WHAT A DAY

The girl
Have you seen that girl?
Which one?
The one with the big eyes?
You mean the one who can't walk?
Can't walk, what are you saying, she is only limping.

That limp
She'd got a new bike. She'd never been on one. Her friend persisted, she took her for the ride. Barely were they on their way, than they hit the stretch of sand. Before the moped got stuck, her leg was on the silencer, sizzling with the heat of the darn engine.

Things would have been alright, she would have walked faster if only she knew the uses of Savlon. That the stuff the doc had asked her to use was meant to be diluted. So the wound sizzled yet again, this time with the Savlon, the scar got bigger, the limp worse, she covered it well, only the hobble showed. That's all the guy saw.

The guy
A streak of bleach in the 90's was bound to speak. Neon coloured T-shirts were bound to stand out. A bobbing Adam's apple, a wiry frame made him distinct. He walked in, brimming with that bob, ready to take on the Luddites. He was noticeable darting from one PC to another, with a bunch of subs following his trail with a load of expletives starting with 'bloody computers'. Who knew.

The computer
She was hired - the young one - to figure out that bloody machine. It wasn't easy but rejection is easy when you've just about turned 20. Headlines
disappeared into cyberspace, sub-heads failed to appear, the para idents never showed up. She wanted to shout, yet she refrained. She punched her frustration into yet another feature.

A feature
Saw them bumping. She'd interviewed a glass artist, the pictures were perfect, a reflection it was. She was rushing, there was a deadline looming. He saw those shots, he wanted one of those, he asked if he could buy one. She had a better option, meet the artist, then pick the best piece. It was all fixed, set in stone you see.

The lunch
She waited and waited. 30 minutes later, she was off, he hadn't shown up. They didn't see each other again for sometime. Then another accidental bump. She asked him what happened.
Actually I went to your place, I was a little late.
Why?
I needed to get some money.
It broke her heart. Like these things always do. She wanted to make up for it.

The movie
The Editor occasionally dispatched her to the movies. She had an extra ticket, she asked him out. Then she waited and she waited, no sign of him again. After the interval, he emerged.
Got stuck, you know.
She knew, weren't they at the other ends of the same newsroom?
He was quiet, then he startled rattling off, here's what next.
How do you know?
I've seen the movie?
Then why didn't you say so?

The beginnings
They are always like that.

It's another year, so many interludes later. It's time again to remember all the good stuff, to celebrate another special day, to join me as I wish him Happy Birthday, Shets.

HOMECOMING

As a child, I could never quite define where home was. I was born in Jammu, purely due to circumstances. My Nanaji was posted there at that time and the Army Hospital there and the rest of the family embraced me warmly. I've re-visited the place several times since. When Dad was posted in Rajouri, when my Aunt was there and then when my Uncle was there. While I enjoyed all my Jammu holidays, it never quite felt like home.

Often life on the train seemed like home. At other times, two years in Binaguri, Shillong, Cuttack, Ahmedabad, Amritsar, Ferozepur, Deolali, Mhow, Meerut or wherever Dad's job took him gave us the temporary feel of home.

I've often wondered what makes cities click, why some stay in your being longer than others. Is it the so-called soul of the city, is it family, friends or the way the city is?

When I was in college and in University, I never imagined I'd ever long for a city or even get myself to say - I miss Chandigarh. After all there was a sense of permanence to this home.....

For as long as I can remember, this was the place we headed back to for our holidays. In the middle of summer, we'd pack our bags, home-baked cakes, canteen cookies, gifts for Nani and get ready to impose our impish selves on Naniji.

At that time we thought she was beyond strict and she was. Walking on her front lawn was strictly barred. You could do that in the back lawn, though skipping and running was out of bounds too. We could play with friends as long we kept our selves out of the house. That was something we loved. Soon we'd devised a game of hide and seek and the best place to hide was her double hegdes neatly divided by the wall in between. There were all of three and exit points in the hedge, so you needed nifty feet before the catcher counted 20. Then you crawled to a part of the hedge where you imagined you were undetectable - not for long though. Once that was over, it was Scrabble time in the verandah with lemon juice to quench our thirst. Fizzy drinks of all manner were strictly banned. The focus was on being and staying healthy and what better to do that than a home brewed glass of nimbu paani.

Holidays are one thing, staying with your grandmum when you are in your rebellious teens quite another. College forced me to do that. With a strict ban on friends in place, I discovered a parallel world in books and planned several gracious exits at various points. Entry into the hostel, a job in Delhi, everything began and ended briefly. Somehow my feet brought me back to the only home I'd known.

After moving to Ahmedabad, the holiday cycle kicked in yet again. Moving to Singapore, when the air of finality of being away from home sunk in, made the longing to see the family stronger. It's always been a homecoming like no other. Tears the day you arrive, tears the day you leave.

Each year I've been able to don my sun glasses and forget those tears as I've made the way back to the airport. Not this time.

As my kids played with wild abandon on the lawn she had protected all her life, as mangoes from the trees nurtured all her life were given away, as the nimbu from her trees was turned into pickle to be carried beyond the comfort of her home, I knew there was a part of Naniji that wanted to shout. I'd spot that look in her eye, the mild spark of anger as she lifted her arm. Beyond that she couldn't do anything. A broken hip, a head injury has taken away a part of her life. What she is left with are fragments of Chak 147, Zila Mint-gimerry (Montgomery which is now in Pakistan), the gaddas, paani and the year of her escape.

Each day I'd try to remind her of my existence and she'd simply give me her listless look. I spent the better part of my holiday trying to tell myself that there is a part of her that still knows me. I wanted her to shout at my kids, the way she had with us. I wanted her to feel whole again, to be able to lift her feet off the very floor she had created.

It happened on the last day. As I bent to give her all my love, she held my hand and refused to let go. Then she cried, the tears of her lifetime. My name didn't come back, but that of her mother's did. I know deep down she was mouthing the words, she had said over the years - Jaldien Aayien - be back home soon. As the clock ticked, the car waited, the children got increasingly restless, Masi reminded me I had a flight to catch. I took my time, donned my shades, let the tears flow and prayed for another homecoming.

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE

Ok, fine it should be plane. Nah, it doesn't have the ring of a jet plane. The kids like it that way. "We're leaving on a jet plane, yeah."

Heading home is always about dealing with your emotions. And for that we couldn't have picked an airline better than Sahara, emotionally yours. It's already knotting me up.

It's been close to two long years since I visited India last. I often wish things could be different. That Naniji could be her usual nagging self, force feeding us, reminding us not to walk on her grass, to water her plants gently and not to do too much khee, khee, hah, hah.

After a nasty fall, she's been bed ridden. An operation on her hip has been ruled out as being too risky. She won't even know me, I'm sure. She'll hardly feel the joy, sound and laughter of her grand children - the one thing she wanted so badly at one time.

It's hard to see her like that. She, who built her life from scratch in India. She, who took that train from Pakistan. She, who lost her Dad, then her husband when everything seemed to be going right, then her eldest daughter (my mother). She, who stood there like a pillar, holding the family, their home and their land together.

Could you blame her for her demons, for her constant bickering to be careful, her reminders of the big bad world, her general sense of fear, of losing it all?

What are her thoughts now? I can't read them any more, all I can do is try.....

I will not be blogging or looking at my emails. It's a break to bond with my family starting with my Nani, my Masi - who has been painstakingly taking care of her, my Dad and my sis.

Speak to you all early July.