sur sangam

(six months back)
mithi enrols in music class at Saptak to learn hindustani vocal.

(a couple of weeks later)
mithi is distraught after class one day.
mithi: mama, whenever we sing in class, khan sir tells me, 'anusha, sur kahan hai? sur mein gaao.'mama, what is this suro? what does it look like? i don't know where to find it.

***
(this evening)
on our way to music class, i ask mithi how she finds her music class, what her sir says, etc.
mithi: mama, remember you told me the other day that i should sing unafraid of anything? that i should concentrate? i thought hard about it. and well, am doing just that. now sir doesn't tell me sur mein gao.

of daughters and marriages

(2003)

notes of a shehnai waft into our bedroom from the party plot behind our house.
mithi: what's that music for, mama?
me: someone's getting married mithi.
mithi: like people do in films? a boy and a girl?
me: hmm, something like that.
mithi: like papa and you? you have "done marriage" haven't you?
me: yes.

***
(2004)
some wedding music blares at alarming decibels in the party plot.
mithi: mama, one day i have to "do marriage" too? with a boy?
me: yes, mithi.
mithi: mama, then i will marry papa so i can always stay with you.

***
(2006)
again some music wafts in.
me: mithi, come look at the mandap from the window. a wedding's on.
mithi: mama, it's so well decorated.
me: so, you will marry papa one day?
mithi: WHY? why should i marry papa? i will also marry a boy and go away somewhere else.
me: where will you go?
mithi: why, like bombay, delhi, calcutta!

mithi's dad: i will make a bakra of some junior so you can always live with us.
mithi: why? i will live in my own house. like cinderella and her prince.

***
(2008)
mithi: mama, bittu didi and i have made a strong resolve.
me: what?
mithi: we have decided that...we shan't get married!
me: but, why?
mithi: it's a very silly thing to do that's why.
me: so what have you decided to do?
mithi: we have decided to live with our parents and take care of them for the rest of our lives.

mithi's portrait of her mother

of "poor" people

mithi and i are driving down to her music class. as the car rolls down the ramp, it narrowly avoids touching a family on a cycle. a thin man is riding the cycle; his thin wife is pillion riding behind. from under her pallu stick out a tiny pair of feet in silver paayal. the man pedals hard.

mithi glares at me. i look sideways at her and ask, "what?"

mithi's words are like tadka to kadhi, "had i been in your place mama, i 'd have given my car to them."

i try not to show my surprise at her reaction not at her words. try to prise more out of her. "why would you give your car away mithu?"

"they are so poor, mama, and it's such a windy day. they must be feeling cold. we are fat from eating and they are so thin! if they had our car, they could travel comfortably."

"hmm... "

"and mama, why don't you ever give money to children who beg near traffic lights?"

"mithu, they should be at school. their parents are teaching them to beg instead of work."

mithi turns around and immediately says, "but mama, how can they go to school if they don't have money?"

mithi's dream picnic with her family

from left to right: papa, mama, mithi (standing in pink frock), hitankshi's granny, "ma", mithi's ayee, rinki mausi, aja. hitankshi (swimming in the river) and papu mausa (hiding behind the tree)

Mithi's first story

Mithi is just in the process of discovering her writerly imagination. Is writing a book that she calls, " A BIG BOOK OF STOREIS." She hides/keeps it in her chest of drawers like a lockable prized possession.

here's the first story (incomplete) that is illustrated as well. the story is titled, "the doll and the children":

Once upon A time in A nice house lived Two.children named Diya And Rahul they were twins. The both were good children.

Diya loved pusles, dolls, books, flowers and soft toys and other toys ECT. Rahul loved his Toy train, his toy spider man, pusles, his spiderman set and his toy batman.

One Day when the both were sitting in the table to eat the lunch, the saw a doll sitting beside Diya's chair.

The doll was very beaudiful. They thought that she was very nice doll...."

She plans to complete her book by the end of the year and to not show it to anyone, except, mama, papa, ayee, dadababu, bamaa, hitankshi, bebo, aastha, mehek, muskaan, vedaant, aditi, riya mathur, anjana, shivangni, aneri, khushi, aishwarya and mudita only.

how mothers are

mithi: (returns from aastha's house) mama, you know at aastha's place, i stepped on a clothes hanger accidentally and broke it.
me: oh, really? did you apologise for it?
mithi: i started crying because i thought aunty will scold me. aastha told her mother that i was crying. and you know what aunty did?
me: what?
mithi: she laughed! she laughed mama, she just laughed. do you know what she said next?
me (half sleepy): what ?
mithi: she said, " why are you crying? you can break as many more as you want." (mithi stares at me for three seconds. gives me a withering look) she is so nice. such a nice mother!

birthday present for mama

(yesterday)

mithi: MAMA, YOUR BIRTHDAY'S TOMORROW!!

me: hmm, hmm.

(after 10 minutes)

mithi: mama, i want to ask you something. generally. just like that.
me: what?
mithi: suppose god gave you a choice of birthday present. what would you like?
me: a book.
mithi: suppose you were walking and you found a book lying on a tray. would you pick it up? which book would you like mama?
me: india after gandhi. by ramachandra guha.
mithi:oh, gua? mama, how does one spell the name? am just asking.

mithi pretends to be looking at the photos on the softboard. but actually is writing down the spelling. the doorbell rings and she runs to open the door. her father tells me she wants to buy me something for my birthday with her piggy bank savings. mithi returns.

me: actually mithi. i think i don't want that book. i'd rather have an amar chitrakatha comic that we don't have.
mithi: which one mama?
me: maybe, mirabai? or chattrasaal?
mithi: ma, we have mirabai in our school library. i'll get it for you.

(thinks deeply)
mama, how do you spell chattrasaa? just asking. for my spelling bee at the end of the month.
why doesn't santa bring birthday presents for grown ups?

navaratri 2007

how babies are made

mithi: mama, bebo has told me a big secret.
me: what?
mithi: she knows how babies are made.
me: how??
mithi: you know, god makes babies and then he sets them free. the babies walk in tiny steps towards earth. the first big, round woman who meets the baby becomes the baby's mummy.
me: is that so?
mithi: mama, i want to tell all these babies that they should come to earth on kite flying day. this way, they can float down on kites. what a lovely trip it would be for them! softly flying through the skies!

of fathers and daughters

it's 8.30 pm. doorbell rings. mithi evolves from a state of near somnolence to hyper activity. her father's home. now the performance will begin.

father showers. has dinner. the stage is set. the door shut. the bed cleared of all debris. the music's turned on. loud. aankhon mein teri ajab si ajab si adaayen hain. mithi's standing on the bed. her father stands next to the bed. this enables their heights to match.

mithi starts swaying to the music at first, and then dancing. her father matches her steps. good timing between them. expressions are perfect. they don't lose eye contact. dil mein mere hai darde disco resonates in the room. at punctuated intervals, mithi twirls and pirouettes towards her father at top speed. years of doing this together and they both can predict each other's movements. mithi falls off the bed into space... and right into her father's arms. first to the left, and then to the right. at other times, she jumps slightly in the air, crooks her arms around his neck, he holds her by the waist, and turns full circle. never missing a beat.

there's a circle of magic around them i can't touch. am a mute spectator who watches everyday. spellbound. sometimes father says, " dance with mama today." mama can't recreate the magic.

*****
mithi's dancing more and more and better and better each day. self-taught. observation at work here. a dozen thoughts crop up in my head sometimes: this is what she loves doing the most; what if she wants to take up dance as a career? that's nice. she likes all these item girl numbers and does them so well. heavens, that's not so nice. to my small town sensibilities. we should gradually guide her towards classical dance. kathak? she talks about it sometimes. maybe salsa and all that jalsa.

shouldn't push her. don't want to morph into one of those pushy parents. on second thoughts, when have parents really been able to influence their children? does it work in our day and age? i think parents are more confused than children today. confused between being a disciplinarian and letting children grow in an organic way kind of attitude. confused about where to draw the line. helpless sometimes in the face of a generation that increasingly seems so sorted out. twiddledads and twiddlemums.

a birthday gift for mama

mithi: mama, i want to tell you something important.
me (encouragingly): hmm, tell me.
mithi: you know we have a story in our english textbook called, "Chandrika's beads". as one of the exercises, we're asked a question, " what will you give your mother on her birthday?" since your birthday is coming up, i really enjoyed answering that. at first, i thought i'd like to give you a necklace. then, i thought, " mama, doesn't wear jewellry much." next, i thought of gifting you a new dress. but, you have so many already. then i hit upon a brilliant idea.
me: what?
mithi: why not give you money? papa spends so much money on all kinds of unnecessary gadgets!
me: gulp!
mithi: but, finally i knew what i must give you.
me: what mithum?
mithi: ( hugs me) a book! you love reading. you read all the time! i know you'd love a book!

bliss at the park

am snuggled in bed under the razai engrossed in shashi deshpande's "writing from the margin and other essays." a luxury earned after many weeks, after many saturdays working at nid. hubby nudges me out of razai and urges me to accompany him to the park for a 3 pm walk. at first i think he’s lost his mind. the next moment i see myself reading the book under the winter sun on a park bench or lying on the grass. super.

there is a catch here. we would be taking mithi along he says. “awright”, i mutter, “as long as she lets me read.” hubby takes mithi’s hand and they go down first—to the basement to take the car out. i follow them five minutes later. car eases up the ramp and glides to a halt. great. i plonk myself on the front seat with my book and a big mug of coffee.

hear giggling. turn around. there’s mithi. and aastha. and bebo. and mehek. and muskaan. and kathan. they grin at me. pigtails, plaits, glasses, scarves and big toothie smiles. i see my rosy picture of a quiet afternoon under the sun dissolve in a fancy powerpoint option.

we reach the park and i find my favourite corner bench. sun’s just right. half of the bench is in the sun, the other half in the shade. children run all over the place. i slide down the bench and sit on the grass. coffee’s frothy and bitter sweet. umm.. lose myself in bookopia.

for precisely 47 seconds. here’s what happens next:

3.20 pm. park. far end of the grass: EIIIIIAAA! AUNTY, KATHAN SNATCHED MY WATERBOTTLE AND THREW IT IN A PUDDLE!

3.20 pm. park. near the fountain: AUNTY! MITHI’S RUNNING ROUND AND ROUND THE FOUNTAIN AND THE WATER’S FOLLOWING HER! AUNTY. I WANT TO PEE!

3.20 pm. park. Jogger’s path: ROSY! THESE TWO KIDS AREN’T LETTING ME WALK! THEY ARE TUGGING AT MY TRACK PANTS! DO SOMETHING!

my head spins from 90 degrees to 25 and then to 120.

next two hours have me run from one pair to another. screaming my head off. wailing like enya. or was it sheryl crow? cajole one child to quietly pee behind some bushes on the periphery. she protests, “i do not know how to do it while squatting on grass. insects will bite me.” screech at another to not bully his sister. manage to save a third from falling into the fountain. run behind mithi who is running behind bebo who is chasing kathan who has his eyes set on grabbing a kite that’s careening to the ground. crashh into a tree instead and sprawl on the ground like goofy in those disney capers. have a purple bump on my nose. look up to find all six devils laughing at me. wish the gooly gooly witch could smack them with her broomstick. walk wonkily to the bench. spill water from a water bottle onto the book. great! now swadhaben will put me on the electric chair.

children come and tug at my sleeves. we are hungry. we want to eat something (look at my face. feel sorry). okay. we will eat at home. so, play hide and seek with us. you be IT. i run around like a maniac looking for six kids everywhere. after 20 minutes find them playing oranges and lemons at the far end of the park.

hubby’s walking like a well oiled wrestler in the ring all this while. comes and settles himself majestically on the bench next to me. “ gorgeous afternoon, nahin?" i am ready to clobber him. or grind him to dust.

back into the car. all the kids are shreiking. aastha, bebo and mithi yank, "Chak de o chak de india" from inside their bowels and dangerously close to my ears. i shake my head like zeenat aman lip synching 'dum maaro dum' in hare rama hare krishna. kids are happy. hubby is happy. where's my disprin?

of the postmodern 'vest'

mithi's just had her bath. i have laid out her clothes on the bed. it's winter, so there's a thermal vest and a full sleeved tee shirt among other stuff. mithi looks at the clothes laid out and makes a face. as usual. here's how the conversation goes for the next ten minutes:

"mama, do i have to wear these clothes? i want to wear something else. "
"mithi, it's cold. you have to wear this thermal vest inside. "
"but, mama, this is so boring. why can't i be a little smartly dressed?'
"what do you mean?"
"let me wear a half sleeved t shirt. please? please,please,please!"
" what about the vest. that's a full sleeved one!"
"mama, i'll wear that too."
"but, but" I sputter, " the sleeves of the vest will show!"
" mama, you are so behind the times...it's meant to show. the sleeves of the vest will peek out of the sleeves of the t shirt. that's really SMART!!!"
" i thought vest are meant to be hidden mithu. is there an alternative?" (i am about to give up)
" i could wear my denim skirt and team it up with slacks underneath and a t shirt."
" what? what bizarre combinations are these?

hubby is sprawled on the bed like the maharaja of mayurbhanj. he looks up in slow motion, " this is postmodern clothing. remember you were going on about that two years ago?" (slam dunk)

clunk!!!

back home from school

hair askance, pigtails gone awry, sweaty faces, dusty clothes, dusty shoes, shoelaces undone, school bags hanging lopsided from shoulders, waterbottles that have emptied their contents out and are now hanging upside down-- never knew these could make for such a heartwarming sight.

nothing like going to pick up your child at the bus stop when she returns from school. even as the bus grinds to a halt, you can hear all the chatter and laughter from within its bowels come rushing out. "devansh, don't forget the maths assignment submission tomorrow," or "adel, give me back my flip book," or even, " bus uncle (the driver), karan mmere kaan khinch raha hai. main meri mummy se keh doonga" sometimes, several discordant voices in unison, "dil mein mere hai darde disco" accompanied with several thumps, claps and banging pencil boxes on the bars of the bus windows.

they tumble out of the bus or drop down tired, almost darkened by the day's sojourn, dragging their school bags, dragging their blazers. your bachha emerges too. and gives you a wide grin. three front upper teeth and two alternate lower teeth missing. the lenses of her glasses so dirty it's a marvel she can see. her shoes are a mess. a button's undone again. her schoolbag looks like a straycow mistook it for dinner.

she chatters endlessly as you walk home together. swati mam this and swati mam that. how she loves her english textbook (bell rings in her mother's head), and enjoys dance class. how her 'best friend' riya shroff made her a 'best friend' card. how dipayan eats up everyone's sandwiches in the break. and saminder mam is really the best teacher in the whole world, etc. if 3 x 5 is 15, how can 5 x 3 also be 15? her favourite table is the table of 1. close on its heels is the table of 10.

you relive your childhood again. a proxy childhood. recall how you used to come home, sit atop the kitchen counter and rattle off the day's happenings to your mum in a bygone era.

mithi goes on. you keep listening. you prize the few occasions you pick her up because her naani picks her up daily. you cherish what she is saying even if you cannot remember it all a half hour later. you know these years will fly past in the blink of a lifetime. one day she will not take the school bus or return by it. she will finish school. have her own kids. pick them up. you come full circle.

you remove her shoes. and realise soon you will not be needed to do that. there's a lump in your throat. "what's for lunch mama?" she asks. her favourite rajma you answer. "yay!" she rejoices. usual remarks. questions. changing into fresh clothes. having lunch together. an ordinary day. extraordinary moments. how do you retain them?

of mums and daughters

(2003: mithi at age three)

mithi: mama, you are so beautiful! you are my cinderella, my snow white. my miss universe. your hair is so silky. your skin is so silky. you are so intelligent. ( i receive big fat kisses all over my face). you are the best mama in the whole world.

(2008: mithi at age eight)

mithi: err, mama, your hair has no style. actually, it looks like a mop! your nails are so uneven. (i know you chew them secretly!) your nose is round and spotted. you need to wear high heels to look smart.

(looks at herself in the mirror with a faraway doe-eyed expression. expression slowly changes to a dejected one)

mama, do you think i will look like you when i grow up?

mithi nugget

me: mithi, do you know which bird can fly forwards and backwards both?
mithi: is it a falcon?
me: a hummingbird, mithu.

(mithi is deep in thought. her eyebrows are furrowed)

mithi: mama, do you know who Benazir Bhutto is?
me (happily surprised with her 'awareness' level): a former prime minister of Pakistan who was killed recently!
mithi: no, mama, no. she is the daughter of tragedy ( 'g' pronounced as 'g' in goat).
(hubby and I look like Mike Tyson hit us in the solar plexus)
mithi: offo baba, i said tra-gaddi. look the cover page of India Today says this. very bad. both of you. you need to improve your general knowledge.

happy birthday

mithi: mama, hurray for 2008. my happy birthday will come again.
me: but mithi, your birthday is in september. that is 9 months from now.
mithi: mama, you need to polish up your english. very bad. how can an english teacher make mistakes? what if your students were to know hmm? very bad.
me: huh? what did i do?
mithi: don't you know that you should always say happy birthday? you should have said, "but mithi, your happy birthday is in september. " be precise mama, be precise.

******
talking of happy birthday parties of our kids nowadays, the thought of organising one more or sending mithi to one more in macdarlings (that is mithispeak for mac donalds) gives me the heebiejeebies. let me clarify that further. organising one more or sending her to one more in
macdarlingspizzahutunclesam'spizzaUSpizzaspinozapizzaarspoeticapizzapizzapizza gives me the heebiejeebies.

history repeats itself everytime at all these outlets. the same boring pattern follows each time. 25-45 kids assemble, run amock, make a lot of noise, burst the few miniscule wobbly balloons pasted on the walls like poor cousins, scream all over the place, guzzle chilled, near frozen coke (of the cola variety, dahling!), chomp away on pizzas, touch everything around with cheesy sticky fingers, fight over nearly everything--from sitting with one's best friend, to wanting that slice of cake with three orange gems on it just like Riya's got.

the guys at the pizza place make them play the same passing the parcel and musical chairs as though these have high brand value and came with Marco Polo to town. sometimes if the "package" is good enough, they throw in ice cream for good measure. wonderful really. because i am sure most kids are croaking painfully hoarsely at home just as mine is. if you're luckier, your kid will also come down with fever, and whoop like a baboon for the next ten days.

impersonal. commercial. commoditising birthday parties. clinical. monotonous.

yet, people prefer it this way. for three-four big currency notes, they think they can hover around like graceful and composed flamingoes instead of going beserk like plucked hens. (how do they do it? the best i can do to avoid being a wailing banshee is a mick jagger).

whatever happened to homegrown birthday parties where 7-10 children got together at home, ate chole puri or pav bhaji or bhelpuri (made at home) and played indigenous ingenuous games such as hotch potch or treasure trove, etc. [hell! i never had a birthday party till i turned 21 and diane threw a party at Alliance for me much to my "embracement" (as she put it)].

i want to do this each year, and scream myself hoarse trying to advocate such personalised, "motherlyised" parties each year. and lose the battle. fort.troops. cavalry. infantry, everything demolished. the thought of having about 35 boisterous kids at home and some portly mothers drives hubby nuts 2 months in advance. so we are back to square one.

of santa claus and stockings

christmas eve. the mother- with -a strong -motherhood conscience once again decorates the christmas tree at home. not one but two. A real tree of medium height in a garden pot, and another faux paper one. meticulously hangs the decorations--plenty of balls, and stars, and chocolate look alikes, and snowmen, and their little sticks, and plenty of giftwrapped boxes (with nothing inside them). stands back and surveys the scene. tree looks quite bare still. brings out plenty of cotton wool and pulling it over the children's eyes, says, " Ahem! here's the snow. plenty of it. yay yay." children repeat ( the yay yipee yay bit). tree still looks bare. takes out some birthday buntings left over from last to last year and lays it all over the tree. good. tree looks like a hara bhara kebab. hang a big paper star with lamp inside that makes the drawing room look like a million bucks when lit up. hmm...

that is the easy part. both mithi and my neice hitankshi are shreiking like banshees about hanging their socks (not stockings, mind you). till last year i only decorated the tree. now rinki and hitankshi have introduced mithi to the idea of santa claus and his presents for kids. so now, i am stuck for life with magical santa gifts too. mithi dances about with glee like a baby hannibal.

hey, there's a good thing here after all. lovely way to be rid of the noisy twosome for a change and pack them off to bed. announce that santa comes on his sleigh around 8 pm and only visits those homes where the children are fast asleep. he positively frowns upon late nights for children.

the two hannibals hover around. blue blooded doubting thomases. mother praying desperately as never before in life that her ruse works. gambit pays off. but not before hitankshi calls up her dad long distance to tell him to hang another huge "socks" for her at home. double whammy for her indeed.

mithi has a brainwave. why not hang papa's socks to accomodate more things? when one tidal wave recedes, another occurs with precise timing.

mithi throws open the main door. runs out at top speed. muffled voices....approaching footsteps.

am done with my work. look forward to peaceful night with my favourite novel. there's mithi. back.

with five of her neighbourhood friends, each holding out their dad's socks.

bye bye blackbird

we were here.
you were there.

we waved to you with joy
every morning
in the landing
as you kickstarted the scooter
and sped away.

and then we ran
to the kitchen balcony
and waited for eight minutes
quietly
before you emerged
from the underbridge
far away
across the railway tracks
across the clump of trees lining the road
on which you travelled to work
each day.

we waved at you and called out
"papa! papa!"
and across the distance
we saw your hand go up
and wave back.

the white gas balloon

winter sunday afternoon
Kankaria lake
double decker bus ride
pink icecream cone
papa, you gave me
a little white gas balloon.

a blue polka dotted balloon
that slipped out of my three year old fingers
and flew up up away
a speck in the sky
gulped by clouds.

now that you are there papa
have you found my little white gas balloon?

these dark days of december

these dark days of december
unfailingly crawl through the fog
of other months
in muffled thickness.
how should i go through the day
that took my dad away?

the man still talks to me
through the mist of time.
in the inimitable cheerful way
that will always be to me, my dad.

why do i recall the final few days
and flog the insides of my head?
this month entombs me some more
each year.

annual day function at mithi's school

for parents their children's annual day fuction can be a very moving event. Mithi's school had its annual day function, "Orukalli" on Tuesday evening. The overarching theme was seasons, with a staggering 365 children participating in all the sundry dances and the skit.

it is so difficult to explain how one feels at the sight of all the little ones confidently performing on stage. it is not just the sight of one's own child on stage, but all the children put together. i couldn't but marvel how these little ones performed with such panache. even when they made mistakes they just moved on quickly, smoothly, without being ruffled at all. parents were cheering and clapping for all the kids i am sure, just as i was. there's always a lump in the throat when some child, any child does exceptionally well. one cannot but be misty-eyed, even the die-hard cynical adults.

as usual, i missed out looking at mithi's performance, forget soaking it in, because i was fumbling with the camera in trying to record the skit. in all the fluster, forgot to press the darned button to start the recording. the net result? i do not even have photographs. thank goodness the school's taken care of such things.

mithi's character was that of a stylishly dressed patient at a doctor's clinic who speaks English with a put on accent. everything went smoothly except that the leather purse she was to clutch kept slipping and she was holding on to it as one would an umbrella in the rain!

convocation

Convocation is upon us again this year. Tomorrow's D-day and students are trooping in. This is a time when every pebble at NID shines, the greenery looks a little more verdant, everyone on campus bustles about putting up displays and exhibitions, and showcasing their disciplines to the hilt.

It is surely a momentous occasion for students; an occasion, that one is sure, necessitates mixed feelings in the minds of students who are passing out of an institute. This is an occasion when they are on multiple thresholds at the same time: they are looking back and yet looking ahead; taking a walk down memory lane and yet forging ahead with a spring in their step. This is also the time when they straddle two worlds: they are out of their alma mater, but not quite; into the indusatry, and just about in there. These are selves looking at themselves through dual lenses, occupying both liminal and mainstream spaces, these are people that are gifted and forward looking. Convocation day is a day when the mood is upbeat, enthusiasm and energy reign supreme, and celebrations are the calling of the day.

This is also the time when the Institute is at its sprightliest and attention-grabbing best. Design is celebrated, feted, mulled over, legitimized, and design that has been done in the various small and big studios, workshops, hostel rooms, spills over to the displays on Design Street, the Gautam Gira Sarabhai Square, the myriad other small and big spaces in NID that proclaim their pride in the students even as they joyfully pay tributes to their work.

Every year when I work on the Young Designers book, I can't help but be drawn into the spell much before it has caught on in the institute. When I look at the portrait photos of students, their work, am always somehow suffused with emotion. These happy faces are those one has taught, talked to, laughed with, played agony aunt to, and cried with. It feels good to work for them in a strange way.

The publication usually showcases the diploma work of the graduating students. Students at NID undertake diploma projects as part of the curriculum at the end of the graduate or postgraduate programme in every discipline. They work on a chosen project for six months, understanding the industry from close quarters, demonstrating their capability to perform as design professionals. The project, an integral part of the educational system, aims at providing industrial experience to enhance the education given at NID. It seeks to bridge the gap between the worlds of theory and praxis, making students undertake live projects in the industry and showcase their learning to the institute thereafter.

I am always struck with the vibrancy and wide terrain covered by the diploma projects. The array of diploma projects is astounding in its variety, vim and vigour, its commitment to different sectors requiring design intervention, and in the passion for their work exhibited by our young designers. So we have a dizzying line up of projects engaged with traditional crafts, education, entertainment, promotional design, exhibition and selected spaces, social concerns, developmental communication, conservation of heritage and culture, information design, medical concerns, public amenities, retail, and export.

While passion for design is a shared experience among the eclectic bunch of young designers, the approaches to design and the outcomes are intrinsically distinct and different. Some of the design products, by their very nature, probe design processes, and radically change them; while others tease the very definitions of design: from expressing artistic insights to ethical concerns, from problem-solving to humanizing technologies.

Many projects assuage us that design is not just an elitist profession, and does not shy away from grassroots level concerns. It was not for nothing that someone said, “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.”

It is heartwarming to see that what our young designers lack in experience, they more than make up for it in talent. I feel privileged each year when I work on Young Designers because it gives me a vantage point from which to read and look at all the diploma projects done that year. In spite of the time bound and inevitable stress factor built into such an exercise, knowing why and in which way the different minds work is a refreshing experience. It’s easy to see that the diploma work is a function of sound guidance and experience on the part of the faculty, and enterprise, ingenuity, and diligence on the part of students.

And then there are the few students who walk into my office every year and out of sheer goodwill and affection proffer their unstinting support, encouragement and help in various ways for a few hours, a day, in their free time, or just when we need it the most. They come just when we are facing panic attacks about this and that, and bring smiles back to our faces.

spelling bee with mithi at age three

me: apple
hubby: egg
me: goat
hubby: table
me: elephant
hubby: thumb
me: ball
mithi do you follow what you have to do? play with us now.
hubby: lion. mithi, your turn.
mithi: nauseating!

of parents and kids

( 2003 : 4 years back)

me (to hubby): listen, mithi's getting to be too difficult to handle...doesn't listen to me....stubborn...tantrums....DO SOMETHING! [ i am a loser mom, (full sobbing works)]

***
anshuman (to 3 year old mithi): storytime! settle down! (plumps up the pillow)...once upon a time there was a lion, and he was a really really naughty lion. all the animals in the jungle were fed up with his antics, and they decided to teach him a big lesson.... they threw him into a deep dark well and told him that if he did not behave they would not take him out of the well, but let him remain there forever.... lion starts crying and says sorry...yada yada yada...so, mithi what is the moral of the story?

mithi turns around, fixes her father with a piercing gaze for a moment, and says, " you know papa, you should always listen to mama."

memory chip

on my way home from work today, a family passed by on a scooter. the couple was in its late twenties. the woman was holding a child who was fast asleep on her lap. to my surprise, i saw that wedged between the man driving the scooter and the handlebar was a little boy the same age as the girl, and --he too was sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo, fast asleep!

the scene struck a chord. there was papa riding his green lambretta first, in the early seventies, and later in the eighties, his grey bajaj vespa. Mummy in her silk saree, maroon lipstick and high heels perched behind him with Rinky on her lap, and me oiled plaited hair, black rimmed plastic glasses, in a polka dotted maxi sandwiched between them. india works on memories; it is hard wired into our brains.

we were a family of avid movie goers averaging one or two movies a week. after the phase of scooters, came a phase when Rinky and I were too big to fit in a scooter with mummy and papa. So, we travelled by autorickshaws. i remember all those nights of returning in an auto after a late night movie, sometimes in the dead of winter, snuggling close together in the space, feeling drowsy and sleepy, sometimes dozing off but, always always wishing we had a car (premier padmini being the only option in the pre-maruti days). What bliss it would be to stretch oneself out and sleep in the back seat, and be woken up when we reached home...

we did buy a car finally, but by that time i was in class nine and too old to doze off in the car.

the present matters

snatch the living present
emerging head first from the cocoon;
for the past is dead,
the future yet to be conceived.
pick out this worm
let it weave its silk:
delicate, silver threads
best for soft, fluffy pillows and eiderdowns
where we can lay our heads and rest.

toothfairy travails

mithi in april this year: why aren't my teeth falling? three of hitankshi's teeth have already fallen! how long will i have to wait for toothfairy to visit me? (sob...sob...muffle, sniff)
mithi mid-june: MAMA!!! LOOK, BOTH MY FRONT TEETH ARE SHAKERING!
me: shakering? (mithi's already out of the door, calling her father to deliver the happy news)
mithi 10 days later: mama, megha tells me that if i throw my tooth on a tin roof, tooth fairy will give me a baby brother, and if i bury it in the ground, she'll give me a baby sister.
me: (croaking) huh?
mithi: yes, can you believe it? listen mama, we really should plan this to the last detail.
me: how? (still dazed)
mithi: let's decide what we want, when we want and how we want, and leave an application for tooth fairy. actually, i want a brother, then he can teach me how to pee standing up.

***

mithi: MA!!! MY TOOTH HAS FALLEN. AT LAST GOD HAS ANSWERED MY PRAYERS!
when do you think tooth fairy will come with my gift?
me: you've to sleep first darling because tooth fairy only visits at night.

thankfully, mithi's forgotten about roof top and ground and keeps the tooth under her pillow very carefully, intending to display its best side and colour.

(morning)

mithi: mama, guess what tooth fairy has given me? a box of colour pencils, some stickers and a book. lowely, lowely. but, why didn't she gimme a choice?

****
mithi: what will tooth fairy give me now that my sixth tooth has fallen? i want a barbie doll and a dress. also, a dvd of the little mermaid.
me: mithu, tooth fairy comes only five times--when you lose your first five teeth. after that she stops coming and goes to other children.

saturday morning

Once again I clambered up the window railings, this morning, stretched my feet and raising my hand high tugged the knob on the loft door open. Gingerly manouvering the way higher managed to balance myself on the cold metallic rod of the railing under my feet. The door opened easily.

There they all were-- my childhood companions in neat rows just as I had left them last a year ago. The warm comfort of looking at them, my gaze lingering over each of them, and fingers greedily reaching out to caress them, one by one as many as I could.

They smell the same--that old comforting and familiar smell; a smell of decades, years and months and special times of togetherness--that will always always remain with me through the greyness of the years ahead. They smell of lazy and indulging carefree Saturday afternoons when you returned from morning school, freed your plaited hair of those darned white ribbons and delighted in the weekend ahead. Of talkative lunches with Papa, mummy and Rinky. Of postoboda and macho bhoja. Of shrieking and shouting and yelling for mummy when Papa pinned you under the quilt with his leg. Of munching away on fresh cucumber sprinkled with salt and red chilli powder, or biting into crisp apples, succulent alphonsoes, tearing away at sugarcane strips or spitting out the seeds of gooseberries at the wall opposite. Of long afternoon naps that have swirled away in the fog of the past. Waking up to find papa and mummy having their tea, talking of this and that while shelling peas or cleaning the methi saag together for the dinner ahead.

My friends and companions, always ready with solace, joy, dreams to share, ensnaring and transporting me to another world at my bidding. At crowded get- togethers while friends squealed all over the place, and in the din of cutlery and the clink of adult banter, I needed no one and nothing. I knew what I wanted and I had what I wanted.

They have seen me through childhood mazes, and adolescent heartaches-- my books. Stacked up high in row after row. Amar Chitra Kathas and Chandamamas, Beetle Baileys and Archies, Targets and Phantoms, Nancy Drews and Malory Towers, C. Rajagoplacharis and Tolstoys, Tintins and Alfred Hitchcocks, Readers Digests, Mirror magazines and Illustrated Weekly of India from the seventies, all jampacked and jamming in harmony. A universe in itself. Each book or issue, packed with memories.

Here I see "Letters from a Father to his Daughter" that Papa got me after one Orissa trip on his return. The Wheelers stamp resplendent still. Or "The Rainbow Prince" that he took out from under his mattress once the guests had departed after dinner one night and wide eyed I whooped in joy and snatched it from his outstretched hand in a flash. Or the Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan that he and I spent one winter evening to find in the few book shops of Ahmedabad at the time (1983 I think). Papa driving the scooter and me pillion riding behind thinking of the elocution competition next morning for which I desperately needed the book.

Unfortunately, an apartment has its own space constraints and now even our modest study is chockablock with books. Books of my adulthood years. Philosophy and mythology, sociology and art, fiction and literary theory rubbing spines with one another. Books I believe I need to read for work. In short, the books of my childhood have been relegated to the lofts. And yet, they are cared for better because they are not thumbed through all the while. No dog ears on them anymore. They are precious and require care.

The first ones to come down are the Amar Chitra Kathas--most bound neatly in groups of five or six-- since Mithi has started reading them. I watch her excitedly as she flips the pages. I read them too now and then and feel the same unadulterated joy of childhood coursing through my veins. I hold these books in my hand and the years melt away. They envelope me in a cloud of happiness and nostalgia. I hope Mithi feels the same surge of emotion, and her fingers touch the imprints her mother and aunt left on them decades ago.

The Gujarati ethos

There are places you remember: some for serpentine, narrow lanes to the holy rivers; some for the mist, and the thousand night lights you see from atop hills. And there are places you remember for the people in them, for the shared memories of shared pasts.

Ahmedabad, is hardly a lonesome poet’s muse. But, there is a tug at your heart-strings because you grew up here— you smelt its smells, you spent your childhood in its nooks and crannies, and you saw it change in form and dimension. The one constant has been the ethos of the people here.

The Gujarati ethos has been a simple one—work and let work, and share a community life. People are unafraid to work hard, to make humble beginnings, and slowly build empires. So many current titans of corporate India started out on the simple bicycle in by-lanes of Ahmedabad. Some sold detergent, some cloth. People do not hesitate to do the most menial of tasks. That is greatness. That is the true Gandhian work ethic. The doors of industry here are open to all. A forlorn Oriya from nine hundred kilometres away can come here and build a decent life. That is acceptance.

Acceptance, not just in terms of work, but such that your psyche is woven into the rich social fabric and made its own. Neighbours help you right from the day you move into a new neighbourhood. They tend you in sickness, they mingle with you in health. They even do your dirty dishes for you when you need help. Concern, cooperation, communication, help—tough things to find in urban jungles. But you always found it here, irrespective of the neighbourhood you lived in. You were easily and naturally drawn into the garba nights, the laughter and camaraderie in making ghughris and mathiyas before Diwali, and the singing of wedding songs. The joie de vivre, the zest for life of the Gujarati is matchless—you find people out in the city, at night everywhere. From the kulfi carts at Manekchowk to the ambience of the mushrooming multiplexes, from Wankhede to Winchester, the Gujarati is everywhere.

For a girl there is no place like Ahmedabad to grow up in. Eve teasing? What is it? No one paws you furtively in crowded AMTS buses as in DTC or BEST buses. Where else can you go out alone at late hours of the night and not be stared at?

When the earth shook and fires burned, you saw the resilience of the Gujarati. These straws did not break their backs. They picked up the shattered pieces and mosaiced their lives. Bit by bit, and day by day. Normalcy came at a price but it always bounded in. Generosity poured in from all sides.

I grew up here happy and carefree. The singular song my heart sang and that is my signature memory is that it is love that makes the world go round.

meaning

a sheet of paper
is a space.
i put pen on it
and think
i have confined it
to the narrow parameters
of my words.

but, meaning--
all pervading, spills over;
hugs this paper in the warmth of her arms.

time

Time--i have so much of it!
seconds and minutes, hours and months,
years--oh heck! i have infinity
nestling against my bosom.

i am feeling vindictive today.
time thinks he can outwit me.
time thinks he can empower me.
time thinks he can rule me.

but i am lord and master.
i find a way out.
the whirring blades of my ceiling fan
whip up time into tiny chopped fragments;
too powerless to even touch me.

Film Watching at Birmitrapur Club

I traipsed jauntily down the drive way and past the oblong rose garden in red bell bottoms and a tight parrot green and brown checked shirt— a loquacious, pony tailed five year old with two missing front teeth— past the guava and custard apple orchard, the low orange and sweet lime bushes, out of the tall iron gates, along the long winding road and towards the Birmitrapur Officers’ Club. Vikram mama, whose finger I clutched, always pointed out the fireflies in the dark foliage, and then I’d walk with my head thrown backwards facing the myriad stars in the inky black December sky; a breathtaking sight seen only in such far flung places in India’s interiors. Even before we reached the top of the hill and caught a glimpse of the imposing faux colonial structure, we usually caught the strains of Cliff Richards’, “Theme for a Dream” or a Peter, Paul and Mary number or even some 1970s vintage Jagjit and Chitra Singh wafting with the breeze.

Every Thursday and Sunday, of those glorious six months of 1976 and every subsequent annual trip to Orissa that I went to my grandfather’s place in Birmitrapur, Orissa, all of us from the Patnaik clan and the other families— from the houses dotting the hills— would descend in a sizeable number for those magical film screenings at the club. Birmitrapur, in northern Orissa, has one of Asia’s biggest limestone mines, an offshoot of the Bird Company (where Amitabh Bachchan began his career as an accountant); it is a small hill station, and the club and the officer’s bungalows are nestled in the hills and their crests and troughs.

There were actually two clubs in Birmitrapur adhering to a certain hierarchy of officers and staff and workers. The Officers club was for officers of a certain standing and rank, a more elitist affair; while the other, the more popular Bisra Club, was for all staff members. Films were screened there as well, but only once a week. As for the workers in the mines and other junior staff, films were screened at a vast maidan twice a month. Many people with film watching experiences at such clubs in other parts of the country have similar tales to tell of class distinctions that existed. More often than not, the hoi polloi had to rest content with sitting behind the screen and watching the movie the reverse way, akin to the now-made-famous sequence from the recent Swades.

I am told now that in the 1950s and 1960s, films were screened only at the antediluvian but grand Director’s Bungalow, twice a month. These were English films mainly catering to the tastes of the top officers and the sizeable Anglo Indian community at Birmitrapur. The Director himself lived in Calcutta and showed up in Birmitrapur only once in a while. The film reels were always brought to Birmitrapur from Calcutta, sometimes routed through Rourkela to be screened at the local Community centre. Later, in the seventies, on popular demand, the Officers’ Club started screening home-grown Hindi movies as well. The movies were usually ones that had been released a couple of years ago, but considered recent enough by the community to generate a great deal of excitement.

Even as I shake those sepia tinted memories out of my head, I hear the clinking of ice in slender Belgium glasses, and the soft murmur of conversation, smell the smoke of Davidolf cigars and the succulent seekh kebabs from all those years back. I see Akhtar, tall and imposing, behind the counter serving drinks to all—Fanta and Coca Cola were the fashionable succour of the young and the terribly young those days before they were unceremoniously banned sometime in the ‘70s.

Soon, everyone except the uninterested would drift toward the room where films were screened on a white portable screen. The latter would sit at the bridge tables with their cognacs or coffees; occasionally, deliberating upon national politics, always munching thoughtfully over the ambrosial fare that Akhtar churned out periodically from the inner recesses of the kitchen. Some intrepid from the ‘60s generation who crinkled their aquiline noses at the ‘banal’ and ‘silly’ Hindi cinema preferred to assemble in the lounge playing chess, or table tennis or listening to the then current rage, Come September.

The room, where films were screened, was a large room with wooden chairs— not the kinds to recline on. Children sprawled, usually, on a rug in front. Sundays were for English films and Thursdays for Hindi ones. There was always a full house on Sundays when people assembled, all agog, at around 7.30 pm. Those were times before Doordarshan made film watching at home, at first, a unique novelty and then a matter of weekly routine; long before cable television reduced it to a rubble of pedestrian mendacity.

Even as the reel was loaded on the huge 1950’s Bell and Howell 16 mm film projector, that the club owned, the Mrs. Shastrys, Mrs. Rastogis, Mrs. Agrawals and Mrs. Roys would swap guava jam recipes, extrapolate on how adding a little salt to the oil on the pan prevented dosas from sticking to the pan, how Mrs. Raju had added two more rare partridges and one more Cheetal deer to her burgeoning wildlife family, how Mr. Patnaik had again bagged the first prize for gardening for his grafting of many differently coloured roses on the same shrub, and how so and so’s second son was not doing well at the REC, Rourkela. Mrs. Whiggs and Mrs. Rodericks would discuss, in low tones, the possibility of moving to London in a few years, or sending the Loilas and Lindas or Melvins away for higher education. The children munched away at sandwiches, chattering endlessly about the new Games Master at school or about Rai’s or Runa’s upcoming birthday party. It was a small world; everyone knew the goings on in everybody’s house.

When the lights were turned off and magic unwound on the silver screen, there was always a sudden hush and very palpable excitement. It was nothing short of sorcery at work and everyone was simply bewitched, lapping up even the casting score. Every time, the reel was changed, there would be a three or four minute blackout but no one minded; people, usually, were patiently riveted to their seats.

The films we saw were an eclectic lot —Zanjeer, Pyaasa, Dost, Five Rifles, Enter the Dragon, Yaadon ki Baraat, Casablanca, Laurel and Hardy. Guru Dutt, and Chaplin, Hrishikesh Mukerjee and Nasir Hussain, all hobnobbed with one another in that small space.

The famous family murder scene in Zanjeer with the child watching from inside the closet is still imprinted in my mind from that year; not all childhood cobwebs are easy to shake out.

Again, for some reason, Kishore’s gadi bula rahi hai, seeti baja rahi hai song from Dost makes me feel, even today, like someone just walked over my grave. I saw the same film with some amount of disinterest nearly 27 years later, and although the movie did not have me particularly excited this time, the haunting quality of Kishore’s voice unerringly sent tingles down my spine. Kishore has many far superior songs to his credit but this song strangely enough rings a special bell to me and transports me back in time to Birmitrapur.

I can also not forget Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa seen the same year. To me, at the time, Waheeda Rahman was the most beautiful woman in the world. Period. Who can forget her in the Jaane Kya Tune Kahi song where she leads the poet along dark alleyways or the poignant aaj sajan mohe ang lagaa lo and the countless expressions that flit across her face—the unfulfilled longing and unrequited love? Her eyes wreak havoc and I strongly believe that women look nowhere as beautiful as they do on black and white celluloid.

To get back to that room in Birmitrapur, if per chance, there was a problem say, with the spool assembly of the projector or with the reel, and a forced interruption, the collective groan that rose up and the unease that settled in the room would be dispelled only when the film started again. Then, the bodies would slouch blissfully in their seats again till the next break.

Sometimes, my adult mind suspects, many a romance was born or snuffed out in that room, many a friendship forged or cast out. I distinctly remember a very handsome young pair, ostensibly “just friends”, mouth unabashedly the lyrics of romantic songs from the films across the room at each other or sneak out at the short breaks in seemingly inconspicuous ways. These were just staccato moments, too brief to be noticed, but I filed some such moments away in my mind, not of my own volition, and understood their relevance years later.

For us children, Sanju, Tunu, Poonam, Appu, Chitradidi, Rai, Runa, Rinamausi, and me, the best film watching days were the ones when the movies were screened at the end of a festive day. Such fun to collectively and boisterously play Holi in the club in the morning and watch a movie in the evening—good for boosting a community’s sense of camaraderie. To chant “Sar jo tera chakraye ya dil dooba jaye, aaja pyare paas hamare, kaahe ghabraye, kaahe ghabraye” in unison with our darling Johnnie Walker on screen and attempt to play tabla on our neighbour’s head in tandem, was the epitome of fun. Or celebrate Christmas with full Santa Claus regalia one night and top up with a blockbuster movie the next day; the balloons, and the streamers from the previous night still stuck to the walls as remnants of the extended good cheer. On other occasions, to watch the large lounge being cleared for the next evening’s ‘ball dance’ (waltz, what’s that?) which only the married couples were privy to. There was some amount of pique in the ‘lower ranks’ about having separate celebrations at the Officers’ Club and the Bisra Club, but it never snowballed into rabble rousing and was nixed. So, we all lived in our own worlds and wore our own rose tinted glasses.

The walk or the drive back home was naturally, a happy one with praise being heaped on the movie seen, always for its plot or the histrionics of its lead actors, never, and sadly so, for the director or film maker. That was enough for the moment; no further intellectual pontificating was expected. It was a rarity for the reputation of a film to be murdered; films were scarce and, hence, to be prized. The happy feeling stayed through the piping hot dinner that awaited us at home, thanks to our outstanding cook and housekeeper, the patriarchal Samuel (called Saamal by the family); the cloud lingered when I cuddled in my grandfather’s, Aja’s lap by the fireplace after dinner, and finally dissipated when I wedged my thin frame between Aja and Ayee later at night.

Through the snaking mists of childhood memory, I recall many different cinema watching experiences—some funny, some weird, others unbelievable—but, none romanticised by my adult mind as much as the one at Birmitrapur. I do not know whether it was the place with its unique old world charm, the quaint set of people there, or just the fact that I am here now—a 34 old year old looking back through the faint haziness of childhood nostalgia and walking down memory lane, that makes the cinema watching experience there evocative to me. Or, perhaps there is a simpler explanation. Reflecting on that phase of life reminds me of a long gone time of delight, of the cozy childhood haven of being loved by grandparents, aunts and uncles, and sundry other people loved but gone.

The Beatles give me a rationale for my eulogising of Birmitrapur so much:

There are places I’ll remember

All my life though some have changed

Some forever not for better

Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I have loved them all.

Nature’s Bounty is Here!

Every year when we make our customary summer trip to Orissa, I am amazed afresh with the wealth of nature’s bounty there. It is not an ostentatious or showy beauty that dazzles and craves for attention. Rather, it is just there, almost self-effacing, a mute and ennobling presence, that humbles even as it evokes pride.

Sometimes I feel that since eastern India is so rich in natural beauty, the people here are dressed plainly in subdued colours to offset it; in western India, Gujarat or Rajasthan, for instance, people need to be dressed in brightly coloured clothes because the landscape and hence, visual imagery is so dry and barren. Of course, it is a very subjective hypothesis.

To get back to the story without digressing… If you manage to stroll by the Kathjodi river, you find that water fowl frolic there in the afternoon and cranes glide lazily albeit majestically over the water. No whiteness on earth can match the pristine whiteness of their wings and slender necks. If you focus solely on the flapping of their wings and are also conscious about the chopping movement of the river underneath, you will feel almost transported over the waves by an optical illusion.

My Pisi’s house in Cuttack, where I have spent many a childhood afternoon, has a lush green compound. Here are two Kadamba trees, a jamun tree, two mango trees, an impressive neem , a verdant guava tree, a bela tree, and many coconut trees and banana trees. A certain kingfisher comes daily in the afternoon and sits on a particular thin branch of a neem tree here, at almost the same time. It happily sways along with the branches as the breeze passes through them. A couple of times, I have even spotted a Hoopoe bird strutting on the ground. Once I was lucky enough to see a rare Sunbird flitting in the foliage near the tank in the compound, its wings whirring like the blades of toy helicopters. I have heard a Coppersmith too but not spotted it. There are these robust magpie-robins that dart in and out of the branches of the neem as if playing hide and seek, and tiny, delicate blue-black Jays that serenade each other. Sometimes, I see some birds, whose names I do not know, that look like Swallows minus tails and fattened on a diet of cheese. They remind me of the portly nuns in the convent from “The Sound of Music” and it seems that they will just burst into full throated song. Once, a flash of mustard and flaming orange winged past briskly. And even as I stared in open mouthed wonder at this gorgeous beauty, it was gone…as quickly as it had come. Are there Birds-of Paradise in India?

When the river bed is quite dry with only patches of water dotting the parched earth, you see buffaloes wading in the water, heads sticking out, bodies glistening like those of well oiled wrestlers in the ring. Cattle egrets sometimes sit on them and do what nature ordained them to—peck at tiny insects on the backs of the buffaloes. (The river also has its moods. It sparkles silver in the morning sunlight, glows golden in the afternoon, mellows down somnolently to a grey blue in the evenings. Steel grey shadows flit through the water when clouds or a flock of birds are passing overhead ).

At Aja’s home in Bhubaneshwar, matronly pigeons (of all shapes and sizes), slender doves, homely and ebullient little sparrows, sprightly mynahs, shrewd parrots, elf-like squirrels and raucous crows often peep in from the window to say ‘hello’. Spiders continue weaving their gossamer threads (dreams?) oblivious to all else. Grasshoppers and merry crickets do a langorous, summer afternoon waltz near the flower beds. Butterflies, with gossamer wings as thin as dried peepul tree leaves are other regulars. Invisible koels pour their mellifluous notes into the otherwise quiet afternoon air. With the rains, peacocks will also come to express their joy of living and to add to yours. But even now, their lonesome cries rent the air in the evenings.

At my in laws’ house, on the branches of a distant Krushnachuda tree, I spot another bird, whose name I don’t know, peeping out saucily from behind a flaming vermillion flower, and I rue the fact that I do not know who she is. A golden brown mongoose with her babies trooping behind her in fine array frequents the low shrubs. Not to forget the occasional dog that strays onto the lawns, has a siesta or a fiesta as the case may be; sometimes, a troop of monkeys, babies et al that seem to be replicating our lives in all their domestic detail.

Nature’s bounty is here! Spring is in the air!!

telephone

the phone rings
you pick it up.
i try to talk,
but don't succeed.
i just give up.

silence punctuates
our conversation.
questions asked.
answers given.
assurances felt.
tempers driven.
verbal battles.
love is given.
love is taken--
all in silent meditation.

night

night slides in with its own strange shadows
and fractures into two
the indivisible one of daytimes.

vignettes on rain

four in the morning.
the rain
taps my window pane
in quiet secrecy
and i, away from
all matter, all pain
reach where i cannot be.
i find you with me.

once again the rain
in the bustle of the city.
outside the crowded bus
waiting to strike softly
as you emerge carelessly.
black shoe sharp nail
crushes a rose petal; the rain
has carefully struck again.

seven in the evening.
i catch you unawares
in the dark; drenched
under the neem
on that stonehearted bench.

why is your lonesome pain
making a date with rain?

if you come this way

if you come this way
through winding, narrow lanes
where light peeps from behind curtains drawn
blushing coyly at the night,
find your way though the doors are closed, and the roads depeopled still.

search out the solitary footprints
that in waiting
paced up and down the difficult pathways.

see how they lead up rickety stairs
winding upwards towards some faint light.

quick. cross the threshold
in brisk steps.
lest your footsteps too
stop outside like mine.

When I am gone from here and now
When you'll also go away somehow
Where will scatter these golden rays
The ashes of our sunflower days?

On being an Oriya

Some time back in the “Identity and Subjectivity” class with a bunch of pupils at NID, a particularly garrulous one among them steered me into a discussion. We discussed the formation of worldviews and how one’s identity and one’s world views are inextricably linked up with each other in many complex ways; reacting on and influencing each other. The dialogue ended when the student posed a simple question, “Do you know who you are?”

That night, I found myself sitting on the swing in the balcony, a strong hot coffee in hand replaying the classroom scene. The student’s question had flummoxed me, and had me trip over my own words because I had never felt a need to rationalize the issue consciously. Who ever sits and cogitates on “Who am I?” The whole enterprise, in today’s express paced times-- where we, mouse potatoes, measure out our lives with coffee mugs over bits and bytes sounds absurd. Only philosophers engage in such reflections. And, where on earth is the time? So, there I was: As Atlas carrying a tremendous burden and unable to shrug it off. The tedious question of insidious intent kept clawing at my head. So, I did what we usually do when faced with stubbornly sticky questions—toss them away.

One of the binary opposites jostling amongst many in my head was whether I am a non-resident Oriya or an honorary Gujarati. How does it matter was the immediate afterthought and I chucked the thought away again. Anyway, here I am now, pounding away on the keyboard like a maniac and chewing on the cud.

So, what has it been to be an Oriya? Feeling elated every year on my annual trips to Orissa—to Karanjia, Bhubaneshwar, Cuttack, and earlier Koraput, Rourkela and Birmitrapur, when gazing upon all that natural beauty—the lush greenery, the ripe fields, the lotuses and lilies in the myriad pools all over the place, the many banana, papaya, jackfruit and coconut trees even in the humblest of homes? What was it about the old-world antiquated charm and feel of the place as though you were in another world? Stone temples with their beauty and simplicity somehow stirred the hidden atheist in you and made you feel spiritual, if not religious.

Even as the Howrah Express snaked its way into the state in all those train journeys of my childhood, we would be looking out through the windows glued to the verdant beauty of the paddy fields, the streams and rivulets, the dense forests, and the humble homes and villages we passed. Papa would sometimes start singing some Oriya songs he had heard in his childhood (clearly etched in my memory even today)—Tulasichaura mule, Rangani gachha tale, sanja batti libhi libhi jaye, jaye lo/ sanja batti libhi libhi jaye… and look happily entranced at “going home.”

What has it been to be an Oriya? Feeling excited every time a textbook in school mentioned Orissa—whether it was the geography textbook talking about iron ore mines in Orissa, or a mention of Jagannath Puri and Rathyatra somewhere else, or even upset when a story in the class 6 Gujarati textbook referred to Orissa as a very poor state (garibdi) and the inhabitants as raankdi. Feeling exasperated when people often asked, Orissa-- e wali kyaan che?” (Orissa—where on earth is it? ) A neighbour once asked, “Kya who Pakistan ke paas hai?” Another college going girl asked me whether Gujarati was taught in schools in Orissa, and when I roared a “NO”, asked why not. Gritting my teeth at her complete lack of awareness about another state in her own country, trying to patiently point out that Orissa is a state in eastern India, I retorted, “Do they teach Oriya in schools here?” She looked at me as though I were daft, threw me a sympathetic look and sidled away.

Since childhood, Papa inculcated in us sisters, a love for the handicrafts of Orissa. He was so much taken by their simplicity of form, aesthetic sense, use of natural raw materials abundantly available in Orissa, beautiful colour palettes, typical and traditional motifs, and range, that it was only natural, that in course of time, we grew to love them too. Whether it is the lacquer work-cane boxes of Navarangpur, dhokra (lost wax process) artifacts, figurines chiseled from buffalo-horn, tribal terracotta ware, pattachitra paintings, tribal bell metal jewelry, Pipli appliqué work wall hangings, wooden toys, —all found a pride of place both at my parents’ home and later, when I got married, in mine. There is something about this rich repository of our crafts that tugs at the heart strings, and moves, especially when watching craftspersons making them. It is a love that found fruition in NID, Inshallah, when I got involved with craft documentation as a course. Does all this qualify to make me an Oriya?

How can one forget the handlooms of Orissa, especially ikat or tie and dye fabrics, known as bandhas? Handlooms reflect the essence of the traditional way of life; the loom is an intrinsic part of the state’s folklore. These handwoven textiles have such an amazing depth and range, vim and vigour that have evolved over generations. I grew up observing the ladies of the Oriya families settled in Ahmedabad drape these saris on get togethers or other functions of the association. Mummy's own collection of exquisite bomkais, sambalpuris and saktapar saris were always the envy of the neighbourhood and a matter of pride for us girls. There’s nothing like wearing kurtas made of Sambalpuri cloth in summers—very conducive for the skin and they are my staple office-wear in summer.

Pithas are another unforgettable relic in childhood memories. Some of my friends were amazed with the chunchipatra pitha, haldipatra pitha, and podopitha mummy made. But, my personal favourite is the arisapitha, particularly the sugar variety because both Ayee and Mama were experts at making them and it was like a bonanza for a gluttonous child staring greedily at them while they were being made and the aroma filled up the whole house.

Is one an Oriya if one speaks Oriya (albeit with an accent)? I remember when those of us who have grown up in Ahmedabad met during get-togethers, Nilamani Mohanty uncle always used to come up to us children and urge, “Speak in Oriya amongst yourselves, not in English or Hindi.” To our immature minds, it was a quaint thing to do (our schooling made it only natural for us to converse in English); at the time, some of us used to think it was wearing our Oriya-ness on our sleeves and being parochial. The wisdom of what he was saying occurred-- to me at least— years later, and now a parent myself, am happy that my daughter speaks Oriya too.

In any case, after class XII, the urge to learn to read and write Oriya took hold of me, and procuring a Barnabodha tutored myself to learn. Of course, writing Oriya was restricted to writing letters to grandparents, and later to grandparents-in-law. Sushmita, Nilamani Mohanty uncle’s daughter was an inspiring influence who in our growing up years could read Janamamu with ease and élan. Growing up listening to Tapoi, tales of Jagannath, and many other folk tales--- some from either or both my parents, some from ayee and others from mama, my Jejema, or even happily discovering a ‘Folk Tales of Orissa” in a Delhi bookstore while strolling on Janpath one winter afternoon as a student at JNU--- was a treat, and these were often an entry point into Oriya culture. We have grown up on these tales no less than any child born and brought up in Orissa. As adults, at least two of us, Sunita and I have shared common interests in and books on Orissa’s history, folklore, iconography, temple architecture, crafts, rites and rituals. We continue to do so.

Once, soon after we were married, a cousin visited Anshuman and me in Delhi where we were then living. During a long conversation over lunch, which essentially comprised posto bada, phoolkobi patua, khoda sago, bilati baigana khata, dahi salad, rice and mooga dali, the cousin leaned across the table and remarked, “What do you non-Oriyas know about Oriya culture, eh?” The remark stung to the quick, not just because of its rudeness and audacity, but also because it seemed unfair. Why should one have to defend one’s Oriya-ness, lack of it or part of it, to those brought up in Orissa? Why should it be held as something against one? Of course, I spent the greater part of the next forty minutes or so delivering an impassioned speech on how wrong he was; asked him five questions on Oriya history, geography, etc. with a great deal of theatricality and silenced him. In hindsight, I feel it was not necessary to do that. The episode amuses me, and makes me reflect in a different way today. If this be so, then what am I doing, venting my angst, justifying the integral Oriya half/part of myself here? This whole exercise of penning these thoughts down becomes paradoxical and deconstructive.

There is a beautiful story in the Upanishads which explains the oneness of things. Shvetaketu asks Sage Uddalak, his father, to tell him what is the essence of things, of being. Uddalak asks his son to break open the seed of the fig tree. Doing so, Shvetketu finds nothing inside and the father points out how that nothingness leads to the birth and growth of a new tree from the seed. Uddalak calls that nothingness, the essence of being.

We, who live outside the state of our origin, straddle two worlds, imbibe two cultures, are rooted in both and are hence, more cosmopolitan, more heterodox, more accepting of plurality and diversity. People may scoff and remark we are “rootless”, but we probably have the best of both. I grew up here with a heady cocktail—an Oriya in origin, a Gujarati at heart. While I carry in my head the poetry of Orissa’s rivers and streams, her folklore and art, my heart is full of the love and acceptance that is so quintessential of Gujarat.

Inclusive Design: Enabling Spaces

The organised retail blitzkrieg across the country proclaiming India’s emerging economic vigour, has led to super malls mushrooming all over Ahmedabad and more are about to jump into the fray. Developers are swallowing large plots of land to convert them into staggering money-spinning enterprises—shopping complexes buzzing with multi-screen cinemas, recreational facilities, food courts and branded outlets. Our state governments are all too happy to foster the shopping mall boom and foreign direct investment is just on the threshold. The urban Indian consumer has also plunged headlong into a love of mall culture; honeymooning with this new way of home purchases that also double as family outings and entertainment. Everything is hunky dory under the shimmering glass canopy. We are a developing nation.

Predictably then, like other public utility buildings such as educational institutes, parks, hotels, cinema halls, housing complexes, banks, government offices and the railway and bus stations, these architectural edifices are woefully insensitive to the needs of those whose ability to move around is restricted-- the elderly, and persons with physical impairments.

People with locomotor impairments are significantly disadvantaged by the design of the typical retail stores and malls, and find that moving around in them can be a nightmare. To start with the floors, including highly polished, marble and terrazzo floors and those that have been treated with floor finishes are inherently, dangerously slippery. It takes tremendous effort to walk carefully on them. Wet weather conditions and poor housekeeping leading to wet floors worsen the situation. There are no seats, sofas, or chairs where they can sit or rest in the midst of their shopping which leads to discomfort, physical pain and exhaustion. For wheelchair users, malls are effectively off-limits because they are not always barrier free even if they do have lifts, ramps, and special toilets. Often, the ramps are excessively steep and special configuration steps, railings, lifts equipped with handle bars are conspicuously missing.

While the physical impairment itself may cause the difficulty in mobility, ableist environments which are not accommodating enough lead to dis-abling situations. The burden of disability must necessarily shift from the individual to society; we need to re-examine the built environment and technology. This is because when disability combines with restricting factors in the environment such as social attitudes, a lack of information and access to quality services it results in a situation of handicap. Handicaps perpetuate the exclusion of people with disabilities from mainstream society by violating their human right to a life of dignity and equal opportunity.

Surely, the mobility of people through such public spaces can be made less stressful in a way that includes the needs of all ages and abilities. This is where Inclusive Design comes in: it is a way of designing policies, services, products and environments in a sustainable manner so that they are usable and appeal to everyone regardless of age, and ability by working with users to remove barriers in the social, technical, political and economic processes underpinning building and design. Doing so, will help build a more integrated and inclusive society that can truly carry us into a new India.

november rain

here i am then, confusion confounded, a gauche but intrepid debutante in ze glitzy blogosphere. summarily seduced into sashaying my way in by avid blogging pals and savvy students egging me on even as i stumble and bumble on this enticing ramp. blinking and blinded by the light of someone else reading and reading into the inner workings of my mind. (how long does it take to feel comfortable in one's own skin in some other garb?)

hey, what ever happened to those assiduous "dear diary" decades when single lined pages stood in for a confidante and patient listener? when every entry began predictably with, "today, I ...." meandered aimlessly through " school, home, friends, mummy and papa..." and convulsed unerringly into, " feel lonely...miserable" (ho humm). when you wrote warily because you didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings with what you'd written? when you wrote in such a way that only you could truly understand what you'd written? when you wrote because you didn't want to shed tears on your cheeks, but allowed them to flood into the inner most recesses of your soul?

today, i do not want to read those diaries, i do not want anyone to read those diaries, and yet do not have the heart to throw those musty-smelling private mementoes away. they are me, in a certain age and time. they are. whatever they are worth. such vanity. and miserly possessiveness. so they remain firmly enconsed in the bedroom loft where they have been for years, along with other bric-a-brac and senseless relics from the past. We are all collectors of some sort or the other. hoarders. some of us hoard objects. some wealth. and some memories.