The Story of a Letter-Writer

I recently read the book "The Lost Generation by Nidhi Dugar Kundalia. She describes in the book 11 professions in India that are on their way out; the last of the dying professions. One of the professions she writes about are the Letter Writers of Bombay. When I read that chapter, I remembered that I was once a letter-writer too, though, an unpaid one, unlike the writers of Bombay outside the GPO who were paid for their services.

I used to write letters for others. My neighbors. There was Narsajji (Narsamma was her name plus ajji meaning grannny. So Narsajji) and her daughter whose name I've forgotten. Narsajji used to live alone, her two daughters in Bombay. During the weekends, or after school, she would call me or send someone to fetch me. She had a walking stick. I used to write in Kannada on an inland letter. Those of you who don’t know what an inland letter looks like, here it is. 

 

I must have written for them for nearly 5 years till I was in my 12^th Std. I completed my 12th in 1995. 

Strangely, I had learned the alphabets and then to read and write Kannada only in the 4^th Std. 

Narsajji used to give me a guava or a mango for my efforts. Not always, only sometimes. I used to write what she said verbatim. She always talked of how she was doing fine, the coconut yield was low, it has started raining or it is too hot, no water in the well.  I remember sitting in the stone bench or what we call in our village in Kannada “jagli” and she would hand me my weapons – a pen and an inland letter. I knew what the opening and closing lines of the letter would be but would still wait for her to say it out loud and match my writing speed with her speech. I would fill the space. She would always ask “is there more space?”  

A few years later, one of her daughters came and stayed with her as she was unable to move or cook. Now, she commissioned me to write letters for her sister in Bombay. She never gave me anything. 

I was their official letter reader too. So every time the postman delivered a letter to them which I would know because he had to pass our house to go to theirs, I knew my summons would come. It used to take half an hour for the entire exercise - the reading followed by the writing. 

For the longest time, the letters were sent to an unseen recipient. I hadn’t seen the old lady’s daughter and family at all. Years later, when they came down, for her funeral, they thanked me and I felt a sense of pride and satisfaction.

I wonder who writes for them now! Are they still alive! Does anyone anymore do this? With cheap mobiles and cheaper messages, I don’t think it is even required anymore.Not even in the villages. 

I have written for others too – only the elderly. But Narsajji was a regular. The others were once in a blue moon clients. I remember sometimes being pissed off and not wanting to go. The letters always read the same, over and over again. It was so repetitive. And I would also need to listen to Narsajji’s complaints of the bad weather, bad crop, bad back, and so on. I detested it as the years went by. 

But I never stopped. Mostly to please my mother. She hadn’t been to school either and though she had managed to be self-taught, she too struggled with the written word.  She would tell me never to refuse. Half an hour of my filling up a blank page meant a lot to Narsajji and her family. There were no phones then. And letters were the only way to know if someone was dead or alive. My mother used to say, "Imagine you are writing it for me, doing a favor to me and do it for them". So I did it. Every time. Twice a month for almost five years. And then we moved houses.  

Sometimes I wonder if my empathy stems from my mother. I think it does. If it weren’t for her, I would turn out a very selfish, uncaring person like my father. She really grounded me. Not with lectures but just the way she looked at things and people. “Ayyo papa” is a common refrain in my mind when I meet people and hear the stories of their daily struggle. If I had taken after my father, I would have been least bothered. I wouldn’t even have listened to them. But I took after my mother. Stories don’t tire me. What stays is the feeling that there isn’t a lot that I can or could do to alleviate their agony. Mostly a knowing nod is all that I can offer. 

As the book illustrates, things took a complete turnaround in 2002. In the already thriving mobile communications market, incoming calls became free and Reliance announced its launch. ‘I miss you’ could now be sent in seconds across the country. Priced at a few 100 rupees, mobiles were in the hands of traders and hawkers, and in over a few months, the Letter Writers of Bombay were pushed out of business. India Post stopped the services completely.

I think it is good that that happened. No one has to ever ask anyone for a favor of this kind, a personal-to-the-core kind. No illiterate person must ever be obliged to an educated person. Like Narsajji was to me.

School Trip - Flashback

Here's something I found in my attic last week as I was searching for something else. An old, tiny little notebook on which I had written about my school trip. The entry is dated  01/01/90 - that's 26 years back!!! I am copy-pasting it here verbatim. I was in Class 7 then, around 13 years old. Read on for spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and some innocence:

It was time for us to set for our journey and so we had our prayer led by our President Dr. Abraham. And then started our journey. And later, after a long travel, we reached the Karnataka border and as we crossed it we reached Kerala. At afternoon as we were so hungry, we were led to a hotel called Citilight in Tellicherry for our lunch. The food was good but the water was salty and I couldn’t drink it. There were many shops near it and I spent Rs 3 in one of the shops. We saw a sea near to this place with many boats sailing on it. The womens here wore a blouse and a skirt. A few wore a shall {haha....shall for shawl} or half saree over it. Tellicherry was a beautiful place with big-big {hahaha} buildings on both the sides and we saw a green-green {hahaha} plants everywhere. 

After Tellicherry, we met {hahaha} a place named Maagie (I am not sure of the spelling) which is a Union Territory. And then we reached a place called Calicut, which is a very beautiful city with many big buildings and shops on both sides. It is a very nice place but it is not clean. Later on we saw a place named Callai in Calicut. Here, suddenly our friends Naina and the uppittu had a great fall for there was a great break. It is said that our Principal didn’t go to help Naina but went back of the uppittu to catch it. Afterwards we went to have tea. The hotel’s name was White Restaurant which is in Teroke. Wherever we see we could find a mirror and so I sat near a big mirror. I saw a place named kakkad where I was surprised to see such a beautiful plantation of banana and some other crops. All the area was covered by green color and it looked so pretty that we couldn’t leave the place.  Later our bus spoiled at Kuttipuram, where Nayak Sir brought us some biscuits on Neeta teacher’s request. There was a institution in which we stayed. It was called Renewal Centre. There were a lot of mosquitoes and so they had put the mosquito net over the bed. 

Later on we visited the ship port. We went to have a boat-ride, which was very interesting. While our ride we saw many ships like Sagar Samrat. We sang many songs in the boat. Then we visited the Mattancherry Palace Museum. There we saw the photographs of some kings like Ravi vara, & Kerala varma. There were some dolis, palanquins, knives, dresses of the kings. Afterwards we went to the Jewish synagogue and we saw many shandlians {hahaha.....chandeliers!}. No two tiles were alike. It was made by the Chinese and the shandlians were brought from Belgium. There were 21 shandlians on the ceiling. We visited St. Frances Church. There we saw the burial place of Vasco-da-Gama. He had died in 1524 in Cochin. We saw 2 aeroplanes, one was about to land and the other one had taken off. We reached Kanyakumari at 5 o’clock. At night Shyla teacher said that she had lost her position and was searching for it. This was a great joke for all of us. We went to Kanyakumari beach. We saw the sun rising at 6:30. We saw the waves jumping upon one another {hahahaha....jumping}. It was a wonderful sight! Then we went to Trivandrum. There we visited a Zoological Zoo. There we saw so many different kinds of animals. I was very happy to see the unseen animals {hahahaha....unseen animals}

We reached a Restaurant called Nalukittre. I drank so much water for, I didn’t drink any water in Kanyakumari. I liked the “vaters” of this hotel, I liked everything in this hotel but I didn’t like the name of the hotel. I was very much surprised to see Trivandrum so clean everywhere. I liked Trivandrum very much. Next we started our journey towards “Vikram Sarabhai Space Centre” where we had to wait for a while near the gate. And finally entered it. I liked the rocket centre for it was green-green everywhere. I wanted to roll, sleep and play on the beautiful grass but it was not allowed. We saw the airport. We went there and saw the launching {hahaha} of the aeroplane. From there we went to the beach and played with the waves. My pant had become wet fully. I couldn’t walk on the sand.

We danced and sang in the bus. I too danced. And I was surprised to see myself dancing in front of all for I had not danced openly {hahahaha....openly} anywhere except at my home. All the girls danced but the boys didn’t dance. We all requested them to dance but it was all in vain.  

In Kanyakumari

We went on a ship to the Vivekananda Rock Memorial. Swami Vivekananda came to meditate on the rock in the year 1892. He started meditating on 25^th, 26^th & 27^th {hahaha} December 1892. After seeing the Vivekanand Rock we went for shopping. We brought many things that were made of shells. I wanted to stay on the rock for it was too cool and it was a very nice place. I was so much surprised to see such a construction on a rock! I purchased a shell hanger – 6 rs, a set of bangle – rs 5, two packet of klips 9, 2 chains -3, a set of chain – 15, a top -1. We stayed at Vivekananda Kendra. The sea looked merroon from far. 

Nearby Trivandrum

We visited a temple called Suchitram Temple. The temple was built by the Cholas, Cheras and Pandyas.  The man who was explaining us about the temple was a very funny man for he was calling us Karnataka bega banny.  

Our return journey

During our return journey our photographs were taken by Neeta teacher, our principal and P.T.Sir. We started to dance but we didn’t get a long time. Then they said that the check post was approaching but really it was 1 and 1/2 mile far (i hope so). I felt very sad for we could not dance. I wanted to dance from dawn to dusk {hahaha} but my wish didn’t fulfil. I was begging for the teachers to let the dance but it was all in vain. And finally we crossed the kerala border and reached our school. And this is the end of my happy days. I was very happy to have Miss Vanitha Nayak teacher as our group teacher. She helped us a lot in purchasing our desired things. She was a very nice teacher.

One Second

8th June: 2 days after Tanvi’s 5th birthday. She & I were crossing a road near our house. I was holding her hand. I looked to the right, saw a bike coming, stepped back & looked to the left. There was an auto approaching. By the time I looked again at the road ahead, Tanvi had left my hand & was running across. In a second, I saw the horrifying scene of her being hit by the auto. She fell down & the back wheels of the vehicle ran over her right foot. The next thing I know, I was carrying her in my arms, hugging & consoling her. She was showing her bloody (literally) foot to me & crying out, “Mummy, my leg.” She was completely shaken & scared. I lifted her, sat in the same auto & went to the nearest clinic. I’ll never forget what she said to me. We both were sobbing uncontrollably & out of nowhere she said, “Don’t cry mummy. I love you mummy. I’ll never leave your hand again. I’m sorry mummy.”



I remember a friend once telling me that a hospital is a depressing place. But the children’s ward is the worst. You feel so sad at what you see there, that it makes you want to kill yourself. I now understand what she meant. The past few days that Tanvi has been suffering, & especially the day the accident happened, seeing her in so much agony, tears streaming down her cheeks continuously, it’s a nightmare. I understand now why some people say, “Mere dushman ko bhi yeh sazaa na miley”. What do you say to a child who looks at you, full of hope & complete helplessness, & cries “mummy, it’s paining a lot”? I’ve felt so helpless.

Seeing her learning to walk again is heart-wrenching. Because every step she takes sends millions of pain shots through her body & she begs me, “Mummy, I can’t, too much pain.” I remember teaching her to walk when she was only an infant. It was such a pleasurable & memorable experience then. Today, it’s very painful for both of us - she can’t walk because of the excruciating pain & I can’t see her writhing like that but I have to.

One second’s haste has caused my child two fortnights of trauma & me & Sathya unending ache. One second was all it took for my daughter, who had just turned 5, to become confined to the bed, listlessly watching T.V. She is not the type of child to sit in one place for more than 10 minutes. She is so naughty that I’ve pleaded with her, “Enough for 1 day Tan please!!” She is always either busy climbing the railings of the building stairs or bouncing up & down the bed or running, walking, sliding, basically up to some mischief every waking hour. To see her now, unmoving, is a nightmare.

But I thank God that it was only a laceration. It’d have been worse, a fracture or something else, god forbid! And thank God because even though she hasn’t been able to walk, her appetite is good, she talks, smiles, laughs & even cracks jokes, like before. They say people turn out to be the exact opposite of what their names mean. Like, girl named Shanta grows up to be very short-tempered. I named her Tanvi because it means ‘a delicate girl’ & I wanted her to be strong. And I’ve realized that she is!

Second Child

What is the right reason to have a second child? Sometimes, I find Tanvi is so lonely, I feel like going for a second child. I have seen her smothering other kids & babies with so much love that, I feel she must be missing a companion. She longs for company, maybe that’s why she does that. Whether the child is older or younger than her, age doesn’t seem to matter to her. As long as she has someone to play with, she’s happy to be with the kid for hours & days together. I play with her too but it’s not the same. Two children playing together & a child-an adult playing is very different.

I went for the first child for two reasons. One, simply because I became pregnant without trying. Two, I wanted to experience motherhood first hand; right from the conception to the entire term of the pregnancy to the labor & the delivery. This is one & the only experience that is reserved just for women. In my next life, if I am born a man, I will miss out on it. Also, this is one of those beautiful things you can’t buy off the rack. No matter how much money you’ve, or how many degrees you’ve earned, or how hard you’ve tried, no matter what, you can’t be a mother (biological) unless God wishes you to be & at the time He wishes it to happen. It is entirely in HIS hands. So if I have got pregnant without trying for it, I felt I should go on the whole journey.

Similarly, there are reasons why I don’t want to have a second (biological) child. And that is simply because I have gone through it all once. I have seen it all, been there, and done that; that too all alone; single-handedly. I know how horrifyingly lonely it gets sometimes & how terribly painful some days are. I don’t want to go through it all over again. Why would I, in my sane mind, want to suffer the hell of labor pain & the stress of raising a baby & the nine months of captivity & the countless hours, nights & days of just wanting to kill myself because I was so damn tired – emotionally, physically? Why would I want to go for it again? Once is enough; more than enough, in fact.

But when I see Tanvi, sometimes playing by herself, ingenuously role-playing, talking to a water tap on the terrace, or the chair or sofa in the hall or the railing of the stairway, pretending these things are people, & having a conversation with them, I feel so bad. I feel momentarily miserable that she doesn’t have a sibling to play with. Or even a kid in the building or the neighborhood. At those times, I so want to give her a sister or brother she can spend hours talking to.

I just want to give her a friend, a lifelong friend. Not the kind who come & go on weekends. Among the neighborhood children, the big ones bully her. The little babies only coo along; they are always under a 24 hours surveillance of their parents. If Tanvi so much as bends over to plant a light kiss on the baby’s cheeks, the parents shriek “NOOO”. They also usually forget that Tanvi is only 4 years old, a baby too & want her to be this ‘big sister role-model’ & conveniently expect her to be all sacrificing with her toys & crayons & cars & even if the other baby smacks her, to not smack back as a reflex action.

Some women say they went for a 2nd child because their mother-in-law or husband asked them to. Some say relatives said 2 kids is a must for a family. Some even said the second child ensures that, should something happen to one of them, you’d still have one more to hold on to especially if you cross the child-bearing age!! Like, if one dies, you’ve the other to carry on the family name!

I am not sure if I want anyone to carry on my name, let alone my family’s!

Fascinated

"He who can no longer pause to wonder & stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead." - Albert Einstein

Does technology kill curiosity? Do technical advancements inhibit our spirit of adventure & wonderment? “Yeah right! So what?”, “What’s the big deal?” is a response you get if you interact with teens today. The eternal question is ‘What Next?’ Remember the Samsung ad. It’s a mad rush for new products, new features in existing products, new accessories, new applications, new tools, basically new everything. With so many ‘new‘s, where’s the time to be captivated? By the time I purchase a thing, go home & sit down to explore its features, the marketing for its new, improved & upgraded version would already be out on the telly. Watch the show ‘It’s a Guy Thing’ on NDTV & you’ll know what I mean.

My first handset, the Sony Ericson “brick” model, was still a cherished one. Quite an accomplishment because it was a gadget bought with my salary. And it was taken at a time when I did not feel a compelling need to own a mobile. I bought it only because someone sold it to me for Rs 1500/- way back in 2002! When I look at my present handset - touch-screen Motorola & recall the tiny display of that first handset, the gap & difference is not just in the price of the things but also in my own personal growth in terms of increasing earning capacity & a proportionate willingness to spend. But what has remained constant is my fascination for both. I was fascinated then, I am fascinated now.

My eyes light up at the very sight of a new gadget or application. Like, the first time I saw the LG fridge with its water compartment outside the body of the refrigerator. It was a ‘wow’ moment for me. The journey of Indian cooking, from the wood & fire chulhas to LPG gas to induction cookers to microwave ovens is a remarkable one too. I am still spellbound when I go over some of the latest models in the electronics section of a mall or when I watch the gizmo updates on T.V or the description of features in magazines. I’m like, “This thing can do this?” followed by ‘How’ & later ‘Wow’.

The variety of children’s books & toys available today – I like, I like. As a child, when I was growing up in Bombay, it was all about running around the gullies with a gang of boys. And later in Udupi, it was mostly playing ‘house’ with leaves & assorted sticks & stones. Chasing butterflies & failed attempts at milking the cow were our most fun games. Today, the sheer range of toys to be had is amazing – from tumbling honey bees to an ironing tool set to cash register machines to road excavation equipments – they’ve the whole gamut; that too by categories of age. Playing in mud is so passé!

I’m not skeptical of technology nor do I fear its effects on my daughter’s growing mind. As a parent, what I do dread is the loss of fascination for things. With everything available at the touch of a button, & so easily seen & experienced, the sense of curiosity & allure, the absolute thrill of discovery, the romance of a new sensation, the wide-eyed wonder, wouldn’t be there, would it? Wish we could take time to savor each of these experiences & satiate our senses before we move on to the next conquest. Seems like asking for a lot.

Most scientific inventions & discoveries owe their birth to one emotion: an overwhelming & over-powering sense of fascination. One genius was fascinated by the falling apples, another by the movement of a train in relation to his own movement or lack of it in a car, one was mesmerized by the power of sound, another by the way light travelled, one dug into the deepest recesses of a cell, another into the vast expanse of the universe. Oh, without a sense of wonder, what would man be?

Needless Fear

I had this conversation with my daughter recently. She told me since her class teacher hadn’t come, they were taken to some other class. She sat with her classmates in the front row but Rakshit called her to sit with him. She first refused, but later sat with him.

She is just 4. The boy, around 5 years old, is in UKG. Every time she talks about him, she has this smile. Some days back, he’d told her, “I like you”. Once, he’d even winked at her! I felt uneasy. I didn’t like what I had heard. It worried me. When I said, I’ll tell Sathya about this, she panicked & covered my mouth tightly, begging me not to tell him, eyes filling fast with little droplets. She had confided in me. Fearing she wouldn’t let me in on her life, if I “complained” to her father, I let it go. When Sathya had heard about the winking incident, he’d flown into a rage & had warned her not to talk to the ‘bad boy’.

In spite of all this, she had sat with him!

But why should that make me uneasy? What is it that, I as a mother, am afraid of? Can’t she sit with her schoolmate who happens to be a boy? What is there to fear in this seemingly harmless incident?

The fear is, growing up, what if a boy, any boy, touches her inappropriately? What if he touches her hand, her face? What if, later in life, she gets hurt, first physically & then mentally because of one bad experience with a boy? Deep down, in the darkest recesses of their mind, are parents scared that their girl may become pregnant & end up scarred for life? All that parents want is to marry their princess, so she can experience the joy of love within the secure environment of a marriage. The “good” boy, thoroughly scanned & certified by them, should be the only man in her life. Am I like one of these parents too?

Is this seemingly needless worry a passing phase? Or does this feeling stay with them till she is packed off to her husband? Do all parents go through this phase? Does the rich mother in America feel the same way? And the poor father in China feels it too? I don’t know, but my instinct says, “yes”. This must be one of those universal truths, transcending class, country & age. All parents must feel this way; more so the fathers. The difference is, they express their distress & go into a fit of rage in an instant.

In Heyy Babyy, there’s a dialogue where they say, “hum jaisa kameena koi iska boyfriend ho toh?” Is that what Sathya fears for his daughter? Is that why most men guard their daughters’ lives with extreme caution, almost remote controlling it sometimes? They fear she might land up with an ass-hole of a man like their own self?! Are they protecting her or trying to atone for their own sins?

We can’t let our love-born to go through an emotional hell. We can’t let a boy wreak havoc in her otherwise happy existence. We can’t let him take away her sunny smile. No, can’t let him to do it. We won’t let him do it. What can I do so my child is safe? How do I tell her to wait till she is married?

The last generation fell in love in their 20’s. Our generation felt the first rush of infatuation in our teens. This generation seems to be tuned in pretty early. I am about to have sleepless nights from now on.

Bombay by nature

I generally don’t give a damn about others.

I don’t sit & criticize or bother ki how they look, what they are wearing, how they walk, what they talk, how do they commute to work. I don’t care if they use the public transport, like half of apna desh’s aam admi, or their own private SUV to get to work. In short, I don’t interfere in other people’s lives or judge them by the size or swell of their purse.

And I don’t want others to care a damn about me.

Bombay gives you that space. It lets you BE.

I read once that Aamir Khan’s ex-wife Reena travels to work by the local train daily in the heavy Bombay traffic. The thing with Bombay is, it doesn’t care where you’ve come from or where you’re going. It’s only about what you mean to the person at that point in time & place. If you are polite & friendly, your bus mate or train mate is your friend for the day. Kal koi aur bhala aadmi milega.

Bombay is also about not hiding things. I mean, people don’t take great efforts to push everything under the carpet. Every family has a skeleton in the cupboard. Yes, I’ve problems at work, yes, I’ve issues at home, yes I fought with my husband, yes my son flunked his test. So what? No pretensions. None of those “we are from a good family” drama, typical of Indian society. Everybody has a history. After all, like they say in Kannada, “yellar maney doseynu thoothey”. Translated in hindi, ‘sabke ghar ke dosay mein ched hai’. Everybody has a story he wouldn’t want others to know for fear of losing face. Also, most of them have struggled in life to reach where they have reached today. Some of them are still struggling. Some strive day in & day out to realize their ambitions in the city of dreams. Some isliye ki do waqt ki roti kamasakey. There is an unspoken, deeply felt empathy.

Bombay is crowded beyond belief. Yet, it’s also the only city that gives you a lot of space. You can just be who you are. Most people are not judgmental. After all, they would’ve seen worse. And if some of them are, you wouldn’t care anyways. “Toh kya … sala who kaun hota hai puchne wala” is how it goes. I love that about Bombay. Let me make my mistakes. Don’t question me. Don’t correct me. You want to live an error-free, carefree (oops) life, go on. Who is stopping you? Just don’t meddle with mine. I’ve only one life to live. Live and let live.

But strangely I wouldn’t want to go back & settle in Bombay now. The city has changed. The childhood memories have been erased. The people of my bachpan are no longer there. If some of them are still there, they may not be the same, maybe they wouldn’t even remember me, who knows. The Hanuman temple, the galli ke friends, the Jain ashram next to my house where the devotees always covered their mouths with a cloth, the tree lined streets, the bakery, the pan ki dukaan wala mama, the Jain hospital with the nurses in knee-length frocks, the nukkad mein khelna, ...it’s all over. People & places change. They take on a new character with time. They mean newer things to a whole set of new people now.

Or maybe, the city hasn’t changed. Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe it’s my mind stuck in the past that’s unable to face the reality of today. The city, where I was born & played, holds a very dear place in my heart. And no matter how much wealth & recognition, the place of your livelihood gives you, you will always cherish the city you grew up in. Bangalore gave me an identity, money, marriage, career, & motherhood.

Udupi/Mangalore gave me great education & a sense of direction & with it a desire to be the best of who I could be.

But Bombay gave me my childhood. It has the images of my early growing up years, in the late 70’s & 80’s, permanently etched on its worn out pages. I am totally, irrationally sentimental about the city.

The Romance of a Village

Romance, by definition (& personal experience) is short-lived, fleeting; hence so enticing. The same holds true for my fascination with the rural life. Life in a village is so peaceful, so quiet, so romantic. Yes I know, have heard that a lot. But hey…I don’t want no peace. I would be miserable in a village.

I know many people whose ultimate dream in life is to make loads of moolah in the city & then go back & settle down in a village. I can never ‘settle down’ in a village. It would be my slow poison. Being confined. Not being able to go up & about town. That is my idea of a perfectly sad life. The eerie silence, the peacefulness, the quietness, the solitude, the absence of a hurried existence, the lack of activity, the ‘no hurry- no worry’ life would suffocate me.

The hustle & bustle of a city, its crowds, its movement, the uncertainty, the striving, the struggles – that’s my oxygen. I was born & grew up in Bombay for the first 10 ten years of my life. Bangalore has become my home since the last 10 years. My middle 10 years were spent in a village in Udupi. Today, sometimes, I am hit by sudden bouts of nostalgia. I miss Udupi. Sometimes! But my longing for the place is never for the place per se. What I miss is …

I miss the koli’s (cock) wake-up call in the mornings.

I miss the cow’s ‘ambeyy” reverberating throughout the village.

I miss the ‘halasina seydu” (a quarter of a slice of jackfruit). In Bangalore, you pay Rs 2 for a single seeded piece while back in Udupi I used to devour an entire “seyd” of the juicy giant fruit.

I miss the texture of our courtyard. We used to mix cow dung & water & spread that special mixture all over the front yard to keep it clean & nice.

I miss bangday (mackerel) saaru cooked in an earthen pot & eaten the next day. Aaah! Umm! Ssss!

I miss washing my head with ‘chik’ shampoo. Yup, that was a ‘famous’ brand back then. Modern day competition has wiped the poor thing out. We used to have these big pipes to irrigate the coconut trees. And at the main junctions, the water was let loose into a canal that was then directed into the individual trees using a shovel. We had to move the mud to either stop or let go the water. It was here, at the main junction, that on Sundays, we used to press our head against the gushing water & have a big splash.

I miss the piping hot ‘ganji’. Yeah. Really. A lot. The brown rice, the steaming ganji with kharada hapla (papad) or mango pickle or a nicely fried fish or a bowl of spicy chicken. Aaah! Umm! Ssss!

I miss collecting cashew nuts and earning our summer pocket money from that. One kg of the nuts used to fetch Rs 30. We used to compete with each other to collect the maximum nuts.

I miss the postman’s ghanti (bell). It was the most awaited sound; a close second came the sound of the fish hawker who sold fish on a cycle.

I miss the combo of halasina (jackfruit) kadubu wrapped in banana leaf & steamed & served with chicken gravy. Aaah! Umm! Sss!

I miss pathrade.

Mother

Many say a woman is incomplete until she becomes a mother. So someone who can’t conceive is termed ‘barren’. It’s such an archaic, cruel thought. It’s deeply hurtful too; particularly when you equate motherhood to being a biological mother. What does it take to be a mother? A child born out of your own womb? That’s it??????????? HELL NO.

It takes compassion, kindness, forgiving nature & a clean heart to be a mother in the true sense of the word. Look at Mother Earth. Does she discriminate between male or female, black or white, rich or poor, clean or unclean? Most good mothers are like that. My mother was one of them. She only knew to give; to one & all. Her love was not bound by lineage. It was just love; no conditions applied.

On the contrary, I know of mothers who are over-sensitive towards their own offspring but care two hoots for other children, even friends of her own child. They understand & respond to the cries of hunger, pain, despair, & loneliness of their own child but are completely insensitive to similar feelings of another child. How is it that possible?

I am protective of Tanvi, for instance, it pains me when she falls & hurts her knee. I am quick to respond to her every, sweet request. Like when she is hungry & says, “My stomach is flat. See!” Or when she says, “I can’t sleep. Tell me another story”. I’d do the same if her friend or any other child was present. I’d respond to that child the way I respond to Tan; if not with as much love, at least with as much kindness. My logic is: they are little children, they are all the same.

Why do we reserve our love only for our child & treat other children like they were the plague? Some mothers give these infamous “you dirty child, don’t come near my baby” look. Or in a group, they obsess over their child & exhibit complete indifference to another one standing right next to her, maybe wailing in sheer physical pain. It beats me. It is like mothers have these ON & OFF buttons embedded within them. The motherly love is switched ON only & only for her child. The moment there is another child in the vicinity the OFF button is activated.

Pity them! To be loved by a child is God’s way of blessing you. The more the love you receive from them, the more you are blessed. Closer home, I pity my mother-in-law, for she has missed out on the good fortune of being loved by her own blood, her first grand-child. Incidentally, her name is Bhagyalaxmi meaning good fortune!!

If you mess up ...

My mother brought me up quite differently. She never lectured. Neither did she ever bombard me with a long list of NO’s.

No, don’t do that!
No, don’t go there!
No, don’t touch that!
No, don’t eat that!
No, don’t try that!
No, don’t talk to him!
No … this! No … that! The endless NO’s of a parent.

But she did make one thing very clear. And that was: If you mess up, it’s your responsibility.

I’ve never neglected my studies or lied to gain something. I’ve never taken a casual approach to my job nor have i ever squandered my hard-earned money. I’ve never drunk, smoked or done drugs (in spite of the opportunity & temptation)– EVER - till date.

I have lived life my way. I’ve done some so-called strange things; taken some bad decisions; been to some bad places; befriended some bad people. And yet, I remain me. Uncorrupted. Completely aware & in control of my life.

That’s the thing with freedom. When you are free to do things, you become responsible! You choose wisely.

When you’re growing up, your concerned, well-meaning parents & your not-so-concerned, plain-nosy relatives, have only one fear. That you’ll be corrupted, by others! So they guide you with their version of right & wrong. They protect you against every imaginable danger. They shield you against every possible physical or emotional pain. In short, they try to live your life for you.

I am glad my mother let me be; let me live my life on my own. With all the mistakes I made. With all the lessons I learnt. Some bitter, some sweet. All my own.

And to think that she never went to school!!

I guess, that’s why, deep down in my heart, I have scant regard for ‘formal’ education. I have two post-graduate degrees – M.A and M.B.A. But, I know, they are just 5 letters in sum total. Beyond a point, it hardly mattered. They didn’t make me. LIFE did.

I don’t know if Tan will grow up to be a double post-graduate like me. Do I care? All I want is for Tan to be able to L – I -- V -- E. And remember, if you mess up, it’s YOUR responsibility.

Mangoes

The smell of Odonil fills our city homes. At this time of the year, I remember vividly, our home in the village used to fill up with the heady smell of luscious, ripe mangoes. We didn’t have too many mango trees in our land then. The ones we had were still very small. So we used to ‘hire’ a tree for a month from our neighbor’s land. This was way back in the late 80’s and early 90’s. If my memory serves me right, it used to cost Rs 300. All the mangoes during that time were ours. We used to keep it in a big basket & eat nearly 5-6 in a single day, the juice flowing down our hands. Ummaa!! The little joys of life.

In South Canara, we make this spicy sweet thing from mangoes by mixing green chilies, salt and the mashed pulp of ripe, juicy mangoes. It tastes so yummy!! I used to savor my lunch on the days we had this special, ‘quick’ dish. It had no particular name. It was simply called “maavinannu gojju”.

I had a Gujarati friend, Nina, in Mangalore. I was working as a Lecturer in the University & I used to home tutor her for the languages. It was in their home that I tasted the famous Gujju “aam ras”, the sweet dish they make from mangoes & have for lunch. It’s so good!

When I see the fruit laden carts on the road, I feel nostalgic thinking about the trees in our village house – especially mango, jackfruit & perley(guava). I was very attached to these trees because on them I could climb, play, jump, eat, study, and hide! You couldn’t do all this on a coconut or tamarind tree. They were too straight & big for my little feet. I hated ‘gaali mara’(acasia tree). My father used to beat us with the thin branch of this tree. It was worse than ‘bettha’(stick used to beat).

I would have loved my daughter to grow up in a village. Like I did from class 4 right up to my post-graduation. Village life does something wonderful to your psyche.