Blessing and Prayer

The boys arrived in completely different ways. They were blood brothers, with the same set of parents and DNA, the same race and socioeconomic background, yet, they couldn't have been more dissimilar in their arrival.



The first one was a blessing. He came, unplanned, uninvited but brought with him immeasurable joy. In the intense heat of Indian summer, he brought the rains with him. It was a July afternoon, with well-wishers nearby. He was loud and red, with eyes clamped shut and a strange birth mark on his forehead like a priests thilak. Nearby, were his aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great-grandmother, grandaunt, everyone rejoicing when he was born. His first home was his mother's room in a house where she grew up in, in a locality where everyone knew her. He was like the bright Sun, beautiful and resplendent.

The second one was a prayer. He was wanted and planned. Born on a cold December night in New England, away from all eyes, in an unknown part of a hospital, in a new city where his parents had moved only a few months earlier. While the world outside was dark and quiet, with the stars twinkling in the frozen sky, he was born like my own fairy dust, so fragile and tender. The hospital seemed shrouded in a deep slumber. As I was lying, recovering, I couldn't wait to hold my precious little son in my arms. Some hours later, I stood, holding him, I looked out of the large hospital window. In front of me, lay a New England city, with it's churches and roads glowing slowly in the golden lights of dawn. I felt so complete.


A few moments are etched in my memory. How their skins felt crinkly like old pieces of tissue. How wispy was their hair. Looking at them, I had been awestruck by how beautiful they were. A few hours earlier, they didn't exist. And like a miracle, here they were, with a name and identity. The future in front of them. In their life of few hours, they were already a person, an individual with hidden talents, their own temperament, their own destiny. Who knows what their tiny eyes had already seen, who knew what they were thinking, what they wanted to express. I had tried to pry open their tiny fists. And on both occasion, I had felt the mystery held firmly in their clasp.

And no one can escape the visceral love and awe of a brand new baby. Even the doctor, the nurses, who have seen hundreds of births can't escape the stirrings of deep emotions when they see a new baby. It's like a ray of hope. Like a brand new day. Like writing your name on a brand new notebook at the start of a school year. With infinite possibilities and potentials. It feels like a reminder of Divine will.


In those precious moments, when nothing and everything mattered simultaneously, I had felt that some God had smiled upon me. Those tiny babies were the embodiment of everything I was and will ever be, my hopes, dreams, strengths, weaknesses, passion and love. They were the manifestation of the universe. In their tiny form, they held my past, my present and my future.

Betrayal

It shocked him, even today. Even after nearly 12 years, the sense of loss felt like a heavy weight. The years may have blunted the the piercing pain, yet each time he remembered that night when she left, his throat would ache in an odd way. Even after the many victories and achievements, piled on his table and hung neatly on the walls he knew that she had taken with her a part of him which no one or nothing could fill.

Even as a child, through those innocent days which seemed to be about everything and nothing, he had often felt that she didn't really belong to them. Yes, she had given birth to him and his brother, had looked after them with all the love and tenderness which only a mother can give, had soothed his bruises, calmed his fears, taught him, listened to him and laughed with him, there was something else which pulled her away from them. There were those rare, lazy evenings, when she would sit back with a good book. She would sigh and smile in a secret way and look out of the window as if some distant sirens beckoned her to some far-away worlds. In those moments, while she stood, tottering between the two worlds, he would often call her with some pretext or another. He wanted her back with him. And each time it happened, he felt that maybe she had been pulled a little more than the previous time, that maybe she had tilted so much that she could not come back. He would feel a rush of relief when she would finally turn her head and gaze back at him smiling as if she had enjoyed a mini vacation.

She left her mark on every corner of their home. The bed sheets were her choice, the color of the towels, the candles on the table, the array of spices in the kitchen. Her days stretched endlessly from morning till night, looking after him, his brother, his father or obsessing over the code she was working on. She would work meticulously, looking into each detail. He had once asked her about her office. She had explained that she was a developer. "What do you develop?" he had asked. "Computer programs", she replied. At that time, it was all mysterious, the strange looking sentences, the dark screens through which she would squint looking for "bugs". But he felt she must be really smart. He couldn't wait to grow up to be like her.

His idyllic days were sometimes punctuated by sudden disappearances. His mother would lock herself in her room, refusing food, refusing to see anyone. It happened sometimes, she would ask something  from dad, a small favor. His refusal to comply would shake her. Most of the time, it seemed what she asked for were too small to matter. "Can you please do the dishes tonight?", she would ask dad. To her, his refusal would feel like betrayal. As if someone had cut her through with a knife.
And on one such night, she left. She never came back. For several months, he felt that one day she will return. But she didn't. She was not there when he got his first crush, the day he graduated, the day his brother's fever shot up till 102, she did not meet his teacher on the parent teacher conferences. She left a gaping hole in his life.

That night, she tilted too far. "Why did she leave for such trivial reasons?", asked friendly well-wishers, puzzled at this sudden anomaly. What they didn't know was the steady erosion which corroded the bonds which held her to them. Once the bond snapped, she broke free. She took with her the warmth with which she had filled their lives, leaving a man and two boys in their empty house.

Does the End Justify the Means

I meet many a people with wildly different view points. A common point of contention among a majority of them is the validity of the ideas of Gandhi. Stemming from this idea is the long held belief that if Netaji Subhash were alive and had been the the principle leader of our nation, India would have been a much better place. Netaji's passion and commitment to our country were phenomenal. His courage and conviction to build a free India was revolutionary. With this objective, he recruited POWs and created an Indian National Army to defeat the British and tried to collaborate with the fascists and the nazis. Unfortunately, his plans did not bear fruit and he was ultimately defeated. To make matters worse, he died in a mysterious plane crash which, till today, is perceived as a major conspiracy.

With all due respect, I believe, in the ideologies expounded by Netaji. I also agree with the vociferous critiques of Gandhi who view him as a tainted leader. A leader who made major errors in judgement. That he persuaded, rather forced Netaji to resign from the chair of INC President, although he had won in a fair election, is definitely a point to ponder over.

Yet, I do not believe that the means justify the end. How, in all honesty, can I support the collaboration between Netaji and some the worst dictators of modern history? How can it ever be right? I believe that the British exploited India but how were they different from any other ruler in the history of the world?
I shudder from the thought that if the Nazis had won how that would have meant an early death to the ideas of liberal democracy, which evolved post WW2 and which we all cherish. And even if this would have meant the victory of the INA under the leadership of Netaji, I firmly believe that it would have meant the defeat of humanity.

Little Wonder

In this big world, we are obsessed with the big things. Big cars, big houses, big promotion, big increment. But in that race for the big I have paused and found the joy of small. My little son. Little fists, tiny fingernails, cute feet with curled toes. Tiny nose, wispy eyelashes, tufts of hair and those amazingly small clothes.Fleeting gummy smiles when I sing to him. Tiny everyday amazement. Kisses and hugs in abundance.

I became a mother with the usual fear and trepidation. It was an unknown game and I was totally unsure of the rules. But in the past 7 weeks my son has made me fall headlong in love with him. If I sit back and think, there isn't much I receive from him except for a lot of backbreaking work and screams. Yet, it's those rare moments of perfect joy which makes me go on. Mornings when he coos at me. The way his eyes follow me all the time. A sudden smile when i sing and dance in front of him. A look of wonder when he sees something new. His totally worryless expression while he sleeps. The way he gets startled when I sneeze (hehe).

I couldn't have imagined that such feelings were possible. Seems like a floodgate of emotions has opened.

My Li'l Shourya, my baby Rishi, My Butu, I love you.

Apple

How am I here today?

Because there is a powercut. And I have nothing to do. And laptops can run for some time even though there is a power cut.

Im totally overwhelmed with work nowadays. Sensible people tell me that this is what happens when you move to another team. And I have not only moved to another team, I have to work on Apple.

A person like me, who has always thanked Mr Gates, takes time to appreciate the wonders of Apple products. Especially when everything looks different, even the keyboard!

An apple lit a pretty little bulb in Mr Newtons brain. Unfortunately, that bulb has blown its fuse in mine.

So every evening I return from work, muttering the huge amount of things which are still incomplete. It's not doing any good to my confidence.

The only funny thing I have heard about my apple-y situation is
A for Apple
B for Bada apple
C for Chhota apple
D for Do apple
E for Ek aur apple
F for fir se apple
G for Gol apple
H for...H for...ho gaya na pet kharab itna apple khaya to....

Home Sweet Home

With great apprehension, I walked towards the exit of Bhubaneswar airport. That was two months ago. I was greeted with a hot an humid Monday morning. Among the many faces, I searched for the familiar face of my husband. Tapa didn't fail me. I allowed my gnawing anxiety to ease a bit as I rushed towards him, letting go off my luggage and a bit of poise.

I was to report to office that morning. Before that, I had to go home, dump my luggage and get ready. On the way home, I tried capturing the new city unfolding before my eyes. A long road, roadside shops, billboards, people, all new sights and sounds.

At the end of this seemingly unending road, we turned left and got off the main road. A dusty road, leading to dustier roads. Each turn brought me fresh bouts of alarm as the road got more and more unkempt. Finally, we stopped before a lonely house with an ugly looking, uncared garden. I was prepared for an ugly situation, but the house was worse than anything I had imagined. Not in terms of size or general architecture. It looked so forlorn, as if apologizing for its state of neglect.

Inside, it was a typical bachelor pad. It was hard to imagine that a man took rest in such an uninspiring house. Although Tapa had managed to clean it, especially for me, it's bland walls and furniture made me cringe.

Since that day, we have managed to make this house resemble a home. The floor is swept. The bed is made with bright bed spreads and plump pillows. The fridge has fresh vegetables, milk, cottage cheese, half used packs of tomato puree, cartons of juice instead of just half filled bottles of water and frozen, ready to eat meals. The kitchen counter is scrubbed, no matter how tiring my day was. The sink is not overflowing with week old, unwashed utensils. The clothes line is burdened with washed clothes, brightly drying in the sun. The windows are left open religiously morning and evening. The tall grass and weeds have been replaced by freshly planted baby jasmines.

I will be sad when I have to move back to Mysore. I will remember how I set up my first home. Not my house of dreams perhaps but definitely my home sweet home.

Burden of Travelling Light

I read a book some time back called "In a Strange Room". It was a very strange book. a hodgepodge of incidents, seemingly disjoint. A man who takes three different trips, meets strangers and sometimes friends, develops a sort of human bonding and is ultimately forced to move away. And in a most un-poetic way, my life seems to be following a similar pattern. Journeys and trips, moving from one place to the other, meeting people, becoming friends and ultimately moving away.

I am a person who loves change. I get bored with a routine. I love new things and new experiences. But somewhere, I yearn for a semblance of stability. That, I may go out every morning, fight my own battles, alone. Regardless of what the day challenges me with, atleast in the evening, I know that I will return to the sanctuary of my my home, among my family.

I have not felt this anchor-less, ever. Like a nomad, I am moving from one halt to another. Leaving behind loved ones, I travel light. Too light for my comfort. I am constantly searching. Searching for the right direction, searching for a sense of home.