Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Cooking...the new cool couple activity to nourish bodies, souls and relationships!

Picture this.

My husband and I are having lunch at a friend’s. Our friend’s mother-in-law has made a delicious chutney that we cannot get enough of. My husband loves it so much that he asks Aunty for the recipe. And Aunty gives it out. To me. Without once looking at my husband.

As far as Aunty is concerned, my husband is almost a son-in-law to her, being her son-in-law’s classmate. And generally, mothers-in-law from small-town-India don’t discuss anything close to recipes, especially recipes, with sons-in-law. 

Unlike my mother, who happily and comfortably gives out recipes to my husband. Because she has seen him cook. She has seen us cook together. Everyday. 

It wasn’t easy for her, seeing her son-in-law work in the kitchen. She would fret and fuss, and try to take over for him. She began to relax and enjoy my husband’s cooking only after we explained to her that this is how we function, and we’d both like to cook for her on her vacation in the USA. 

USA. That’s where the story began when I migrated from India after getting married. In the roughly 24 hours that it took for me to get from India to the USA, my life changed utterly and completely. From barely having free time on hand with a full time job, B-school, friends and freedom, I went to having absolutely nothing to do in a suburban home in North-Eastern USA. A hectic B-school schedule had left me burned out so I couldn’t read or write for leisure. So it was natural for me to try to fill my time either with wifely duties, primarily cooking lunches and dinners, or by binging on Netflix and potato chips. 

Soon it felt like it was all I was doing in the day – cooking lunches and dinners. If I decided to watch Netflix to pass long afternoons, I lost time with my husband in the evening. Having had all elements of my identity taken from me, and a ladle handed to me instead didn’t feel like a good bargain at the time. I tried to summon the image of Goddess Annapurna but only my new reality stared back.

So, here were the facts of my life:
a. I wasn’t a cook by choice but it became my identity in my new marriage. 
b. In the harsh winter, there wasn’t much for a newly married couple to do outdoors. Indoors, we could (again) binge-watch Netflix (minus the potato chips).
c. My husband cooked well. I had discovered his extremely delicious Biryani, Baingan-ka-Bharta and Aaloo-Matar Sabzi on the one-off days that he cooked.

So I decided to ask the husband for help. Sometimes sweetly, sometimes beseechingly, I explained my point of view. And I proposed that we cook together every day.

He was on board with the idea from the start. Putting it in action took longer and was more challenging. He was willing at the level of logic, but centuries of social conditioning about gender roles, passed on through the generations made it difficult for him to adopt this new lifestyle wholeheartedly. He would get on the bus every time I called it out, and then slowly veer away by habit. But we were trying. 

The only thing that may have helped my husband cross over to the kitchen counter from the couch, to the kitchen from the living room, was that we began to have great fun cooking together. It obviously made life easier to have two hands on the deck than one. It didn’t make me feel singled out for the task. And it allowed us to bond…

Bond over a love of food, that he passed on to me. I have acquired a love of food and cuisines, living with my foodie husband, and so we love to explore new cuisines in our cooking. We bring home new ingredients (our favourite example is Cactus) to work with. We go on world tours in our kitchen – starting with our own Andhra or Iyengar South Indian Meals, to Maharashtrian, Bengali, Gujarati, Malayali, North Indian and even Mexican, Cajun, European and what not. On days that we are bored, we experiment, and fuse influences – the Polenta with the Andhra Pulusu, or the Manchurian Sevaiyyan Upma.

Now, I have come to love cooking since it is with him and for him at the same time. It gives us a few hours every day to spend together…chopping, mixing, boiling, tempering, baking, brainstorming, experimenting, sharing, dreaming…it all happens in the kitchen. Every meal becomes either an experience or an experiment. It is either pure pleasure or learning. We both take the credit, we both share the blame. And we create something fundamental to human survival every day, having fun while doing it. In that, Cooking is our favourite creative together-thing to do. 

Who needs Netflix anymore? Tonight’s entertainment is ‘Cooking’!

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This post was originally written for Bonobology.com.

Monday, January 18, 2016

Heart Pickles

Whole hearts have short shelf lives.

It doesn’t take long for them to break.
So here’s a recipe.
For when the heart is shattered 
Into a million little pieces
That 
Cannot be put back the same way.
Ever. Again.
A recipe
For when it has gone sour
From all that has happened 
Or been done.

Take a jar
And throw the sour pieces in.
Along with the salt
That people have rubbed into your wounds.
And the turmeric
Of their coloured judgements, perceptions and opinions.
And the red chilly sting of their harsh words and actions.
Be careful 
To not let the water of your eyes 
Corrupt this concoction. 
Moisture is dangerous.
The oil of people’s expectations,
On the other hand,
Only helps.
Mix it all together with your bare hands.
Feel the raw texture
Of everything that has happened
Or been done.

The next part is important.
Weave a soft muslin cloth
From your compassion towards yourself.
Seal the jar with it
To keep the mist from your eyes away.
Like I said,
Moisture is dangerous.
Put the lid on
And let it sit for a while.

It’s ready
When you cannot tell one element from another.
The pieces of your heart
Are softer, a little less sour.
A little more of everything else.

The next time life seems bland,
Take a clean, dry spoon
And serve yourself
From this jar of delicious pickled wisdom 
Gained
From all that has happened 
Or been done.

Savour a piece of your heart 
Broken, softer but preserved for posterity.
Because 
Whole hearts have short shelf lives anyway.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Unfinished Business

The table was blue. Foldable. Just about 2 feet tall. It had a light blue piece of sunmica fitted on its top. Accompanying it in the set was a small chair. I forget the colour of it now. It was a gift, the set, for my kid sister. And it was used well. On afternoons that she would industriously sit and work on her homework on the blue table.

She outgrew them, the table and chair. Then, the base of the table came off, leaving behind just the blue coloured top, more a board now. But we kept it, like everything else that is always kept in an Indian household because it might come in handy someday. And it did.

I discovered the book ‘Painting With Pastels’ in my uncle’s book collection and brought it home, along with sandpaper, Camel Oil Pastels, charcoal pencils and a red box containing drawing clips. I decided it was time to explore my creative side. So I used the blue board and clipped some sandpaper to it using the drawing clips, carefully putting them back in the red box whenever I was done. I began enjoying myself, turning out paintings that were far beyond my expectation. My mother, not one for keeping amateur drawings out of sentiment (it applied only to stuff), even decorated a corner of our room with my paintings. And that made me feel like I had a future…with the blue board, the sandpaper, the pastels and the drawing clips.

It all came back to me while watching a rerun of Dhobi Ghat yesterday and watching Arun (Aamir Khan) sit with a similar board and paper and clips. Except Arun was a famous painter. I am not.

The blue board is gone. Finally thrown away. The drawing clips misplaced, lost. The pastels long worn out and discarded. And gone with it all is my potential. The one I never tended to. The one no one ever asked me to tend to. Because I was scoring well in the sciences. And set for a career in engineering.


That's how the things I cared for and enjoyed fell by the wayside in my journey with the crowd. I became an engineer because that’s what we all do. It was after years of walking with the crowd, like you do on crowded pavements in big cities, that I turned around one day. And I saw the fallen pieces by the wayside…of the things that I cared about. And then I started jostling my way back through the crowd…to the places where the pieces had fallen. To pick up from where I left off.

Friday, March 20, 2015

Friday Fiction: Sticks And Stones May Break Their Bones

A thump on the door startled Rima. She had just woken up and was dragging herself across the living room to the kitchen. She opened the door to realize that the thump had been the day’s newspaper, rolled-up, as the hawker threw it with precision towards the house while passing by on his bicycle. It was early in the morning in the Indian city of Lucknow. Even through the fog and dim light of dawn, Rima saw the headline.

 ‘CHIEF MINISTER ANNOUNCES RS. 700 CR MEMORIAL ON MG ROAD.’

Rima stomped back into the small living room with the paper and milk packets.

“Can you believe this, Amma?” She was fuming. “I lost my job over this! What a joke!”

She flung the paper onto the center table and stomped off into the kitchen. Her mother, Lakshmi, watched helplessly.

It had been three months that Rima had lost her job. She had been in shock the day she found out, barely able to speak when she came home. Lakshmi had been concerned, “Are you fine? Come, I’ll make you hot chai, you must be tired.”
“It’s closing, Amma.”
“What’s closing, child?”
“The restaurant. Koh-i-Noor.”
“What? Are you sure? That can’t be.”
“It is! They are demolishing everything on Mahatma Gandhi Road!”
“They can’t do that! That market has been there since before I was born!”
“It’s for a government project, Amma. Everything is going!”

Rima had cried herself to sleep that night. She had been angry over the next many days. “It must be some senseless government project that takes decades for completion! They cleared the whole market for it! Did they think about people like us?! What else can one expect from them?”

She had then hoped that it was all a mistake, that the demolition wouldn’t happen and everyone would get their jobs back. And when the newspapers had announced the start of the demolition, Lakshmi had watched as Rima went about her day mechanically, frequently staring into empty space. It was only after a photograph of the empty piece of land had appeared in the papers on the front page along with an obituary of the MG Road market that Rima had begun to gather herself.

One of those days the neighbouring Mrs. Tiwari had offered some sweet halwa brought from the temple, and a suggestion – that Rima continue Lakshmi’s work of tailoring from home. Rima had dusted the old sewing machine that day and reached out to Lakshmi’s old customers. That is what kept her busy and some money coming these days. But not enough, as they both had realized.

Presently, Lakshmi saw Rima switching on All India Radio and sitting down with the sewing machine to stitch blouses and salwar-kameez for ladies, and pretty cotton frocks for their daughters. The news came on after a while and they heard more details about the memorial project.

‘Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh, Smt. Jaya Devi, yesterday unveiled plans to build a memorial to social transformation in the capital, Lucknow. The memorial will include statues of social reformers and of Jaya Devi herself, as well as fifty statues of lions, the party’s election symbol. The memorial is estimated to cost 700 crore rupees. The proposed site on Mahatma Gandhi Road has already been cleared through a demolition drive that affected many old businesses and establishments.’

Rima continued stitching. Lakshmi had suffered the same drudgery for years after her husband had passed away, to make ends meet and educate Rima. Rima’s job had allowed Lakshmi to finally stop her work and tend to her own deteriorating health and increasing pain. Lakshmi hadn’t had much of an education. But Rima did and she was still doing the same work. Lakshmi couldn’t watch anymore. She decided to step out and visit the site of the memorial, a short walk away.

The last time Lakshmi had been to MG Road was when her husband was still alive. It was Diwali and they had wanted to buy earthen lamps, fruits and flowers, and show Rima the festivities and Diwali lights. At the end of the evening, they had eaten some chaat by the street, not far from Koh-i-Noor. They hadn’t been able to afford luxuries like restaurant meals, and Lakshmi had been happy to just see the restaurant from outside. Lakshmi remembered her initial hesitation in letting Rima work there when Rima had spoken of it.
“Amma, there was a job posting on the college notice board today.”
“Really? What job?”
“You know the restaurant Koh-i-Noor?”
“Of course, everyone does. Why did they post a job in a women’s college?”
“They are looking for Home Science graduates. They want to welcome women. Both in the kitchen and as waitresses.”
“And you want to work at that hotel? What will people say?”
“Amma, it’s such a respected and legendary place! And they want to hire women. This is not 1970!”
“You can work in a school or a bank.”
“I’ll have to study more or give exams for schools and banks. This is an immediate job and salary.”
“I don’t know. Do what you want.”

So that’s what Rima had done and got herself a job as a waitress at Koh-i-Noor. To make Lakshmi feel comfortable about her job and workplace, Rima had taken her for a modest dinner at Koh-i-Noor after being paid the first salary. Lakshmi had come back happy and proud after seeing the plush environs of the restaurant and the genteel crowd that dined there, as also meeting some others who worked at Koh-i-Noor.

Koh-i-Noor was gone now. With the market. There was left a bare piece of land waiting for stone statues instead of real people. The memorial had taken away more than Rima’s job; it had taken away the city’s memories.

Lakshmi had to do something. She just didn’t know what. For starters, she decided to visit the site every day.

The memorial soon began to generate a different kind of buzz.

 ‘MUD SLIDE AT THE MEMORIAL. NO CASUALTIES.’

 ‘SANDSTONE PILE TOPPLES AT THE MEMORIAL. 1 INJURED.’

 ‘MALFUNCTION AT MEMORIAL: CRANE STALLS.’

 ‘2 INJURED AT THE MEMORIAL. CAUSE UNCERTAIN.’

It became the talk of the nation as well as the neighbourhood, creeping into Mrs. Tiwari and Mrs. Sharma’s late afternoon courtyard chat.

“What is with all these accidents at the memorial?”
“Very bad. It must be the Vaastu, wrong direction or something. Some of the businesses on MG Road were suffering, no?”
“Could be. They should consult an astrologer and pacify the planets.”
“What a curse on the city I tell you!”
“No doubt!”

Lakshmi had been spotting what was a semblance of satisfaction on Rima’s face when she picked up the paper every morning now. She herself kept visiting the site day after day. It gave her a sense of doing something, anything for Rima.

The prime time news on the national TV channel Doordarshan was playing as usual when Rima was cooking dinner that night. The accident-rife memorial made the headlines there as well.

‘The Prime Minister, today, expressed concern over the continued accidents at the site of the upcoming memorial in Lucknow and directed the Uttar Pradesh government to look into the matter. Chief Minister Jaya Devi is expected to visit the site tomorrow and take stock of the situation.”

And sure enough Jaya Devi came along. In her cavalcade of cars. Lakshmi was there, as usual, even before a crowd built up to get a glimpse of Jaya Devi. Temporary barricades were quickly erected and Jaya Devi stepped out of her car. As she started to walk towards the site, Lakshmi screamed out, “Minister Madam, this memorial’s foundation is made of skeletons and hungry stomachs! Stop this project before more people die!”

Jaya Devi looked to see where the voice came from and knew it was Lakshmi’s from the calm and determined look on Lakshmi’s face. Guards were angrily directed towards Lakshmi but she disappeared in the crowd. Jaya Devi collected herself and proceeded to survey the memorial site.

Only one statue had been completed with difficulty thus far, not the expected three. The bespectacled visionary father of the Indian constitution stood at one end of the site, with his right index finger pointing towards the future. Jaya Devi spoke to the workers at the site first and then proceeded towards the statue. As she looked up at the 18-ft tall statue, she heard a loud sound and saw the extended index finger of the statue crack at the knuckle and crash to the ground. Jaya Devi had jumped aside just in time but shards of sandstone flew at her from the fallen fragment. Within moments, she was whisked away by her guards.

Lakshmi had been waiting across the road for the visit to be over. Her eyes met Jaya Devi’s just as Jaya Devi got into her car. In that moment, Lakshmi found herself wishing she had a third eye like God Shiva to burn Jaya Devi to the ground.

The headline changed the next day.

 ‘JAYA DEVI TO MEET PEOPLE DISPLACED BY MEMORIAL.’

Rima smirked.

“See, Amma? The government finally remembered us. What a change of heart!”

Lakshmi smiled ruefully as Rima walked into the kitchen to put the milk to boil. Whether it was her words or all those accidents that had made Jaya Devi take the initiative she didn’t know. But she saw a glimmer of hope for Rima now.

Jaya Devi had decided to visit people in their own homes and that had got people gossiping that it was to win support for herself in the next election. It wasn’t long before Rima heard a knock on her door and found Jaya Devi standing there, with the whole curious neighbourhood gathered outside the gate. Rima politely invited the minister inside, as a guest should be, and offered her a seat.

Jaya Devi was just about settling into a chair to talk to Rima when she suddenly stood bolt upright, staring at a photograph of Lakshmi on the wall, next to that of Rima’s father’s. She asked Rima whose photograph it was.

“My mother’s, Madam.”
“Where is she?”
 “Madam, it should be clear where she is, there is a garland on her photograph!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t…”
“She is dead, thanks to you! She had bone tuberculosis and the salary from Koh-i-Noor was paying for her medicines…until you closed it down. Her blood-and-bones were sacrificed for your statues of stone!”

Rima broke down, crying. Jaya Devi was already baffled when she saw Lakshmi appear near the door, saying, “How many more accidents must I cause? How many more lives must be sacrificed before you stop? Isn’t mine enough?”

The sight of a pale Jaya Devi fleeing Rima’s house fed the neighbourhood grapevine for days. Meanwhile, the papers announced the very next day:

 ‘MEMORIAL SHELVED. COMMERCIAL COMPLEX TO BE BUILT INSTEAD.’

Rima took the newspaper and stood in front of Lakshmi’s photograph, just like she had all these days, but had nothing to say. She just laid it on the table under the photograph, wiped a brimming tear and walked off into the kitchen with the milk packets.

Radios and televisions, too, announced the change to the nation.

‘In a move welcomed by the Center, Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Jaya Devi has announced that a Commercial Complex will be built on MG Road to resurrect the shops demolished for building the now-shelved memorial. The employees displaced earlier will have their jobs back on completion of the project. In the meantime, a supporting pension will be provided for all such employees from the funds allocated for the memorial. The Chief Minister was unavailable for comment on the change of plans.’

Lakshmi knew then that she had done all that she could for her little girl and that Rima had a future that held more promise and possibility than Lakshmi’s life had.

Lakshmi could finally go away in peace.

Image courtesy: http://commons.wikimedia.org/

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This story was written for the second round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2015 with the assigned prompts being: 
Genre - Ghost Story
Subject - A statue

Character - A waitress.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

What Lies Within

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am not a morning person.

I used to wake up at 5:00 AM for years while training for Basketball; 4:30 in the summer. And then again for tuitions through junior college and first year of college. I’d wake up early to meet friends for morning walks or runs. But every time other than that, every chance I’d get, I’d sleep in.

I’ve tried a lot of things to make a habit out of waking up early on days that I have no need to. Who doesn’t like a few extra hours in the day? Plus our culture puts a big premium on it, shaming people who like to sleep late or claim to be night creatures. So there’s that. There is a lot of leadership literature about how it is the one absolute thing that matters for those wanting to lead, succeed. No one likes to think they are squandering away their potential by catching a few winks or being on a daily routine that is time-shifted by four odd hours. But most of all, it was the feeling of failure and defeat at being unable to wake up early if I wanted to. It disgusted me to think that I wasn’t in control of when I wanted to sleep, that my need for sleep ran my life. It was a constant exercise in exercising my will and failing.

The story was similar with exercise. And trying to eat more fruits. And leafy vegetables.

Don’t get me wrong, I like to exercise. But I’m not fanatic about it. I don’t miss it if I skip it. I don’t get an adrenaline kick out of it. I like to cycle and hike. I exercise if I have the right people giving me company, outdoors. The gym is the last place I will walk into willingly. Fruits are the last things I will pick to eat willingly. And leafy greens take too much effort to cook on a daily or even alternate-day basis.

So it was clear then. I was on my way to being a failed, fat but undernutritioned person. Until last year.

The last one year has been a gradual exercise in consciously crafting my life and making conscious choices in living, rather than letting my habits and preferences drive my life. And there was only one way I could get around the person I was to reach a new place in being.

Trick myself.

The first trick was in the nutrition department. A cousin introduced me to the concept of Simple Green Smoothies. Just take any leafy green vegetable, and any fruits, and bananas and a liquid base. Blend it all together. And drink! Simple Green Smoothies introduced me to the taste of raw Kale, Red Lettuce, Arugula among others, apart from Spinach! And my fruit consumption skyrocketed in terms of quantity and variety. It’s one of the best ideas that I have come across and it ensures that I get my daily dose of fruits and greens!

Next I tricked myself in the exercise department. So I couldn’t go out in the bitter cold and I hated the gym. But I had enjoyed aerobics when I had tried it in the past. So I looked up some free dance workout videos on YouTube. And finally found the key to enjoying working out – having fun and variety! I had always wanted to try Zumba and I found some great videos online. Dance workouts were fun. There were quick strength workouts too, needing no equipment! I tried kickboxing too and found it to be an extremely intense and fun workout. I now workout every day, sometimes for 10 minutes, sometimes for 45. I get my heart-rate up and finish with a good feeling about exercising (my will)!

The last challenge was the long standing war against the alarm clock. I had to find a way to trick myself there, too. I had tried other things like keeping the phone at the other end of the room, or even in another room. But nothing had worked.

What worked was an old-fashioned alarm clock purchased at Ikea, the kind I used to have when I used to train for Basketball. It didn’t have a snooze button and I associated its sound with my Basketball and school days…when I used to wake up early easily. And I kept it in the bathroom. Along with a good book, because I love reading. These days, once the alarm rings (usually before 5:30 AM), I have to enter the bathroom to switch it off, where I close the door, switch on the light and spot the book. Or some days I just sit myself down. I just lock myself in there. And that’s it. That’s what worked! It’s been nearly 5 weeks that I have kept this up successfully. I do go back to sleep some days if I don’t feel well rested, but only after having been awake for 30-45 min.

And just like that, by tricking myself in the right manner, I became an early-waking, exercising, fruits-and-greens eating person. There are obvious benefits to it. But the larger implication is this. We lie to ourselves about who we are. I had convinced myself that I am a night creature. I am yawning by 9 pm these days. That I don’t enjoy fruits and am okay without them (the greens I like, they’re just tedious). The fruits and greens aisles get more of my attention these days than anything else and it has percolated into the cooked greens department as well (hello, sarson da saag!). That I hate exercising. I hate skipping it these days. 

So who was that person with those false assumptions? And who am I now? Whoever I may be, growing is WHAT I am.

And that is what lies within me.
Potential.
Possibility.
A new me.


This post about starting a new life was inspired by the new Housing.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Little Wing

Everything was bare when I landed. 

There were no leaves on the trees. No grass on the ground. There were no familiar faces around, save for my husband’s. There were no small streets, no pedestrians, running in and out of small shops, buying soaps or shampoo sachets or 500 gms of an ingredient missed on the grocery list the previous day. It was empty. Many might have called it a clean slate, a fresh start. I wasn’t so sure. While there was an entire lifetime to look forward to, there was nothing in my immediate future, the every day, that I was waiting for.

I wasn’t to wake up every morning and get ready for work; I had quit that while moving to this new country. I couldn’t even look forward to stepping out of the house, the explorer that I am; the weather was sub-zero and bitter and I wasn’t tolerating it very well…I wanted to curl up in a ball and hibernate till spring. I had no friends around to go meet in the evening and share a few laughs with. In fact, I couldn’t even drive, what with just having learned to drive and there being snow all around…so how could I go anywhere? The only reason I got out of bed in the morning was to make lunch since my husband comes home for lunch. His being home for that one hour or in the evening was the only thing I looked forward to. But once he was back at work post-lunch, I had a long insufferable afternoon all to myself with no work, no one to talk to and none of my favourite things around…just the television and junk food. No wonder I loaded up on pounds very quickly.

Things got a little better with summer coming around but a feeling of despair when my husband wasn’t home never went away. I kept thinking of the life and friends I used to have and just what a contrast life was in this new country. I was trying, maybe too hard, and failing to make peace with this complete isolation from everything I had known as my life before. Before long, it was winter again and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to cope with another one with the way I was feeling.

One day I noticed the patio of one of the apartments in our complex. It was filled with birds hopping on and off it. Sparrows, mostly.  I wondered if it was because the patio was located right above some shrubs that had managed to hold on to their green needles through the merciless winter. Were the residents putting out food for the birds? Just out of curiosity, I scattered some rice grains on our patio that day. No birds showed up. I had been wrong. And I was deeply disappointed. A small flutter of hope, the hope of having a similar patio filled with birds, had been nipped. I drew the blinds shut.

A solitary sparrow showed up the next day and pecked at the deck. I assumed it had just lost its way and landed up at our door, unexpectedly spotting some food. But more came the day after. At dusk we nearly had 20 sparrows hopping on our patio pecking at grains that we had strewn. I was giddy with happiness and couldn’t stop smiling!

I’ve never been a bird person; it was always furry animals for me…cute little mammals. But the amount of joy I derive from seeing the sparrows making their regular rounds for bird food is pleasantly surprising. Some days, there are boisterous Starlings that make a stop. On snowy days, even birds like the elegant Blue Jay and flaming-red Cardinal pay us a visit. My days don’t seem long or lonely now. All I have to do is look at the patio and see the sparrows happily hopping around. I cannot talk to them, I cannot touch them but somehow them just being there makes me feel happier and less lonely. What’s more, they have taken my despair away on their little wings, leaving me lighter, brighter and happier.

In the face of things that cannot be changed or controlled in life, sometimes just one thing…some thing…to wait for and look forward to brings hope and lets one carry on from one day to another. Sometimes, that thing is a few sparrows on the ledge…hopping happily and chirping as if to say…you’ll be okay!


This post was inspired by Lookup by Housing, enabling people to look up to a better life.

Monday, February 23, 2015

In Search Of Closure

We were waiting for Bombay Tikki Chaat…not by the side of some street cart in India, with the right sights and sounds to accompany the taste, but at the table of an eatery adjoining the Indian store in our little American town.  It was our weekly grocery shopping day. We had just stocked up on our Indian groceries – The daals, the masalas and the vegetables that hold more memories than nutrition…karela, drumsticks, methi, kundru, lauki, gilki, munnga – and were indulging in some Indian delicacies that were rare in our part of the world.

It was during this time that my eyes were aimlessly ambling around the place, taking in what I had seen so many times for the want of anything better to do, and I spotted her. She seemed new in the kitchen. I knew that the eatery had lost a young employee, who used to man the counter, to marriage; she had been around the previous time, when we were savouring our Bhel, saying her goodbyes to the aunties who had taught her so much and working with whom had been so much fun…she would try and come by whenever she was in the area. The fall in numbers seemed to have been made up for by bringing in this clearly experienced older lady.

I saw her peeking out from the kitchen once, walking up to the counter another time. She was looking curiously at a special child and her family, who were waiting for their food. The next time she came over to the counter, with no warning and no consideration for the place or the people around, she asked the mother of the special child aloud, “What has happened to your daughter?” The only response she got was, “Nothing at all!” She smiled in embarrassment, the mother looked away uncomfortably. She returned to the kitchen.

It is common for parents of special children to be harrowed by questions, mockery and snide remarks. Some people are plain curious, but not concerned. Some have no understanding. Some are uncomfortable to be around them and ask questions or end up making inappropriate remarks because they don’t know what else to do. Her question sounded like neither of those. It did not seem to carry any mockery in it. Her tone was not that of someone looking for some cheap kicks or trying to make small talk out of pity. She did not seem to mean harm. There was something deeper that one could sense in her question.

That sense took us back to the eatery later that evening. It was closing time and the lights were out at the front. We feared the door might be locked and we might not get to speak to her but the door opened when we tried. A ghostly glow from the fluorescent lights in the kitchen dimly lit the eatery. There were chit-chatting voices and close-of-business noises coming from the kitchen. We called out and an elderly man came out. We explained that we wanted to speak to the new lady; we had heard her question earlier in the evening and were curious why she wanted to know.

The lady came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron as she walked. We didn’t know how to even start the conversation; just that it was one that needed to be had. So we asked her why she was asking about the special child in the evening. She seemed to hesitate, as if we were trying to incriminate her. We tried to make her comfortable by asking our question differently, respectfully. And then she told us.

She had had a husband once. They were set to migrate to the USA from Punjab. The visas had been stamped and the bags had been packed when her husband died of cardiac arrest a day before their scheduled flights. They had sold everything. They had packed up and closed the India chapter of their lives. With no husband by her side, what was she to do in India? So she travelled to the USA anyway a few months later to start a new life.

Her daughter was with her. Within a few years of being in the USA, around the age of 15-16 years, her daughter developed a condition that rapidly incapacitated her. Within a shockingly short period of time, a teenager that was full of life was reduced to a disabled person completely dependent on her mother for everything. The girl couldn’t walk, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t eat by herself and she was completely relegated to the bed, nearly a vegetable. The lady cared for her daughter for nearly 3 years before the daughter died at 19 years of age. The doctors never had any answers and nobody ever found out what had ailed the girl.

She saw her daughter’s face in the face of the special child that evening. She was happy to see that this girl was around, alive and happy. And she was looking for answers, for why her daughter might have been taken away from her.

She was looking for comfort. For a clue. For closure. Maybe some compassion.


I see the lady sometimes at the Indian store or the eatery now. I do not know her name but I know a part of her story…one that has taught me to look beyond my own pain, to show compassion and to choose life in the face of great loss. And for that, I will always remember her.