Hidden costs

Uneven grounds, craters as dark and deep as sin, the battered subject and his chariot make their way. The battle scars are evident. A creaky hip, the once non-noticeable limp but no longer so. He battles through a quick transformation from a youth with steely bones to one with aching joints. The once shiny yellow and black is now but a rickety and muddy 3 wheeler.

Both question - how did I become this?

Both question - who pays for this?

Mumbai - A sensory explosion

Many of you would have come in thinking that it would read something like this - smell of the sea, the feel of newly minted notes, the sight of the skyscrapers , the taste of the roadside vada pav. And you wont be wrong. But that is how an unsuspecting , naive tourist perceives it.

For us lot, it is never just this. It is an amalgamation of so much more.

Every morning I step out of my house to get to work. This is a 20-45 minute commute depending on when I leave. And everyday my senses are challenged. I live in an apartment complex with ~160 odd flats and I am greeted by an elevator that has the smell of fresh newspapers, amul milk packets, a calvin klein perfume and definitely that of a dog. 

I get into an auto which is either a fresh smell of agarbathis or the stench of an unbathed driver. Your destiny chooses you here. Then I navigate the roads - 

First stop: fresh fried aloo wadas merged with black grey fumes from a tempo that last did its pollution check 10 years ago and with the rotten smell of the discards from a thousand households.

 Next stop: the roadside fish market merged with the spices from the sahakari bhandhar (provision store), and again from the rotten smell of the discards from another thousand (this time floating in the canal nearby). 

Third stop: The smell of fresh flowers that the hawkers sell to hang in your cars to ward away evil, with the smell of the paan that the riskshaw driver adeptly opens with one hand and pops into his mouth and with the rotten smell of the discards from another thousand people (this time somehow has made it into the landscape as mosaics in a small hillock). 

Fourth and final stop: I reach office which is situated in one of the poshest areas and you would expect it to reek of everything fragrant, what with the multi national companies and five star hotels. But no, here you are welcomed with the unique mix of the fragrance from the flowers from a Nagalinga tree , the smell of temporary stress relief (cigarettes) , the smell of chanels and armanis and yes, you guessed it right - the rotten smell of the discards from another thousand people(but this time cleverly decorated with concrete). It flows like a river underneath the complex. You hide it from sight but alas you cannot prevent it from smartly escaping through vents and snaking into the air.

This amalgamation is the truth for many of us. For a non-mumbaikar, this is a lot to take in but for us, this is the norm and the truth. But it will not be long before even for us, this becomes unbearable. Till then, I shall continue to bear this daily journey that is interspersed with moments where I literally hold my breath.

Thank you!

Oh mothers,

I write this letter to you, thanking you in advance for the beautiful men you will be nurturing and growing. I am so proud of the fact that you will be teaching them to be kind and gentle, respectful and loving, strong and supportive. I brim with pride when I know that the boys are in good hands and you have helped them understand what “NO” means - for trivial nothings and for the non-trivial bigger non-nothings. I see that each of your boys is seeing at home an example from his father on how a woman should be treated - He sees his father as a  friend to his mother who is an equal partner - right from helping out at home, to taking care of each other. I know that you know that this is important as he is not going to learn this anywhere else. You have also made them realize that they have an immense responsibility to walk hand in hand with the other sex.

I am so proud of the fact that when these boys grow up to be those wonderful human beings and they look back at the stories of horror on the opposite sex, it leaves them in utter dismay, but they heave a Sigh of relief with the thought - “Not on my watch, not now, not ever”

The wrinkles

Unlike the wrinkles on a shirt that get pressed on, with no stories to share, the wrinkles on a face mean so much more. They highlight the years of laughter, the moments of tears, the days of toil and more importantly the beauty of time. They are like journey lines, each telling a different story. The ones around the eyes speak about the heartfelt smiles that made their way from the lips to the eyes, the furrows near the brow retain those un-worded disapprovals , those on the forehead, the unabashed exclamations, the creases near the mouth roar with the sound of laughter, and those under the chin scream of the unshed tears that you pursed your way through. 

Do we have to smoothen these and erase a part of the past? Do we have to make them disappear? Ageing is inevitable but ageing elegantly and beautifully is something we should still hold on to, no?

The UN speaker and the Socialist

PTM time and it's exciting.

I confidently walk across to the medical room which is the make-shift  ptm space. The teacher starts with - what can I say about her ma'am, she is perfect in everything she does. She is sincere and next year I plan to put in a word for extended work.

She talks about her writing, math skills and science interests. She asks me if I have seen her model un speech and urges me to to read it . She says she will be great at whatever she chooses to do in life. She gives me a breakdown of her temperament, interactions (with her friends and sister). She has kept an eye on my kid as though she was one of her own.

I brim with pride for my daughter and heartfelt gratitude for the teacher. The rare teardrop makes an appearance.

I gingerly move on to the next classroom. The teacher has her things out and I put in my bag. She starts off by saying how her handwriting has improved and how confident and vocal she had become. How friendly she is with both boys and girls alike and how beautifully she can sing and dance.

The teacher has been the second mother to my child. The little caterpillar entered this class and has come out a beautiful butterfly.

I brim with pride for my daughter and heartfelt  gratitude for the teacher. Again, I realize that now that not so rear tear drop makes an appearance

Two different feedbacks but two absolutely brilliant feedbacks. My daughters are different in so many ways and similar in so many ways. I shall and should celebrate each similarity and difference with equal pride.

Love them.

The wandering moss

I am the one who picks up and moves. I am the one who receives the hugs and goodbyes. I am the one who is always brought up to think that change is the only constant. It feels weird to be the one who is staying back. It is a feeling of stability that is reassuring and annoying at the same time. It's a feeling that am not used to.

I get restless, listless, depressed,bored - of the scenery, the routine, thankfully not the people.

People use the phrase, put down your roots. I never seem to have and somehow feel that I never will.

One Truth

Why does the innocence of a chid's voice invoke so much more spirituality? Is it because they are untouched by any of the vices? There is purity and clarity in their voice and tone. It shatters your ego, breaks into all your insecurities and makes you completely vulnerable. 

And I am not talking here about a God or religion but just the true essence of acknowledging that there is something bigger than you and yourself. Amidst all the logic and certainty, there is another energy that does make that one small change.

All of us go through ups and downs in faith on the basis of incidents in one's life. During intolerable times, some hold onto that faith longer and firmer whereas some question that faith. But I feel, we question and then we seek peace and we come back to that one truth.