the Naavratra "Hadaga".  We were encouraged to know the why's of most all festivals. We had to respect even the maid who would come to clean the vessels at home. Aai used to support her in many small ways, and taught us through example how to care for those not as lucky as us, while the way Papa selflessly helped his colleague who had suffered a fatal accident etched on our minds the generous feel. It is the trickle down effect such small things, minor details  that goes in to the making of all that is goodly in us. No wonder, the least is the best!

Let me sign off with the heart rending song from "Aashirwad"

ek tha bachpan,

ek tha bachpan, 

chota sa, nanha sa bachpan

ek tha bachpan.

Pratima@ goodly great small things

 

Vinaya's tribute to my mother, her mother and to mothelinees itself

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAruAumxf9U&authuser=0 

Infectious Smile

 

Ceremony of Innocence

Do have a look at the video I have uploaded this morning. Like any typical family function, there is literally a malestorm of sounds, a flurry of activities. The total chaos of movements hither-n-tither, the absolute cacophony of shouts and scoldings has at its still center a fragile old lady of about seventy years. Quietly waiting it out, modesty personified she is when she accepts the appreciation her brothers bestow on her. She holds her siblings' letter of appreciation as if it is the greatest degree from the premiere most university in the whole world. That is Aai for you. 

A lovely combo of dignity and innocence she was. Like Papa. There hardly was any malicious or nasty bone in either of them. In fact, the touching faith they had in others was at times almost naive. If you are straightforward, so is the world was a kind of child like purity that they both believed in. When we were kids, Aai used to teach us how to recite the stotras. Her favourite one was the Maruti stotra dedicated to Lord Hanuman. She would insist that the last couplet need not at all be be recited. Her simple faith was that evil never comes to you if you avoid referring to it.

That is the ceremony of innocence that was the life of my parents. Straightforward, simple, clean. Value-enriched conscientiuos existence full of grace! They had to weather many a storm, face very many difficulties imposed on them even by the so-called near-n-dear ones. Never did either of them bitterly grumble nor gossip viciously against such frenemies.

Such was the total faith they would have in you that sullying it would be a sacrilege. Just like a child holding your hand with the utmost assurance that no harm would come to him as long as you are there, both of them almost naively believed that if you are clean and conscientious, the world mirrors your attitude, Returning to Pune for a break from my studies hence used to be a fountain of joy and exhilaration for me because awaiting me would be three kids and their equally guileless grandparents. A universe far far away form the manipulations galore in the real time world.  

I adore this inheritance of small wonders and grand but simple joys, heart felt emotions and hearty laughters (do have a look at the snaps I would be uploading), the incarnate ceremony of innocence that they cherished and lived. Hence this celebration of their conscientious and clean wor(l)ds. Let me sign it off with a take  on a popular Bollywood ditty.

" yeh jag hai katon ka

tum fulwari the

tum kitne acche the

tum kitne pyare the" .

Pratima @ ceremony of innocence

 

The Still Center

 

Ne jane kyun hota hai 

yeh zindagi ke saath

achanak yeh maan 

 kisi ke jaane ke baad

kare phir usko yaad

ne jaane kyun!

Morning Mystery!

 Let me now share why I am a little late in publishing the blog today

Have a look at the pic that I have shared. Yesterday, very late in the evening while I had a look at it, I felt as if she was smiling more kindly and tenderly in that pic than ever. Of course, that silly fancy of mine is nothing but a stage of grieving. I do know that. But the heart has reasons the head never knows of.

Given that feel, I had a very disturbed sleep. Now, no reason, moreover, why I must be up-n-early!

Well, anyways, what is this notion named commemoration? What exactly is it that we miss? Not the mere physical presence. No, not for sure. It does matter though. Yet, when I suddenly realise that she is not there, often I get the very strong feel that, oh, she must be at Raju's or at Sanju's place as earlier she used to go there for Ganapati or Diwali. And there is something within me that is absoluyely assured of  this certainty. So it cannot be the mere physical presence.

Rather commemoration is those millions of moments of mirth, of  togetherness, of shared sadnesses, too. Actually, though, commemoration is NOW missing her sterling qualities of head, heart, and soul. Did I praise her often when she was there? I think I did. I tried to encourage each and every activity of hers in my own small but sure ways.

But NOW the feel that worries me is `was that enough'? What more should I have done to make Mama mia more merry?

Commemoration, in brief, has an iota of regret, a sense of lost occasions wherein one should have been more sensitive, more sensible as now is forever lost that chance, right? What do you think?

The video I am going to upload to some extent captures this feel of mine.

Signing off for the time being.

Pratima as ever.