The Bangalore Breeze

The breeze of Bangalore – that one seductive temptation that I can never deny - is back …brushing through my hair a moment and fondling my cheeks another..it is an allurement that indulges my senses and a vice that I never break away from..

So the breeze has successfully chased the demons of summer away from the city and sweat and swearing that comes with the sweat seems to have vanished at least for the moment. The sticky sweltering beads of sweat finally waved goodbye and left me to peaceful existence – the violence of summer seems to have finally left the home.

The breeze takes me to the greener memories of Cubbon Park – of walks in the parks, of the bubbles floating through the greenest grass, of family outings, of the crunchy peanuts that a determined vendor thrusts into your hands, of a father who loved the exertion of long walks. And not long after, Lalbagh beckons me with the breezy mornings that we spent in its august company, the ghee dipped dosas that we ravished at the legendary MTR, the floral patterns that baffled me with its odd angles and patterns, the squirrels that bravely touched the bread crumbs left behind.

How easy for things to whirr past into memories, how difficult to now comprehend the ‘lockedness’ of our existence – how we never used the space we always took for granted, how we never socialized while we had all the chances thrown at us, how we never hugged as much as we could. A simple trip to the park now looks complex, ridden with fear and paranoia. And the grass, flowers and the squirrels reign undisturbed by humanity.

But you can’t lock down the Bangalore breeze- it flutters, teases and rejuvenates at its free will. You can’t shut out the Bangalore breeze for it is a phenomenon that must be experienced, loved and savored – some good things still live in the city after all.

The Child in the house, the Child in me

Sometimes, we adults are so engrossed in the world that we have created for ourselves and the world that we have built in our minds that we miss the very obvious. So when the child in my house throws questions at me- I get irked, provoked, discomforted and sometimes simply stunned into silence.

My usual day at ‘work at home’ as they call it - is a blend of sheer labour peppered with exasperating interactions and sometimes ending with bloody corporate volleys. But as the job and the self blurs into oblivion, she interjects with innocent queries that bombard me as philosophical bombs that shake the very premise of my ‘usual workday’. Questions like what do I do..what is a team..who becomes a boss..why is it called a boss – questions that I never sat down to evaluate in ages, questions that make my conscience squirm and questions that make me rethink my existence.

A child in the house is worth having a thousand therapists, guides, moralists, fitness gurus and one large alarm bell in hand  - she makes me jump start the day the ‘healthy’ way as I fulfill the ‘righteous mother’ role, she ensures that I eat the food that I have labelled as ‘good’ for her (and errr me too now without a choice) and she ensures that I keep my feet in motion in strict adherence to the 20-20-20 principle – wonder how children learnt this in the first place -  for every 20 seconds of your legs on the couch, there will definitely be a shout for something to make you move your legs!!

And as you try to break through the adult stresses of work, health, money and material things  - the child in the home suddenly sprinkles you with magical dust- the magical dust of simple joys and simpler desires -  so you will realize the therapeutic power of cutting, rolling and colouring paper strips and appreciate the soothing effect of crayons and paints that colour your fingertips. She will teach you a lesson or two of the magical beauty of fulfilling small desires , of breaking your adult ego, of the freedom that frog jumps give you and of succumbing to humility when you cannot touch your toes as lithe as her!

Slowly and steadily the child in the house brings out the child in you too – and you start enjoying the curiosity of how a home-cooked dish will turn out, you start looking forward with feverish anticipation for the rains and you start to lick the remnants of an ice cream out of a bowl as the last drop of liquid paradise melts in your mouth! Childhood never looked so close and easy!

Saudade

Each person has a certain yearning, an element that fires her up and it would have to be the mountains for me. The longing is more acute as I live, walk and now lock down myself within walls of a city that smells of concrete and steel.

My journeys through the small hillocks, valleys and the mighty mountains keep breaking at my mind as waves of the past, the murmur of the mountain breeze crisp in my ears, the scent of the evenings in a valley enlivening my senses. The mountains never leave you – they stay where they are but keep calling out to you from up above and keeps you wanting for more.

And here is where ‘might’ might matter but a small hillock is no less superior and can bring wafts of freshness and breezy pleasures to you, a small winding path to the valley brings much more than better views. A valley and a small hill town cleanses you of your material greed, it teaches you to love the air, to enjoy the warmth of a hot tea and to immerse into the sunset and dewy sunrises of the valley!

But there is something about might  - the mightier than the mightiest – the Himalayas- it reigns supreme as the emperor of the clouds. A sight to behold, a sight to experience and a sight that will remain a part of you. No matter which profile, which side and which view, the sight of the Himalayas evokes an emotion that I am yet to encapsulate into a word. Whether covered with mist, embroidered with snow or cascaded with rain – its bewitching beauty never fades and in the company of pristine clouds, it stays there in all its royalty and glory.

So the feeling of Saudade – the deepest longing for the mountains, for the Himalayas or maybe just the little hill town next door. So today I am on a winding journey through the memories of trips to the mountains, of the coldest shivers in the snow, of the piping sweetness of masala chai and the rainbow of shades that embraces the mountains every evening.

A mother to a mother

It takes a mother to appreciate another -  I realized too late into adulthood.

As the pains of ‘labour’ (why do they term it labour I wonder?) drilled through my abdomen and a new being erupted into this world, a small prayer and wonderment at the breed of “mothers” escaped my thoughts. As I was splattered with heady mixes of milk, vomit, puke and baby gurgles – I could not but think of another mother who would have experienced the same a couple of decades back..

And now as the baby smells disappear and the voices of a micro woman emerges in the household, I can’t help being thankful for the mother who steadied the spine, leveled the head and softened the heart in her upbringing. There was a strength in her softness, courage in her silence that she tried to imbibe into my upbringing and I try in vain to infuse into my own motherhood diaries. 

As the constant duels between the right way and the way of a daughter rise up in my motherhood journeys, I always look up to the mother who gently changed my course during times that I veered off the ‘right trajectory’..she had a way  - of correcting without forcing; of enlightening without insulting – the right balance where ‘advice’ and ‘sermons’ were well distinguished.

And in a time where she was not exposed to the science, math, media and jargon of motherhood (that we today are confused than strengthened with) - she held her own and took out the right ‘hat’ that was needed – brought out the love when loneliness prevailed, the friendship when adolescence blossomed, the guidance when life-changing perplexities accosted and a simple hand when all you needed was that support to face the world. A simple reminder to myself that there is no one way to raise a daughter and that motherhood is a tango that needs the right rhythm, pace, energy and intent to make a mark.

And perhaps she also prepared me for a world that was more evil and complicated than my ‘pigtail’ days – as capitalism, in-sensitivities, fanaticism erodes our humanity – the tenets of simple goodness, humility and equality that she sowed always sprouts in support of the battles that ensue.. Perhaps she also prepared for a ‘me too’ in anticipation - arming me with the confidence and the steel to brave the battles of unfairness and discrimination that lay ahead..

My motherhood challenges continue and if I am but able to give half of what was bestowed to me, I would perhaps give myself a pat on my back.. If I can but raise a daughter who loves with purity, who finds happiness in simplicity, who appreciates beauty without judgement and who can stand up for the woman she is – I could rest in the comfort that I repaid my mother at least in part of what was inherited.

Mask It Oh Corona

Mask It

Muffle it

But the virus is within us

Migrants can starve

Fear has class, creed and categorization

Humanity has socially distanced us

Alcohol and ambrosia are synonymous

Let medication and a square meal come later

We sterilized our hearts of sensibilities

Work from home all the men folks

Slave and “donkey away” women folks

Men’s hands sanitized of blood and sweat

Mask it

Muffle it

But Oh Corona – you too breed inequality

You too exude the Divide!

Fatherless

How do you get used to a father gone from your midst? The grief first shrouds you, then pulverizes your soul and finally drills a gaping hole that would never get filled..it remains there as a reminder of what was lost and what can never be found.


And it reminds you everyday of the joys and bonds of being a daughter – being a princess to your father – with a father’s death, the ‘daughter of a father’ also dies. It tells you of the smokescreen life that we lead – all the materiality in the world and the flimsiness of it all – it takes but a moment for all this to come crashing down – it took but a few moments for his laughter to end and his presence lost forever. And then I think of the callousness of my complaints – my job, a worthless promotion, a verbal spat with someone and an endless list of troubles…Troubles I call them? How does it even equal in the greatest grief of all – of a parent gone and never to return?


And life changes forever – every silent hour is deafening, absence more prominent than ever before – not a musical note that I can appreciate without tears in my eyes, not a laugh that I can end without thinking of him, not an art performance that I can breathe in  without thinking of the man who introduced me to all the art and artists of the world. And perhaps he left behind a bit of him in me – and each musical note, each chore at home and each rational thought 
brings me closer to his being. 

Perhaps I honour him with each pure thought, each kind word and each rational act and I owe him my unbiased upbringing, my anti-extremist views and the will to never merge into the ‘crowd’ – for with his life he showcased the simplicity of a good life – all it needs is unconditional giving, a will of your own, fair thinking and the grit to live by your own ethos and principles. 


And what remains is me and the zillion moments of beauty that he introduced me to for who am I without him – perhaps an extension of him and all I can ensure is to live by his tenets, continue the web of relationships that he spun to perfection, fight for the equality that he always ‘did’ than ‘said’ and continue my journey for appreciating art for simply being art and never anything else.


So I ask myself again -  how do you get used to a father gone? The answer is never…

We lost him

We lost him

The goodness in him

The unconditional giving

The more doing than the showing



I lost him

And I lost myself

Never a father’s daughter again

Never to be ‘spoilt bratted’ ever again



I find him

In myself and in my deeds

The principles that he sowed in my heart

The uprightness of a head held high



I find him

In the world wide network he wove for himself

In the beauty of art that he breathed till the last

In the purity of relationships that he lived and died by