An anecdote

Today I am going to do with a small, little anecdote as I am a bit under the weather myself. The feel. of course, makes me yet more intensely aware of what Aai-Papa must have gone through in their old age. 

The anecdote is a simple one. Papa would not be very happy if we were to `waste' money on him, while he had to get till the end what we might want. Was this the steely desire to keep all the authority, all the controls, all the decision powers vested in him alone? Oh, no, absolutely not! He was very proud of his sons' success. He gloried in the fact that like him, they, too, were self-made That is to say, they made it big without any pull or push. Sheer pure merit! 

Yet, for him, they continued to be his children, his favourite sons, as if he would continue to see in the grown up men, for whom he had spent a lifetime, the babies he loved to distraction. The spending for his family was not asserting any authority, rather it was his expansive deep affection.

Just the same way, each time any of her nephews or nieces  would come to visit her, Aai had to give then an envelope which would have a measly sum of Rs. 251/- Hardly a princely gift. But sure it was a token of her affection. Why, later in her life, she would give even her sisters-n-law money instead of any "wan". Yet again the idea was to indulge them in a small way to her heart's content. 

In brief, the gift matters not much. Centrally important is the affection and concern of the elders.

pratima@look the gift horse in thy heart, not in its mouth!    

Affection

All they dream is your welfare

Faintly they encourage never

Feign not they false praise ever 

Exalt small successes? Nay, ne'er!

Cant they make you hate

Taint tinged? Never thy fate!

In life why thus death create?

Own a lifetime abiding n straight. 

Never hence you give up precepts innate! 

pratima @ filial affection

Mother in Literature

The societal image of motherhood is sure determined by the customs, traditions, religious texts, almost always coloured by patriarchy. More about it some other time.

Right now I am going to talk of two novels [and later, a sa(i)nt]  that shaped my understanding of motherhood. Yes, thereafter, I have read many a texts critiqueing motherhood, Austen to Zola. These two, however, are still close to my heart, however much one may critically dissect them. 

The two texts are "Shyam chi Aai" in Marathi and "Mother" in translation. The first one is by Sane Guruji, and the other one is by Maxim Gorky. True, in a way, both are didactic. The first one I read when I was about ten, and the second one, a Russian novel in English translation, I read in my mid-teens. 

I had then started learning French, and would have to go to Ranade Institute. On the footpath just next to Ranade used to be this sale of Russian books in translation, and of the entire Marx and Lenin oeuvre. So many I bought from there, later also on my way to the British Library, as they used to cost almost zilch, an amount rather suited to a young reader's pocket money. Of course, though, Papa would pitch in most generously if I were to ever want any books, especially these with rather good printing and production values.  

"Shyam chi Aai" showcased parents almost like mine, a couple that cared for the growth of their children's psyche, too. It was a very edifying book. It was soul-stirring at that age though. As I grew up, I sure realised how such innocence is perceived by the smart alecky world. Yet I loved it then and now yet again it proves to me the simple sagacity and genuineness of my parents' clean ways.

Gorky's "Mother" (I tried orally `interpreting' it for Aai circa 2010)  is a much loved novel, too. It shows how the roles reverse, and how a child, too, can mother his own parent's growing radical consciousness. Till date, I love it though I do know its lacunae.

I cannot complete this discussion without a reference to Sant Dyaneshwar, always referred to as "mauli", the ultimate in motherliness. As great as his philosophy, his radical act of making knowledge accessible to all, and in-n-through the local language which he literally sculpted intellectually and poetically, his supreme calibre as a poet, is his kind, gentle motherliness that provided a succour to an entire way, nay, a tradition of 'bhakti' based thinking.

Just an observation before I wind up. The protagonists of both the novels were young. As for Sant Dnyaneshwar, he was in his very early twenties when he fulfilled his mammoth contribution. Yet all these writings show us the glory called motherhood in all its pure refinement and grandeur. No wonder, they continue to inspire beyond years!

pratima@ as God could not be everywhere, He made parents!     

What does it mean?

What does it mean? And why is it a constant ache that refuses to go away? In fact, it chases you more mulishly than even your own shadow. On the zero shadow day, at noon, the shadow sure leaves you, but not this feel.

Poets have thought of it in various ways. In "Romeo and Juliet", love transcends it, while in the "Sonnets" by Shakespeare, it is art that trounces it and its twin, Time, that can defile beauty. "One short sleep past", and  "thou shalt die, Death", asserts Donne. It does not though.

It is not as if one is never separated from the diseased during her/his lifetime. Travel time and again takes one away. Anger arrests one at times. Such separations are flimsy though because they are truly temporary. Journeys end in reunions; Anger melts away faster than an ice-cream during the height of summer. One is, in brief, absolutely sure of a re-turn.    

Death hurts because such a  possibility is forever wiped out. It means a finality that is non-negotiable. One is never going to see, hear, touch the person. Never ever. That certainty is soul destroying. No amount of love, regret, supplications work in that dark, desolate dungeon which forever makes you a prisoner of grief, beyond bail.

You know that there are stages of grieving. Time is the only remedy, everyone tells you. True and false. Years disappear, but never that hurt. Well, the body may be just a piece of cloth that the soul discards. So say the religious texts. The soul, say the treatises, is re-born. But the body, however withered, is no longer the conduit to relate to it, right?

So beyond consolation is death. The final full stop is death. Each demise is sad. The worst, however, is parents' death coz the filial is the only relationship that can never be repeated, nor duplicated. So what does it mean, death? It is a wound that never heals. Tender is forever the scab. You do not need to worry it or pick at it. It is oozing eternally though we learn to bandage our emotions to go on with living!

pratima@"Be gentle/my heart hides still/wounds that never bleed": a take on Alexandra Vasiliu      

Chapter of Chapters

 It is `that' day of the month yet again. It is the twenty-sixth. Exactly 

              three horrid months ago

              dastardly death duped life, O!

              Time flies like a cheap thief

              steals days, treasured love it can't seize

is my deep feel. The only option open now would be to understand Aai and Papa through memories. 

In her mid-sixties, Aai started her systematic course-structured studies of the religious texts. The very first one she studies was the Bhagwad Geeta.  She used to read the original text repeatedly, look up related reference material, check study material, and so on to understand the ideas and concepts in depth.

Thus she started admiring the eleventh chapter of the Bhagwad Geeta. There were so many shlokas in the eleventh chapter that she literally knew by heart. The chapter is indeed unique. In it, we look at the Krishna-Arjuna relationship from multiple perspectives. They are not only mere God-devotee. They are good friends, too, almost like brothers wherein the elder one fondly accepts and accedes every request of the younger one. You would agree with me if you remember Arjuna's fond insistence on the "Vishwarup Darshan" and later towards the end of the chapter, his urgent and timid appeal for the regular known avataar of Krishna. Like a fond elder brother or parent, Krishan accedes both these pleas.

In addition to this emotive aspect of the chapter, it is one of the best comments on the spiritual travel from the known to the unknown, and vice versa. It elaborates brilliantly the "aham Bramhasmi" or "Soham" feel central to our tradition, It reflects brilliantly the "adwait" underlying the multiple "dwaitas" that divide the wor(l)d(s) of the knower and the to be known in the spiritual journey. Aai admired all these layers of meanings. But equally she loved the intense intimate bond between the God and the devotee wherein the Lord would not be a threatening masterful presence, but a warm, tender companion connecting the uninitiated with the larger whole via a fellow feeling. No wonder, it was the chapter of chapters for her. 

pratima@ to her own self was she thus true! 

How (much) I love?

 Woebegone, how (much) I love them, my parents?

To count it, inept words chase emotions in torrents.

My filial love transcends beyond mere measurements

H(e)avenwards with them it to ascend attempts.

I love them to the utmost level of every child's 

Most precious wish, though indeed now wild,

Beyond borders of life with them to be reconciled 

to let them know their values would never be defiled.

I love them with the passion of my childhood dreams

Though lost forever now sans them that kingdom seems.

Yet those distant mirages in every vein serenely stream.

Nor have lost they, tho` far away, the resplendent gleam.

Never to meet them again, the thought makes my eyes teary.

Their vision would sure guide this life, oh, so much dreary!

pratima @ a sonnet beyond the Barrett boundaries.

Trapped in the Crossfire

 Why do I feel this desperate need to elaborate the modest lives of Aai-Papa? Well, in my opinion, self-effacing individuals like Aai-Papa must be accorded recognition for the following two reasons.  For one thing, they lived their familial lives for the children and the other focal reason was that they were trapped in the crossfire. 

Their elders were the epitome of the tradition bound, while  their next generation, fed on the multiple modernity's released especially by the great Indian LPG explosion of the 1990's, was dead set on unshackling every tradition. In their honest, sincere, middle class genuineness, they were `caught between two life styles/one deadwood, the other shooting up beyond horizons' to cite Arnold rather freehandedly.

Hence the need to celebrate their genuine though straightforward lives. Zillion examples of this phenomenon can be paraded. Let us look at a few. Let us begin with the beginning. Born circa the end of the Independence Struggle and the birth of the new nation, they had a strong sense of principles and (a) set (of) values. The new dawn and the openness it accredited extended their circumferences. They were the first migrants from small district places to the modernising big cities. The complete change in the lifestyle must have been very difficult to adjust with. They were rooted deeply, moreover. Disentangling themselves from such shackles must have been truly traumatic.

Fall-out's thereof were aplenty. Being responsible children, taking up their parents' liabilities was inevitable. Such duties involved sacrifices galore which they had to continue for the welfare of their progeny as well. In the process, often, they had to forego, and forgot to lead their own lives. Hence the breakneck speed of the next generation would appear dizzying for them. Lifestyles, patterns of spending money, behaviour with elders, attitude to child rearing, educational preferences for the grandchildren, everything underwent sea changes, and it must have been doubly difficult for them. They lived it with grace and affection pouring out of their very being despite being much misunderstood, despite being most maligned as strict, stingy, meddlesome, and what have you.

Well, they were the shores suffering the onslaught of waves, the eternal beat of ebb-n-flow so that their children's ships sailed smoothly. Hence the need for such tributes. Some small consolation!

pratima @ parents as misjudged witnesses court-martialed     

Made @ Home

 ' Made in Japan'  and/or 'Made in Germany' are markers of quality even today, the era of pan-national MNC's and TNC's dictating terms and conditions to the once upon a time mighty nation states. Such, such are the days that 'home made' appears out of fashion so much so that hotel parcels happen to be rather popular even during the lockdown. 

Yet just as the Japanese and/or German make carries a brand value, our Made @ Home identity is indeed unique, rather special. Hence this paean to parents who construct it.

Pride in self on our souls' slates they inscribe

Act with honour is how they `good life' describe.

Rarely is their  deep affection overtly visible

Each day with meanings is hence richly legible.

Never to give up is their advice

Times tense thence we trounce-n-dice

Solve thus we life's riddles in a trice!   

pratima@ rhyme royal for ideal nurture.

To Stars I Hitch My Wagon

The stretch of the road looked endless. There was no bend in that narrow road, like the Ganges that sure seemed to be flowing somewhere near, and yet far away. The distant snow clad mountain peaks looked mesmerising, but arid. The landscape had an eerie feel of a nightmare. 

Papa was sure he was lost forever. From nowhere suddenly emerged a sadhu, he said. The hermit held him by hand. Very gently, with fond tenderness, said the holy ascetic, " You seem to have lost the way. Come, let me guide you back to the path." Soon they both reached the proper route to Kedarnath, now just a few kilometers away. With deep gratitude, Papa turned to thank his saintly guide. But there was nobody around. Papa was sure it was Lord Shiva who thus helped him. Absolutely certain he was that it was no hallucination because very soon, almost immediately,  the other people in the pilgrimage met him, much worried  about his absence, and safety. 

This experience of Papa's in the 1990's partially engulfed Aai, too, in the early years of the new millennium. On the road to Kedarnath, she had to travel in the pittu. On one side were the snow washed Himalayan boulders, on the other side, the deep valley from where she could hear the bubbling river. Endless seemed the vast sky above, and the  narrow road stretched behind. At places on the tract, she was all alone in that pittu. Yet no fear seemed to bother her `coz she said she felt a sense of a companion peacefully guarding her all along.

Well, okay, both of them were age-old (in all the senses of the term) devotees of Lord Shiva so much so that they chose to name their youngest son Pinaki because he was born on Monday. Pinaki means the Pinakpani Lord Shiv Shankara, Aai would explain, who had the divine bow named "`Pinakin" in "pani", his hand . Sure they never ever missed the Monday fast, dedicated to Lord Shiva. In a way, it could be argued that their lifelong faith shimmered as the deity for them.

How about Siddhartha then? He was not even ten when he was sent to the base camp. Hardly had he anything to do with faith which he would not even understand. Nor did he know Lord Shiva beyond the bedtime stories Aai told him. Yet he had the same experience. He would not remember how he st(r)ayed away from the trekkers' group. Not only he was lonely, but he was sure he was going to fall in a deep gorge. He was almost near the edge, just a step away when he says a gentle presence held him back, reached him back to the group. For quite a few days, he used to say that literally Lord Shiva saved him. In fact, he had actually visibly sobered  for about a month. After all a child though, he was soon back to the naughty ways. 

Indeed the Himalayas are unique, a place blessed. At the Bhairon Mandir at Vaishno Devi, some 7000 feet above the sea level, after a  steep narrow road that almost was perpendicular to the horizon, the pujari gave me baby clothes that I had not even requested for. Others who had offered hundreds were left empty handed. My pilgrimage, it was said, was accepted, nay, blessed, said all.

My sense of total peace was awaiting me just beside the mandir though. A very narrow pathway led one to a vista one would never ever forget. Facing me were the untouched tall peaks of the entire majestic range, each one more mystical than the other, with a deep sense of quiet,  and yet alluring and inviting. The mighty Satlaj literally looked like a ribbon far away deep down in the valley. Neither the monkeys chattering above nor the horrible smell of horse dung attacking one's nostrils the day long seemed to bother nor the day's tough trek. 

I knew then why the evening before the distant lights of the Vaishno Devi Trikuta trek had looked like a diamond necklace glittering away to glory. No wonder, I could trek up the entire climb with a bottle of water, two coffees, and a few toffees. Why, after the Devi darshan, and the prasad of three coins, when most all were fainting with lack of oxygen, I could enter a cave coz Devi Parvati prayed to Lord Shiva there. Narrowest was the cave, my feet, given the fast, appeared literally leaden, but even an agnostic like me was determined to bow down to the  natural Shiva pindi there on which some under boulder stream was eternally performing an abhishekam. 

Well, there are places that can capture your imagination with their serene grandeur. Like the stretched to the horizon Pushkar lake, where even I would have managed to attain Moksha if I were to do Tapas/penance there. No wonder, Rishi Vishwamitra became a Brahmarshi there.

 As for the Himalayas, such charms await one at every corner, near every nook and bend there. To stars are one's feet hitched there. I promised the rocks and boulders there, and the ecstatic eagle enjoying his fancy flights along a patch of the well-laid path where he was my only companion for quite some time, and, of course to  myself, that I would return to the Himalayas as often and as soon as I could because there I felt so one with the entire universe that I knew my good wishes would sure have a re-action, albeit not only the Newtonian way.

pratima@ the Wordsworth-ean "Daffodils" feel   

A Father with A Mother's Heart

The season was the blisteringly hot Aurangabad summer. Mangoes were aplenty. But we were small. You know what Papa was doing? Instead of polishing off the mangoes himself, he was peeling each one most carefully, slicing neatly in to small pieces each one, and feeding us. Aai told me, her cousin, who had come to visit them, was absolutely non-plussed by the sight. You know, who that cousin was? It was Govind Mama whose own father was gentle, too. 

But that was Papa for you . Extremely gentle, very kind and deeply loving, truly selfless and genuinely sensitive, in fact, sentimental. Long time back, circa mid-May, I had hence decided that when I write the blog on June 21, his death anniversary,  I am going to entitle it "A Father with A Mother's Heart."

Let me narrate yet another incident. Each time I would go back to Hyderabad, he would reach me to the railway station. Once it was pouring. Ten times I requested him to go home so that he would not get wet waiting at the platform. But, no, nothing could take him away from the platform till the last bogey would leave the platform, He would continue waving to the hand I used to keep out of the window as much as possible. Impossible affection that one would never ever know how to reciprocate. 

He believed in you so totally that it would be impossible for you to break that seal. His " I believe my daughter totally" was as good as the greatest honour a child could expect. He allowed us to be. He gave wings to our dreams to fly, and yet it was done in such a self-effacing manner that it could even be overlooked overtly. Why, he had to suffer the Bombay-Pune up-down journey, and lonely stays in far-flung places so that our studies would not get disturbed. Both of them tolerated this penal punishment for almost fifteen years. Even when away, he would constantly think of our welfare. When I was an S.S.C student, he was posted at Sholapur. From there, he used to write and post model essays for me. Even when he would be at home on Sundays (no weekends then!), instead of lolling on bed, he would slog it out getting the grocery, and stuff. Once I hid his scooter keys so that he would not thus suffer, but he managed to find them out anyways.

He never even once slapped any one of us, forget beating us up. We were allowed all indulgences though he might not always like the activity involved. This list could include everything ranging from allowing Sanju to keep Jimmy to tolerating my consciously asserted atheism because he perfectly very well knew that all our rebellions would be ideal(istic), too. He had that total faith in all of us.

Not only did he encourage us in all our activities, he even used to attend cricket matches that Prasad played. In fact, Prasad told me that Papa did not miss a single one of his matches, however far away the ground might be. Arundhati remembers how he used to get roses of the local variety coz she liked them.

Along with Aai, he indulged us every which way. We used to regularly enjoy small little excursions, including the famous Pune Ganapati festival without fail. The Sawai Mahotsav was ours to relish. Despite the discipline regarding studies, we were otherwise the most indulged children.

 He loved gardening, and would try to plant one, an eternal hobby, like the numerous plans for an ideal two storeyed house of his own that he continually drafted. Money scarcity and the desire never ever to take loan were the villains though. Sure he was not stingy, but as he had to shoulder the entire responsibility, absolutely by himself, and all alone, before and after marriage, he would think twice before recklessly splurging. Why, he would never take coffee, his only indulgence, regularly or go for hotelling with colleagues or friends. Not a very chummy, chummy type, his friendships, as with Shah Kaka, Apte Kaka or the Belgaum Kaka or the Kolhapur Kulkarni Kaka, were lifelong.

Well, memories are like a river in spate, they can gush forcefully for days on end. But thus may not be the readers' patience. So the need to conclude. He might not have exactly been the friendly chappie that fathers are now supposed to be. But in that generation, that would hardly be the parenting style. With times change such relationship modules. But he was the bestest one could imagine. 

My entire babydom was his exceptionally loving bother coz Raju was small and Aai was taken up with his health issues.  Difficult to imagine those days a father who would change a child's nappies, take a three year old daughter along with him on a tour so that there would not be too much burden on Aai all alone!

With a promise to always keep alive all your ideals and dreams, Papa,

Ever,

Jayu.

@The Only Festival for Father!

The father-daughter bond is indeed unique. The Father's day, however, is mostly celebrated the typical patriarchal way. want proof? Look at most all images floated in and flooding the media. Even today, in 2021! 

For a daughter though, her father is special. Her mother she adores, but her father she reveres. When Papa would say, " I have full faith in my daughter. I totally believe her", it was as good as getting the Nobel for Literature. Coz he had seen the weird chicaneries of life, and people. From close quarters. Sure Aai, too, could talk of the realpolitik of lived life, but for most mothers of Aai's generation, it was more/mere talk. Like the theory, while with Papa, it was more the practical, in that lab called tough experiences that could include the vicious residual rot both in the private equations and public puppetry!

Hence, despite all the feminist reservations granted, I would say that Papa treated Aai almost like a queen. That does not mean that he got her the bestest gifts of silken sarees and priceless jewels. Nor would she want it, neither could he afford it, given his very honest and principled lifestyle. But he provided her that unique special feel of being protected, of being cared for. Why, the illogical demands of his parents could not fetter him. He left all, literally all, and forever, to respect her honour. In those days, too!

What I have liked immensely about Papa is that he allowed us to be. Sure I chose a very safe career, but there was no pressure on his sons either to choose a particular path. He braved it out very tenaciously to help us out. We were never denied any facility. Why, when Raju, despite getting 65% in the Inter exam, could not get the engineering seat, given the newly minted S.Y.J.C. onslaught, he tried his level best to fight out the injustice. Once Raju chose his career, he respected that decision as well.  

He allowed us, in brief, to dream our very own dreams, and supported us in the nightmarish aspects thereof as well. He was a very simple man. Straightforward and genuinely honest, absolutely loyal to his principles. Very helpful he was, and would go out of his way to help out, and all, even the frenemies. 

Life was never easy for him, never even as a son. Not only did he earlier accept the responsibilities without a grumble, never ever did he later bitterly criticise the elders, post/past the ill-treatment. I suppose, that was because basically he was a very gentle and emotional, why almost sentimental, man.

It would be very easy to misunderstand him because he lived simply, however highly he thought. He insisted on a basic discipline in leading life. He was against wasteful, thoughtless spending of money. He was against showy exhibitions of any types. He respected all, but was quietly but bitterly against hypocrisies of all types. Nor did he conveniently compromise with his conscience.

He loved the beautiful aspects of life, too, be it music or sports such as cricket, table tennis or bridge. He was very good at these games, too. More of him and his sterling qualities tomorrow as it is his death anniversary tomorrow.

Today, on Father's Day, I would like to say that he was our guileless guide, trying to make our visions, our dreams, our notions abide!

Jayu @ Papa Proud

Father's Day: Much Awaited

 Friend, oh, yes, you were, but more a good guide.

Rather more a philosopher you were, yes, indeed!

Ideas you had aplenty, and plans properly perfected.

Each day pursuing ideals, rather nebulous, you spent.

Noise to make to get noticed, thus never you us trained.

Daughter, very proud of you, forever I have remained.

Papa Dear,

In anticipation of the Father's Day,

 the only day officially allotted to the patient pater familias.

Jayu.

@Would get published a little late as "no internet"

Over which mere mortals have no control, rather like fate!

Rest in peace!

 Remember your dreams

Each second, everywhere.

Save this moment, dear

Thus can the future gleam.

Imagine a better world

No despair is where unfurled.

Pride in glory fairly attained

Each card a trump in every deck.

All win win feel, no sick game.

Carry on with life sans any blame.

Each day would thus dazzle their name.

pratima@ real tribute

Resolve

 

Return now they would never.

Each day tells thee in modes severe.

Solution hath that void ever? Endeavour

Oftener from lapses thyself to sever

Love in their veins flew for thee forever

Vain was not their sacrifice, hey, remember 

Emblem of their goodness brand thy soul better!

pratima @ silly wor(l)ds do not matter

                  

A few Lines In Memoriam

                                                     A few Lines In Memoriam

Us they taught through examples

Never ever emotions to trample

A few memorial lines would never be ample

In the world of nostalgia I could forever amble.

Thus in the Arjuna state to revel

Lose life in some empty drivel

In vacant phrases to snivel

In stupid lines, why drivel?

Hardly are these words deeply felt

My thoughts from deep freeze melt

In some muddled memory they knelt

and the real me thus they misspelt.

Words, words, words, empty words

Will no longer with tears be blurred

Without real "act, act, act" are they absurd

On the right path for me spelt, let me tread!

pratima@ words, empty words

                 of us make cowards!

Monody

Because she would not loiter any longer in Life -

I accepted reluctantly the Inevitable.

The turn (of events) affected me more

Her constant companion and caregiver!

Untold memories linger-

At times dark, forever dear.

Time paces past-

 Unconcerned, flashing fast.

Kaleidoscopic visions intersect -

Eternally them I dissect

To find a pattern present

Evermore to me relevant!

pratima@ life without her is not senseless

                 however it has lost its focus!

Art from the Heart

 Aai was  wonderful at cooking. The typical Marathi dishes such as Puran Poli or Shreekhand  or Gulab Jamun, she would make truly excellently. Unique, however, were her unusual dishes such Pakatale Chirote or Sanjyachi Poli. Tough to make, she would prepare them with such finesse that they used to melt in the mouth. Her gulachi poli used to be soft, too! If she could manage such  wonders, but natural it would be that her Diwali specials used to be ultimate in healthy deliciousness.

What I really appreciate about her cooking is the fact that her simple daily preparations were tasty  and fabulous, too. Her amti/dal, salads, even okra or eggplant or spinach or gourd preparations used to be simply fabulous. In my opinion, that is the mark of her superb art because daily dishes need that special touch. Unusual items such as her shengolya anyways have the charm of novelty that daily dishes cannot enjoy. Only a great cook like Aai could make them truly tasty. And, that feat, mind you, was managed without a generous use of onions, garlic, tomatoes or coriander leaves!

In my opinion, her simple dishes could be real mouth watering because hers was the art from the heart. Her route to all our hearts was via the taste buds. Not a single one of her dishes would have much too much salt or chilly powder. Every dish, be it dal or curry, would have that unique taste not only because she would use a pinch of sugar or tiny little jaggery granules. The unique taste of the food she prepared basically came from her devotion, from her feel that her family must have the best.  

Yearly hence she used to literally pound her unique masala mix, a perfect combo of all the spices. A dash of it and a spoonful of ghee could make simple rice, too, taste heavenly. In addition to the yearly pickles, papad's and kurdaya, she used to make chik to be mixed with our daily milk glasses. A tough process it is. She used to soak wheat for three days, then pound it in a stone or iron mortar, spread the wheat milk thus prepared till it became powder. Difficult to make but highly nutritious it would be, and she prepared it year after year. 

Unique indeed used to be her Chaitra Gour special usal or raw mango preparations such as panhe or dal. Neither hot nor pungent, and yet unbelievably a gourmet's delight. Never hence her fridge would overflow with leftovers.  Her cooking, in brief, was Art straight from the heart that managed to make us healthy and wise!

pratima@ home-made food is the ultimate recipe!

Distinct Dreams

 Near death? -Never she appeared thus tho'

Her eyes searched an image unknown, unseen

Pondering yet lost seemed her high brow

The visions dreamt for her visible n keen.

Distant dreams distinct to her alone

Of which heart to heart set these the tone?  

Her eyes wandered in a different zone

Her ears heard some different drummer's drone.

Life ebbing, to which distant shore was it flowing?

Which storm swept eddies was she braving?

Where carries her whence the torrent?

How she abided the sinking moment!

Know naught I of those distant dreams.

In my grieving soul distinct the scream.

Grey the horizon, clouded the shore, 

The rudderless drift needs no oar!

pratima@ can't know the unknown?

A Poem

 Trek, trek,trek 

did I the cold peaks of grief

And would I that my soul could utter

the hurt I suffered, tho' in brief.

 

O, well for the T.V. show guy

that he excited at comedy plays

O, well for the news time anchor

that she screams at scams as if ablaze.

 

And the covid context carouses on

 its mutations beneath data hidden

But, O, for the sweet smile of  Mother

And her eyes tender like no other.

 

Trek, trek, trek

I did the plateaus n crests of ache

But bare the arid land of loss nought can slake  

The gleaned forever solace will never ever awake.

 

Pratima@in memoriam Aai a la Tennyson @contexts current 

Rhymes de novo

1) Aai, Aai, yes, dear!

Missing me?  Very much, I fear.

Feel better? No way, dear!

Open your heart, indeed, dear!

You are sure to find me there!

Sob, sob, sob.

2) Empty, empty, we but attend the worldly call.

    Empty, empty, away from that gentle grace we fall.

    All the worldly allures, all the worldly charms

    Cannot pull us out of that eternal harm.

3) Bah! Bah! Black grief!

    Have you had your fill?

    Oh, tears, no, no, I fear

    Many a times may me it kill.

4) God, oh, God, godly gentleman

   Where to find solace, I have none.

    Down in the dumps and up with the blues

    Never seems to  (a)mend  the ever raw bruise.  

5) Ring-a-ring-a-poesies

    pen full of  eulogies

    yet grief grows anew

    Hurt heart twists askew!

pratima@ drop-a-tear, forever I fear!

No other is like Mother!

Mother is Mother.

Others cannot be like her.

They are non(c)e on par with her.

Her love is beyond compare.

Each day without her

Rises to appear bare.

In our empty heart

Sure we always take her part.

Many a vacant day 

Often listless we stay.

There is not a ray

Heart(h) is blank.

Each day is dark-n-dank.

Rest in peace! teary we sank.

coz

Mother is like no other

No other is like Mother! 

Mother is Mother. 

pratima@ worthy mother

Why, indeed, oh, why?

Why, indeed, eh, why?

Let a baby loudly cry!  

Does it our patience try?

Let an elderly person  a groan, a tear try.

Our response would be truly wry!

Why, indeed, eh, why?

Look at a baby's wrinkled hand.

Of plump softness we find it a brand.

Feel the wrinkles on an aged hand.

Oh, we sure find it dry-n-gnarled!

Why, indeed, eh, why?

Let a baby our patience try.

To cheer her, we indeed do try.

But if an aged person does a little whimper

With utmost scorn most all knowingly simper!  

Why, indeed, eh, why?

If a child plays a game,

her enthusiasm we never try to tame.

If the old try a knot beyond the frame,

Most all give it the very worst name!

Why, indeed, eh, why?

One is beginning the journey of life.

With lovely possibilities isn't the road rife?

The other is nearing the very dead end.

The final exit gonna be the next bend.

Once we them the final bye bid,

Never are they going to return indeed!

Why not fill their dimming days with kindness?

For once they gave our nascent lives its pace!

Why not indeed, eh, why?

Indeed it is worth every try!

pratima@ why never a re-turn regret! 

High Rides

The title of the blog today may appear like a conundrum. Coz  'a joy ride' is the typical collocation. Well, the soubriquet of the blog today may appear further baffling because it does not describe any ride, rather a flight or two.

Aai did enjoy a few flights. Once she had even flown all alone to Hyderabad. At both ends of the flight, we were there to see her off or to receive her. The flight to Riviere also was not too much of a problem. Within a month, Sanju completed all the formalities to take her along with him to the U.S. on a tourist visa. As Sanju, Sushama and Kunal were there with her, the flight was not much of a bother for her. The only regret she had was that due to the exertion after Papa's sad demise, Raju fell ill just before she left.

The flight back to India, however, was a tough proposition. In detail has she described it in her diary. She was to fly back all alone. Kunal's hearty cry over it both soothed her and unhinged her. It made her realise anew her little grandson's love, care and concern for her. It also intensified the sense of separation from him and the fact that she was to fly back alone. 

Boarding was not a problem as apparently somebody from the TCS happened to be on the flight. The guy was rather courteous on the flight, too, it seems. When it was landing time, the young chap was off the plane in a jiffy, while Aai took time given the narrow steps, and the rickety ladder. How to reach the airport from the tarmac was another problem. It is quite some distance that way. The authorities kept on insisting that the boarding pass should have been stamped for a wheel-chair at Boston itself. At last, an air hostess helped her, it seems, and the ordeal was over. The young chappie was at the baggage conveyer belt, and helped her get her get her luggage off the belt. The high point was Raju waiting for her at the terminus. Hence the high (on emotions) ride!

Yet another flight she found remarkable was the flight past the Mount Everest. It was a very small plane. But she got the window seat, and luckily it was not at all cloudy. So both ways, to-n-fro, she could get an eye full of the highest peak on the earth, the dazzling Mt. Everest. She treasured the certificate issued for this feat.

Her flights, in brief, were for her high flying joy rides in their own way. Let us hence round off the blog today with `The Airplane Song' by Blippi because the stanza captures perfectly the feel of this blog about Aai's sky-high sentiments:

Airplanes, Airplanes

Flying all around the sky

Airplanes, airplanes

Flying way up high!

pratima@ fancy flights!

The Son Beams

 Raju was the sunbeam of Aai's life. Eternally. She gave him such a wonderful name, Parag. Never she called him `Parag' though. Raju he was forever for her. Let us hence unfold the moniker as an acronym as she would define it. R(are)A(mazing)J(ovial)U(biquitous) is how she thought of Raju.

Indeed Raju was an omnipresent leitmotif in Aai's narrative. Each one of her stories was centered around him. Every Friday, at about 7 p.m.-ish, she would anxiously await his phone call. Half past seven was the outer limit of her patient wait. Every minute thereafter, she would be on oxygen, and I had to call him up. Actually, there never used to be (m)any variations in their Friday phone talk . It would always be, "Aalaas? Ghe vishranti." But it was the "open sesame'' to her weekend because thus would begin the wait for his sure shot Saturday visit. He mattered the most to her .    

May be, that was because she literally pulled him out of the jaws of death when he was a baby. Such a child is always precious to a mother. It could also be because he was her first son. When in the twenty-first century so-called modern families hanker for a son, such a predilection could be probable then. Personally I think though that she basically loved him a lot.

 It could also be his profession that made him the center of her universe. In the mid-eighties, with no mobiles around, Raju's shippie seafaring ventures must have been very, very difficult for them both. Months on end, till his boat reached the next port, there would be neither a phone nor a letter. In Aai's opinion, water and air were the two of the panch-mahabhuta's (universal principles) that were the ultimate terrors, and his professional life was immersed in jal  and vayu!

One of his assignments once was really longish, and the marine route would touch Calcutta for a day. Both of them went to Calcutta to meet him for a few hours. He was with them for an hour or so, and when he left, for hours on end,  she could only see that road, she used to say. Yet another favourite memory was his first day at school.  She never forgot the way he cried for Aai that day. He was indeed the sunbeam of her life.  

Actually, Raju was Papa's weak spot, too. The way Papa on principle tried to fight the injustice meted out to Raju, an Inter student with first class marks, in engineering seat allocation, given the S.Y.J.C. onslaught that very year, was indeed epic.  Once Raju opted for the merchany navy profession, till 1998, every Narali Pournima, Papa used to without fail offer the propitiatory coconut to the sea as the call for its blessings. Multiple are such memories that engulf  the mind.

Oh, that, of course, does not mean that either was possessive or domineering. So long as the basic familial traditions were not forgotten, he was their ultimate pride. They adored his prosperity, his happy family life, the works. 

Now that neither is there, the continuity of their feel is the only thing left in revering their feelings for him. His birthday, June 7, was special because it used to be, in the pre-environmental-destruction days, the onset of the mriga nakshatra. So, as ever, my day began with the customary eating of asafoetida, turmeric and cumin powder, as essential to health as he was to their very well-being. Let me end the blog today with Wordsworth's

"So was it when my life began:

So it is now I am a man;

So be it when I grow old...

The child is father of the man!"

pratima@ "dev jari maj kadhi bhetla" a song Aai adored and in my opinion Aai meant it for Raju

Ram: Shriman sa Na: Prabhu

 Aai, or initially Papa for that matter, neither  was  religious in the ritualistic mode. Yet both of them had their own favourite stotras. If for Papa, it was the Vyankatesh Stotra, it was the Ram Raksha for Aai. Hence the title of this write-up, taken as it is from her favourite Sanskrit hymn.

The title means the ever present/powerful/all-knowing Lord Rama, He is our Lord, he is our Guide. Aai indeed had that kind of deep faith in Shri Rama. As long as her arthritis allowed her, she never missed her evening visit to the local Rama temple. Mornings she used to go all the way to Sai temple and back as a round tour kind of circular morning walk. She might miss it, but never the evening Ram Darshan. She had deep faith in Samartha Ramdas whose writing devoted to Shri Rama she taught as well for some time.

She used to teach the Ram Raksha to her siblings, says Balu Mama. It seems she loved the letter "ra" when it came to the ` pass the buck' game because she could recite the entire Ram Raksha, while the other team could not match her (eh!)r fluency.

In the initial stages of their marital life, Papa faced a Rama like fate, and Aai supported him like Seeta. No wonder, she loved the stotra. She loved the bouquet of virtues and values  that Shri Rama glories in. Both believed in truthfulness, for instance.  No wonder then that she bid Papa her final farewell with a shloka from the Ram Raksha, namely, "Mata Ramo Matpita Ramchandra..." 

Aai, whose spouse was so aptly named "Ramchandra", believed in the " Ram rachi rakha" destiny wherein `all is well' because it `ended so well'. She liked the "Ram, Krishna, Hari" recitation. Let me hence conclude this write-up with a line from Samarth Ramdasa's "Karunashtak", namely, "Anu din anu tape taplo Ramraya". 

pratima@Raghu Nayaka kai kaise karawe!/what to do, how to go about this life

Distinct Discipline

Aai loved a very structured day. Ever since I have understood such subtleties, I have always seen her lead a very organised life. Papa was no different. Both of them had their own regimes, not very pronounced and/or advertised, but surely followed. Both would wake up before daybreak. Both would have a quick wash, the morning tea almost always at the same time. As for Papa, he did not even drink tea, and as for coffee, it was an incidental luxury. Prayers over, Aai would start her day's work, while Papa would be busy with the daily pooja. In brief, both their lives had a systematic quality that would do any yoga guru proud. 

Beyond the daily regimen, whatever work they took up, it was with total devotion. Aai, for example, decided to study Dnyaneshwari in her mid-sixties. She literally threw herself in to the studies. Every afternoon, she would study from 2 to 5 p. m. She would read up the original text, its major versions, the Geeta itself, major reference books, and so on. In other words, it was not study for the sake of time pass. It was with total devotion. Tukaram Gatha was studied with the same ardour and commitment. No wonder, she was a rank-holder. As for Sant Ramdas, such impressive work earned her the position of a counsellor/ teacher and examiner on the progamme. 

Till she became bed-ridden, she would do all her exercises, pranayam, hasta mudra, omkara very regularly. She would get quiet fidgety if her physio were to be absolutely footloose and fancy free regarding timings. At 12 noon, she would her complete her pooja/rudraksha japa. Lunch and a short quickie of a siesta later, it used to be study time, followed by a crossword quiz and a look at the headlines, then she would watch a few serials, listen to the T.V. news. Early to bed, early to rise, she led a life that that was healthy, wealthy and wise.

No temptation could distract her, nor Papa either, from the set routine. Both lived a simple but scrupulous life. And yet this regularity never appeared dull nor dry nor drab. It had the natural rhythm of a brook or a breeze, spontaneous, yet `norm'al.  Let me hence complete the blog today with the famous Frost lines: 

the woods are lovely dark and deep

but I have promises to keep

and miles to go before I sleep

and miles to go before I sleep.

pratima@leading by example

The Heavenly Journey

Of all the journeys in her life, many of which were pilgrimages, Aai liked the Chardham Yatra a lot. Actually, it was a difficult travel for her. Her knees had started aching. Her nascent b.p. and diabetes were making their presence felt, and not very obliquely. With many a checks later, and given Balu Mama's efficient arrangements, she was ready for the uphill (literally!) task.

What worried her the most was the Himalayan trek. She could not think of walking up all the way to the shrine. The horse ride along those narrow lanes was an unthinkable proposition. A palanquin ride to God's abode seemed preposterous. It was thus that she settled for the pittu.

The pittu is a large but light basket with a foot-rest and a handle to hold on to. The passenger gets in, and the bhoi thus carries the person up his back  all the way up to the Kedarnath Mandir, and back. It is a tough ride for both, as the bhoi has to bear the weight, while it is a body crunch for the passenger as well.

Often Aai would remember it. She used to describe the extremely narrow roads with the Himalayan boulders on one side, and the deep valleys on the other. All along, there would be the traffic of horse-riders, the passengers bravely footing it up the holy hill, not to forget the palanquins. One could not move about even a centimeter as it could imbalance the bhoi. The only sights would be the infinite blue sky, the greyish boulders, and the road stretching endlessly. 

What Aai, however, really remembered was the tremulous tinkle of the Ganges and/or the tributaries flowing along. The holy river, always a companion, seemed to (en)chant an eternal tribute to Lord Shiva. The riverine force, and yet its gentle music, is what truly charmed her.

In my opinion, this telltale detail reveals a lot about Aai's real self, her genuine devotion, and yet the ardent artistic vein pulsating just beneath it. An interesting aspect of this combo would be her memory of the the journey to Gangotri, Yamunotri and Badrinath up narrow, winding roads in a mini-van. The driver used to constantly chant "wahe guru" which sounded as "wageru" to untrained ears, and initially it quite bamboozled her. Once the "wageru" wala driver would have made all of them accident victims of a  fatal variety. But they were saved in the nick of time, rather in the nook of a treacherous curve. She would always talk of how the drivers there supported each other,

In brief, for Aai,  the real significance of the holy journey included such human(e) tales, too, a detail we shall talk more about when we discuss some of her other journeys as well. For the time being, let me conclude the bog today with 

Aai in the pittu went up the holy hill

To catch the darshan of Shiv Shankar

 In her devotion never did she fail

Her fair faith, for it ever I thank her.

 

pratima@lovely, dark-n-deep roads

 

Of the Frying Pans and Pots

In every home-maker's heart, her frying pan and her pot have a special spot. From the frying pan to the fire holds true merely for the cooking process in her mind. The proverbial flavour of such containers matters minimally for a home-maker.

To this truism universally acknowledged, Aai was no exception. The frying pan or the pot would not be for her a mere utensil. First and foremost, each spoon and every saucer  was distinctive. Oh, no, that does not mean ownership mattered a lot to her. Absolutely not! Nor was she possessive, nor materialistic. Diametrically opposed to such traits was her personality. 

She cared for every pan-n-pot because her home was not mere brick-n-beams for her. In the same vein, plates-n-ladles were not merely steel-n-tin for her. Rather hopes-n-dreams they were for her. Each one was a repository of a special memory. Unique was thus each utensil. In the initial phase of their marriage, Aai-Papa had to face huge difficulties for no fault of theirs. Each buy hence was a feel incarnate.

Never hence would her teapot call her kettle black. Each utensil would glisten like silver. Not only did she keep them squeaky clean, but neither would she over-heat nor burn them. Banging the pots was never ever her mode of protest either. She treated them as if they, too, had feelings, and so would never hurtle nor thrash-n-trundle them.

   

Such care and concern marked her treatment of everything in her household, roof, floor, walls, windows, doors, gates, curtains. Each was a jewel, showcased without any gild or glitz. Artistic and tasteful. Her home was her pride, and our castle.

pratima@ home as h(e)aven

Art is where heart is!

Aai was good at number of arts. She could, for example, stitch very well. The measurements that she would need for stitching these clothes never required the measuring tape. Yet the fitting would be precise. Practically every child in her extended family wore the triune of  "angade-topade-dupate" she used to stitch most enthusiastically. These baby clothes had lovely patterns and designs, too. The colour combo used to be such that every baby would look the cutest in it.

 As for her immediate family, two generations, her children and their children, dressed up in clothes she stitched. Amar and Kunal loved the "ABCD" shirt she stitched for them. Why did her sewing machine never go rickety? I suppose, that was because her art of stitching was from the heart.

In fact, that is a truism about all of her art explorations. But natural hence that none of her artistic representations was showy. Always would every attempt be from the heart. In fact, she was rather vehemently against showmanship and exhibitionism. Her (he)art hence used to be unique, real special. 

She made really special glass curtains. One such curtain, made of glass tubes, had a lovely peacock pattern to it. She had made brilliant use of colours and lengths of the slim glass tubes. It had a tinkling, soft sound, too, each time you passed by. It must have been back breaking work. This (he)art decorated the door superbly. she made yet another glass curtain with small bottles filled with water in various colours. A (he)arty beauty! 

She made exceptionally beautifully crafted arches to be kept around the plates of the celebrity of the day, that is, her sons, grandsons, nephews who would enjoy the Maunji Bandhan or the bride/bridegroom about to enter the holy matrimony. She used to decorate these arches with luscious peacock/parrot patterns and/or with creatively crafted paper or velvet flowers, The colours, the shapes, the designs were simply superb, yet again because it was art from heart.   

She could crochet well. The table cloth she thus crafted some sixty years ago still covers up every mess in the living room at Mukund Nagar. What I love about this white circle of delicate patterns is the purity of her candid acceptance of the contribution in its completion by her eldest sister-in-law. Such largesse devoid of vicious competitiveness is extremely rare in the art world. Her art, in brief, was so precious because it was always   from the heart!

Whatever she tried her hand at, be it verse making, be it singing, be it drawing unusual rangoli patterns, big or small, simple or complex, every art form she attempted, she practised with heart. Her cooking was the bestest example of the superior devotion she had for the culinary art and its end user(s). A separate blog entry it definitely deserves. For the time being, let me conclude with art is where heart is!

pratima@a thing of beauty is by-n-of the joyful heart!

The Value of Everything

In his superbly ethical allegory entitled `The Picture of Dorian Gray', Oscar Wilde has this lovely aphorism  about people who know the price of everything, but the value of nothing. In real life, we do meet creatures (how to all them human beings) of such type. Acharya Atre wrote a delightful story of a child who would travel the same primrose path. The young protagonist of this story demands the price of each and every of his services, and charges a penny or two to his mother for every minor errand he would run for her. Next day, he finds a neat bill near his pillow.It has a huge list of all that his mother did for him. The bill shows no price, but the boy understands thus the value of everything.

That is the way the love of parents is, a value addition that enriches every aspect of our being. The plinth of our personality thus built is so like a fortress that it can survive (m)any pricey tectonic shifts. Our parents sure brought us up in such a value (en)rich(ed)  way. Does that mean  that it made us impractical? Not exactly! Anyways, such ideal impracticality is any day better than hard nosed cost audit of every relationship, I believe.

Aai-Papa, for example, had to forego everything, literally everything, right at the beginning of their marital life. For absolutely no fault of theirs, and because their elders were price wise, they had to rebuild their lives from the scratch. This beginning from Ground Zero, may be, taught them the value of everything.

In our family, for instance, it was forbidden to waste food. A dirty, `food half eaten, half left on the dish' plate was a crime in Aai-Papa's household. Aai's kitchen would never overflow with left-over's of the previous night. Did that mean they were stingy? Not really. It is just they knew the value of everything. Most all great insights about value addition were part of the management of our childhood. So not merely do I love Aai-Papa, I value them. So many moments of true value they `fix'ed in our lives that their nurturing of our nascent identities is priceless. 

Let me end this blog with a quote by Einstein. "Try not," says the famous physicist, "to become a man of success, but a man of value. Look around at how people who want to get more out of life than they put in. A man of value will give more than he receives, 

pratima@why waste thyself on those who valueth not thee?