Are we there yet

Standing in front of the mirror, Sameer liked what he saw. The Royal Blue Sherwani suit still fit him snugly- falling comfortably over his shoulder, reaching his knees, partially covering the cream colored pyjama trousers. Sameer had worn this suit once before, on the night of his wedding, a typical sticky Indian summer night. Memories of that night seemed inseparable from the Sherwani suit, whose heavily embroidered surface resurfaced each time Sameer revisited that momentous night. Then, Sameer was jet lagged (arriving only two days prior to the ceremony), hungry and irritated by the constant murmur of frenzied mosquitoes. The Sherwani suit only added to his misery. Dry summer heat made him sweat profusely and the silk fabric gave him an unpleasant itch. Through out that night, while he exchanged pleasantries with numerous relatives, posed for what seemed like countless photos and performed endless rituals, the thought of eventually getting out of the Sherwani suit kept him functional and sane.

Ten years have passed since that night. In those ten years, Sameer’s world had changed tumultuously. His family grew in size, new members added – brought into this world by his doing. He is now a father, a husband, and an uncle – then, he was just a son. Carefree verging on irresponsible, an unbound soul transformed into a care taker, care giver and a bread winner. Repentant at times and mostly forgiving, as each year took something away from his former self, the departure allowed him no point of return. Until now.

Facing the full length mirror in the Wedding Sherwani Suit, Sameer quickly recognized an inkling of his former self. He was at once alarmed and equally relieved by this discovery .Why had this not happened before? His college denim (torn, ragged) still in the closet never managed to take him back to that unambiguous time. His recent attempts to fit into them only brought out looks of disapproval from Seema , cold silent stares which promptly made him reassign his closet hierarchy. Perhaps the clarity of what was lost can only be captured in the silent weavings of the blue that bore witness to Sameer’s transformation.

Ten years from now, facing a mirror and struggling to fit into the Blue Sherwani, Sameer will, for a moment wonder what his life would have been had not worn this Sherwani for a second time, ten years prior to that day and ten years after his wedding.

Sameer knows he cannot indefinitely remain in his (their) bedroom. He is not afforded that luxury of time. The reflection (of him?) in the mirror opens gateways to his willful past but those flood gates need guarding. For now, other matters are awaiting his attention. Seema is in the childrens’ room, and in a minute or two will need his assistance. He can already hear Aarti to get Arnav dressed. The toddler is already proving to be a

An adoloscence rewind

In the recent days, I somehow find myself occupied with the thoughts of the road behind that has led me to where I am right now. As I summon those painful memories , my mind appraises the hurdles that have been a constant partner all along, personal battles that I was forced to fight and the innocence that was lost way before it had any inclination to leave. As the mind travels back into its accounts of hardships encountered, I still fail to gauge the single most core-shaking tragedy to have engulfed me?
Loss of a parent, I have experienced to be devastating but would that blow have been softened if I have had a more accomodating adolescence? My father's remarraige was a nightmare for everyone involved. As a result of this, althrough my adolescence, I have been haunted by the daemons of marital discordance and abuse that I now question were a by-product of a failed marraige? Adolescence- ah all those harmones that peaked and when one tended to question even everything that seemed rational, I was on the other hand fighting my inner grievances, trying to make sense out of every injustice encountered and trying to fit into a very dysfunctional family. My family for that part consisted of a very demented step mother- who seemed to have walked right out of a step mother's character in an old Bollywood movie- evil, insecure, psychotic and always on the look out for an opportunity to criticise, a father who was very content not to confront the reality, pretended to not have witnessed any injustice that rubbbed eyeballs and retreated into the past and would rather live there and not in the present- and my younger brother, my only real bonding in the family. Althrough my adolescence, until I left home for my undergrad, I was constantly judged, no matter what I achieved, I was told there were always more competent ways of doing so and when other parents proudly bragged about their children's achievements, my incompetency was being ballyhooed all across the neighborhood.
I remember my undergrad years in Warangal, living with my grand parents and my aunt were the happiest years of my adolescence. For once, I didnot have to go through the agonizing reality of returning back to home after school, for when I was in Hyderabad-living with my "family", I found comfort away from "home" - in school and in my teachers' empathy, and in my friends' support. Maybe that is the reason why my high school friends till date have remained very close to my heart- for in their understanding , I drew the comfort to go on with life and in my smile they were the ones to realise that there was always a glint of sadness. Year after year, I would win prizes for essay writing, elocution competitions and my parents were always a "No Show" at these events and my English teacher Bina Uberoi, would always stand next to me and cheer me on, when I went to collect the trophies. These memories , though with a hint of abondonment and lonliness, also helped me realise that there were friends and relatives always surrounding me and reaching out for the most part when my family failed me.
Criticism- something I still have a hard time dealing with. I grew up being criticised for everything that I did , by my step mother. As she mocked my ineptitude, my self esteem kept tumbling down the hill. Though I have pulled myself up and away from her influence, my first reaction to criticism even today is to protect myself - by blurting out something unpleasent and retreating myself into those adolescent years, where I could hide myself behind irrational rudeness and not really examine the source of the criticism and its validity. Though I tend to bring myself back into reality within a short while, I still loathe this reaction that I tend to render, everytime I cross paths with criticism. Even after all these years of independent living, a troubled part of my growing up still rears its ugly head once in a while, trying to balance out all the goodness that I have opened my eyes to at a latter stage .
I was a very disturbed teenager, wanting to hurt myself and my step-mother but today I donot feel that urge to hurt anyone. I have experienced love and fondness from other corners of life, in the arms of my grand-mother,in Yash's hug, in the home-cooked food of my aunts who would always make my favorite dishes whenever I visited them (Lachatta, Vijaya Lakshmi dodda) , in my cousin Bug's and my brother's concern , in Bhavana's laughter and in Sandeep's eyes. I was one of the few fortunate ones to have had people who cared for me, all around me - who after all helped me realise that the world is not as bad a place to live in as you would think it to be -especially if you were a part of a dysfunctional family too.
Weeks after the Virginia tech tragedy, I still keep wondering- had Cho also found someone to have trusted his fears with and found help in knowing that wanting to hurt and actually causing hurt are totally distinct feelings - the former , a momemtary reaction and the latter- a lifelong blemish, a lot of dreams would have taken shape into reality.

Mourning a loss

I was eight years old when I lost my mother and today I am twenty-five. In these sixteen years of her absense, memories of her faded into the night that was within me. As I look back over the years, I can only acknowledge a void that was left behind in my heart, with her passing away- a void that remains irreplaceable. My memories of her are hidden deep within and buried - for the fear of the pain involved and distant- because of the years that have blurried those few moments of her existence in my life.

This weekend as I observed my eight year old nephew's interactions with his mother, I somehow began questioning the lack of depth in my memory of my mother. I donot know if I am yet ready for such an introspection as I am not sure if I can deal with the pain involved while unearthing those memoirs. All through my growing up, I have been haunted by questions about my mother and as I kept dismissing them each year, they only kept haunting me back with a greater momentum. I shared these concerns with a close friend -who is a psycology major, and she discerned that an eight year old's memory development should be clear enough to be able to recollect those occurrences at a later stage in their life.Recollections of my mother are vague, like an early morning dream....just visible enough to know that it has occured but gets hazier as you try to get into the details

As I trace back my early years, I somehow can reconstruct most of my interactions with cousins, childhood friends and relatives but I only remember a very few of these with my mother. These few interactions donot just come to the mind easily, for only over the past few years did I have the courage to revisit them. And surprisingly each of these memories is a happy one, connotating a very special bond that we shared. I remember an incident when I was diagnosed with jaundice and the day before that my mom was mad at me for not going to school, not knowing I was unwell. The next day she hugged me real tight and apologised for not realising that I was unwell. Another day I helped her in cleaning the refrigerator and I remember her telling my grandmother that one day I would grow up to be a good husband :) . As I keep writing now, memories of her keep flashing..mostly memories of her in the garden- tending to the plants or of our family waking up early on Sunday mornings to bathe our two dogs.I was once scared that these memories were lost but as I rediscover them , I am relieved and also anxious at the same time, relieved-for I now know that my heart has clinged on to her memories but only allowed them to be buried to be able to cope up with the loss at that time and anxious- because I am not aware when the pain is going to hit hard.

Over the years, I gradually forgot what it must have felt to have had a mother. I grew up looking for that unconditional love and affection in my relationships with my high-school teachers, my grandmother, my aunts and at a later stage, in my relationships with my lovers - trying to fill the void that my mother's death created. Only recently did I realise that this void can never be filled by any other relationship I chose to be in, for in losing my mother, I have lost that one person whom I could just hug and in that very second - momentarily forget all of my worries. As a child I dealt with this loss by hiding away from her memories and now I am coping with the loss, by unearthing those few memories that I still have of her- not too soon for I still have a long life ahead, and I only have a few of them to savor. I have only heard good things about her from the people who knew her well, but I find it difficult to comprehend, that an opportunity was never presented to neither me nor my mother, to discover each other as adults. It seldom escapes my mind what she would have thought about the decisions that I have made in my life, were she alive today and even though she is not with us anymore, from deep within, I still ask for her aceptance and pray for her guidance.

Last year, my grandmother sent me a tape of songs sung by my mother. The tape lies here in my front room, on the book shelf. I havent found the courage yet to open and play it, for I donot know what emotions might gush in? Perhaps one day a voice from deep within will call out to me and help me find that courage. Till then, there is her picture on the wall, taken a day before her wedding, with her eyes sparkling- for in them, there is an excitement for the future and the pain in leaving behind the past- and today, as I look at this picture, my eyes resemble her's - for in them too there is not only the pain in knowing that the past has been left behind but also the happiness in knowing that the future holds a possibility of me knowing her better.

I have just recently made peace with the void left behind after her death, I donot know how long will it take for me to make peace with her death but I do mourn her loss daily, at a unconscious level- more often when I am not thinking about her than I do, in the things I do and the way I react to circumstances and not in the tears that I have cried but in the memories that I have preserved.

A leap from the sky

Sometime back, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, a troika (I was one among the three) of friends journeyed together towards a common destination - the destination being a small airport 120 miles north of San Jose, in a small town no one had heard before- named Cloverdale, CA. On reaching their destination, they would be ridden to an altitude of 13,000 ft in a small, shaky aeroplane that had only enough room for four people to squeeze into, with the passengers sitting on the floor of the plane with their legs folded, from where they would jump tandem with an instructor into the space below- for the first time the space below them being the land that defined their existence, the surrounding mountains that till now loomed large and those clouds that usually floated above you - with their dream like quality in separating themselves from the bourgeois and also in their pure white apparel, often too aloof from humanity, to reach out and taint its snowy complacence.
The drive to this town manifested itself into an energy sapping exercise as the Google Maps projected two hour duration slowly transformed itself into an exhausting three and a half hour engagement, consummate with last minute "surprises" like traffic blocks at intersections where one wouldnot expect people to drive even on weekdays, lane closures to enable road repairs on the weekends and also the frustration involved in driving behind two over-sized trucks, going side-by side in a two way lane, their speed in the low 40's , like carefree lovers walking hand-in-hand, thoroughly enjoying their joyful juxtaposition, totally oblivious to the traffic behind and the furore caused. Unfortunately I was the designated driver or coming to think of it, I might have designated myself as the driver and as the heat outside only got worse as the afternoon progressed, my thoughts at that moment were more focussed on reaching the destination and liberating myself from my "hot-pot" of a car ( my old Toyota Corolla doesnot have air-conditioning) than to actually investigate what my feelings were at the moment, about the certainity of me jumping from an aeroplane very soon.
Finally after reaching the destination and filling out all the formalities required ( the paper-work emphasising that no legal action could be taken against the company incase of a mishap), as we waited for our turn to board the plane in our robotic robes, I took a quick glance at my other friends who also seemed very composed and as our trainer dispensed some last minute instructions which eventually I would forget when taking the leap, I tried hard to concentrate on what was being told at that moment and rather not worry about the possibility of my parachute not functioning - a sombre thought which somehow wouldnot leave me until the actual act had to exhibit itself as a contradiction, thus coercing it to vacate its occupancy and free up those grey cells which at one time were plagued about my safety, to finally celebrate my survival.
The ride to an elevation of 13,000 ft from where we would dive into the space beneath us, started with the diminutive aircraft's wheels screeching their way on the rugged runway, as the plane took off to what appeared to be a very shaky start. On board along with me and my instructor , were my good friend Sidney and his instructor. I was informed that the duration to reach an altitude of 13,000 ft would be around 15 minutes - 15 very silent minutes as the noise coming from the cock-pit right behind us left no room for any audible conversation. As I looked down from my side, kneeling on the floor of the plane, mountains that once seemed mighty slowly lost themselves to the color of the earth, as everything merged into a vast canvas of brown, dotted with spots of green that were the vegetation around us along with a pale crayonish line of blue- maybe a river nearby, now oddly resembling a tiny tot's initial dabble with colors. During this journey upwards, I also noticed that the instructors were constantly checking their altimeters attached to their wrists which indicated the altitude that we currently were at and promptly notified us amidst all the noise, regarding how soon the dive was going to occur. When we reached an altitude of 13,000 ft it was decided that Sidney along with his instructor would dive first after which I were supposed to follow suit. The flap that covered one side of the plane was now opened and it was from here that we would sky-dive . I saw Sidney take a position, sitting onto the now exposed side of the plane, with his feet dangling into the air/space below and his arms folded into an "X" across his chest, as his instructor rocked both of them into the free space, I saw them disappear underneath the aircraft, the earth's gravity sucking both of them with monumental vitality that would put to shame the most efficient vacume cleaners that the industry has ever produced or would ever aspire to do so. It then occured to me that if something were to happen to either of us, I would have been the last person to have seen Sidney or vice-versa.As this thought entertained my mind for a brief duration, at that very moment I was actually being prepared for my dive. Pre-occupied with matters of death and friendships, as my instructor rocked me from the aircraft, I completely forgot all those instructions that were handed out to me while waiting to board the plane. And then I was totally taken over by the free fall....
Ah what an experience...The earth pulling me towards him with all his might, at speeds greater than 140 miles /hr, emphasising his reaction to our separation and also indicating that I belong to the land and not the free space above, maybe pointing out his dislike in my tres-passing into this zone for a brief period, a space exclusively created for birds to experience the pleasures of philandering with the land, to make love to the earth only at their disposition, to fly away when they felt like- no obligation to stay on and continue an exhausted relationship, to experience the pleasures of a new place, a virgin territory- liberty at its best! To the contrary, mankind has been tutored into an existence of territorial loyalty, of confined love affairs- in surrendering themselves to their surroundings - to the jobs that they occupy and the houses that they buy- a life devoid of freedom, a life of sustained circumferences.
The free fall which lasted for little more than a minute, seemed like an eternity - the adrenaline rush that I experienced during that duration, still fresh in my memory and the potent gravitational force that was exerted on my unpretentious body, re-inforcing my subordination to the universe. At one point in that miniscule duration, I wondered crossing paths with death in the probability of my parachute not opening. In my twenty-five years of a life time, this was the closest that I had come, to realise the certainity of my fatality.Unlike some people that I have known who have had their escapades with fate, I 've never had to undergo a crisis situation that put to test my survival instincts.
Death - when and how do I want to die? The more I have thought about it, the more I feel I am in control of my life. The less uncertain that my tomorrow seems, the more focussed I am today to make my mark before I cease. I didnot want to die during my dive, I still have tasks to finish, people that I would want to meet one more time before I finally close my eyes, dreams that need years to take shape, places that I want to visit and experiences that I want to absorb into my soul and lock them there for eternity. But as I grow older, will a time come when the desire to exist doesnot seem meaningful? When all the things that I have aspired for and achieved suddenly hold no value? And then, would it be a moral issue to end one's life when you realise that activities at one stage that needed no effort, today seem to be an immeasurable accountability? Suicide and Euthanasia - a very frail line separating them, that is vulnerable to the preachings of religion that conveys only nature's right to give and take life and what I personally fell is a basic right to not lead a life that has become an affliction. What is acceptable and what is not?
As a teenager constantly subdued by my step- mother, I have attempted suicide twice, marks of which I carry till date on my left wrist. At that time, I was in a state of perennial depression, unable to look beyond my circumstances, to forsee the future that has now become the present, where I would be leading my life according to my terms and conditions, disconnected from her presence and replete with ambitions that add fuel to my desire of living. I also know that I donot want to live past seventy, that life after that age somehow transforms itself into a routine of "been there...done that" and "seen it all". At an age, when I do realise that I am losing my independence over my daily activities, I would rather put an end to an over-fatigued story than wait for external factors to come into play in deciding when and how the end would occur.
How would I want to die? It would be nice if I went to sleep one night and never woke up- preferably sleeping next to my partner or if I were to end up single, atleast close enough to someone who would eventually discover my body. This weekend, my best friend was visiting me and we discussed our fears of dying alone and people not finding out until our bodies were rotten. Though troubled with this thought, I have also realised that after I am gone, nothing else would matter- the focus needs to be shifted to the present, when I am still alive and to try not to worry too much about the future, when I would become extinct .

God of Adversities

This is the story of my parents. This is a story about their trials and tribulations, about sharing a life together- of intermingled dreams and sacrifices , of strengths and weaknesses, of love and compromises and of companionship and lonliness. This could have also been the story of my next door neighbor who occasionally smiles at me while attending to his children, when I run into him in the corridor, of my co-worker rushing from work to pick up her children from school - the rush hour traffic unable to unnerve this daily routine of her's , of a woman at a bus stop waiting for her bus -listening to songs from her Ipod and looking forward to a harmonious evening with her lover - for this could have been a very common place story that you hear everyday- during an interaction with your co-worker, your friend or the passenger sitting next to you, with whom you share a ride, a story celebrating the lives of those who donot face an existential crisis - whose lives have evolved into a comfortable routine - when one knows exactly what is going to happen next and this prediction always brings to the person, a sense of accordance. But unlike your story or mine and like many great Shakespearean love stories, this story also has a monumental tragedy involved thus elevating it to the heights of melancholy and hence distancing it from the routine- the mundane.
The protagonist in this story is my father. In order to give depth to his character, I trace back objectively into my accounts of his interactions with the people around him, his childhood recollections and his alliances with his siblings. My narration begins with him giving his consent to get married to my mother. If the audience desires to dwelve deeper into his past to facilitate their comprehension of his character, he is the youngest child in a family of seven brothers and two sisters. His father already retired from government services during the formative years of my protagonist, most of his education has been possible due to the generosity of his older siblings, who till date form a very influential force in his decision making. At the time of this narration, he is 29 years old, had just completed his specialization in the field of Ophtalmology ( his choosing this field of speciality is because his father is an Ophtalmologist too) and has been posted as an assistant surgeon at a government hospital, in rural Andhra Pradesh. Prior to giving his consent, he along with one of his elder brother's (who has an affinity towards Carnatic music and women with big eyes and long hair) travel from Hyderabad (the state capital of Andhra Pradesh) to a nearby town Warangal, to meet my mother who at that time would be one of the prospective brides whose compatibility with my father would be estimated by his elder brother ( who till date has a penchant for judging people he interacts with and whose unquestionable ego never stops in giving unasked for advice ) in the way she dresses, walks, cooks and sings - for in those days it was believed that a woman's character is a direct outcome of how she conducts herself amidst people she isnt very familiar with.
My mother - the heroine in this tale of tragedy - at that time had just finished her Bachelor's in Medicine and Surgery and has been accepted to pursue her post graduation in the field of Gyneacology. Only daughter of a wealthy, traditional Bramhin family in a small town, she is already quite popular in the elite circles of Warangal- with her singing talents fetching her radio shows, her traditional beauty ( eyes as wide as lotus flowers , long flowing hair adorned with jasmines and her Sari Pallu only reaching her shoulder like Jaya Bhaduri in Guddi- very fashionable at those times) and her intelligence ( at that time she was among a very few women to pursue a career in Medicine at her local university) had men flocking my grand parents' house for the most part of the year (Ofcourse, the summer afternoons were excused - for there was a well documented instance when one of the admirer's was hospitalised due to a severe sun stroke after loitering in the sun for a good couple of hours to catch a glimpse or two). Her character sustained the traditional values even though she was encouraged to think progressive by her mother who herself is a post-graduate from Kakatiya University and whose friends circle involved influential poets and writers- and who one day in the future- while recuperating from a hernia, would secretly hide a magazine beneath her pillow and read about the Clinton - Monical Lewinsky and the Cigar threesome , when not bothered by visitors.For now, the focus is shifted back onto the daughter for this is her story ...maybe in the future, if this tid-bit about my grandmother evokes a figment of interest in the reader, we shall again take a deeper glimpse into her character. The daughter's strength was her patience and perseverance , her weakness - her soon to be husband.
Ohh..what do I write about the marraige? That I was a by product of it? That it ended eleven years after its creation- that neither of the bethroted had a say in its ending..for it was a ploy successfully excuted by the God of Adversities. But before I submit my petition against the God of Adversities and try to make a case out of it - in defense against the defense-less, arguing in behalf of those who have lost their assurance, please allow me to depict in a couple of sentences the beauty of this marraige -for it was a blissful marraige while it lasted. The husband- happy to cook for his wife when she was away at work , in the Emergency Room attending to patients all night or when sent to a rural location on a duty camp, the wife ... content in helping her husband realise what he needed, always standing behind his decision though it was tough to take a stand and realise that the ground was flaky, the children (both of them bespectacled..the neighbors adoring the little ones in their big eye glasses and inquiring their father "Doctorji, Is your private practice not doing good?? No new patients..so prescribing glasses for your own children huh?? Smiling away at their funny observation) ..healthy and good at their grades ( for at that age that was all that mattered), the dogs ( two of them..named Buddy and Spotty eventhough Buddy never was my friend and picked sides with my brother and everyday my count of spots on Spotty would vary) well fed and playful, the house - adorned with a garden that caught the neighbor's envy -roses (both white and pink), marigolds, jasmines, hybrid-hibiscus in magenta(procured from Bangalore when a second cousin finally found time to make a trip and inspect the new house) , a Neem tree whose leaves came in handy for the bitter New Year Pickle, a Mango tree that supplied mangoes for the summer pickles and restrooms that had western toilets, a novelty among all of the relatives.
And then -there was the accident that happened just infront of the house with my mother driving her two wheeler- hit by a drunk auto-rickshaw driver - that made her comatose for almost two weeks , after which she passed away. The marraige -over. Period.
The childrens' lives had just begun. But the father's life came to a halt. A complete standstill. Inanimate, frozen, cold - a snowstorm that would last forever. No respite. Never. Eleven years of sunshine and the rest of his life- just cold, heart wrenching cold.His mind- frozen , his thoughts distant, reality -surreal, the truth now a lie, the past still present and the future, lost in the past. Few years from now he would marry again. But his marraige would now be just another charade. Nothing when compared to his earlier marraige. Nothing ever the same again. A life of Nothings. Decisions made by not deciding. Years rolling on but still nothing changing.Noting that now nothing was once everything. Pain still remaining. Only pain remaining. Only pain and memories of a distant life once savored - so distant at times they seemed forbidden. Adversity only purloining away the frugal courage gathered in his soul - gathered in the confidence and support from his now anesthetized wife. No lessons learnt. No wisdom gathered. Only incompetency and despair. A complete surrender to the circumstances - a defeat devoid of any resistance.
Why then does the God of Adversities deliberate his mightiest plots against the misfit? Against people who shrink in the hour of crisis. When their character shrinks in pain. When their confidence becomes extinct and their self-respect, buried. When adversity teaches them nothing. And then their lives also become a nothing. Why not just let their lives fall into a routine . A life of conformance. When the future becomes the present, and the present- the future. No new challenges. No new puzzles. No new surprises. Just a satisfaction in knowing that change doesnot really change. And to keep the God of Adversities occupied there is the rest of the mankind.

Potrait of a Nosy Neighbor

I grew up amidst Marwaris - the primarily family business oriented community in India. At one point in my high school years, I remember myself being the only South Indian in my class - a stark contradiction to the demographics of the local geography I grew up in. If I look back now, I see a majority of my life spent being a minority. Under different circumstances. These circumstances teaching me to fight for what I believe in and also over the years, helping me to recognize even the minor tints of beauty present in various forms that generally would have escaped a common eye. I distinctly remember my early years, when as a kid of 7 years, I would go along with my maid to the neighboring Kirana store to procure a Kilo of Rice or Atta, that my mother had just discovered we were running out of. Those were my first years of dependability. When my mother would trust me with 10 rupees to go and purchase what she wanted. My math abilities by that time graduating enough to do the required calculation. Also, in some occasions, when I behaved for the most part of the week, I was allowed to purchase orange candy that tastes similar to Altoids, with the remaining change. A Kirana store in India can be described as your friendly next door local businessman's small garage-ish store (friendly- only if you belonged to a privileged family - that is atleast if both your parents were earning and the family household income thus falling comfortably into the upper middle class. In my case, I was always more than welcome as both of my parents were Doctors, thus elevating my status into the affordable echelons of the society) where in a state of disorder, you would find the basic amenities that were required for your every day household needs.
The Kirana Store next door had a peculiar smell that oozed into the surroundings that cannot be precisely described. A smell that indicated the store's survival. An amalgamation of half lit incense sticks, camphor burning in a distance infront of a Ganesh idol - further sooting the wall behind and the pungent odor from the rusted iron fringes on the garage door . (Most often, the garage of the house that the Seth lived in, became the grocery store. Thus facilitating his afternoon siestas on a hot summer day) A smell that couldnot be missed while passing by the store. Somehow reminding you of its presence and luring you into a quick purchase- maybe a candy to satisfy your sweet tooth or a lemon soda ( Usually served in a green bottle with a marble that had to be balanced to let the soda flow) to quench your thirst. The Seth always at the counter, his constant exposure belying his intentions of lurking onto a prospective customer, then engaging the customer in a friendly banter, at times mocking at his own personality, at times ridiculing the abilities of the underaged "chotu" who worked for him, most of the times not forgetting to mention how lack-lustre the business has been and in that process pursuading the customer to try a new rice-bag that suppposedly was hand checked for insects or some fresh "Brookbond Coffee" that had just arrived. Always Fresh. Only for this special customer. And incase the customer happened to be a woman, not forgetting to mention how crisp her cotton sari looked today.This compliment carefully constructed so as to not sound cheeky. Only a genuine observation made as a matter of fact. As a result, an unnecessary purchase most often materialising into a fact. An ounce of flattery and a milligram of importance paving way to a purchase of a few kilograms of rice or flour. This concoction always working. Especially in a country where daily chores went unnoticed. Unappreciated. As if your surroundings were programmed to function according to your needs. No effort recognised from the people who make your surroundings.Where it is granted to take your spouse for granted. Thus, an occasional ounce of flattery shown from an unknown stranger (in this case, the Marwari Seth) resulting in an act of gratitude as the opposite reaction. Newton's theory of every action has an equal and opposite reaction thus being proved.
The Marwari Seth's life, a repitition of his father's. His father's life most likely a repition of his grand father's. Of managing to successfully run a family business while appearing to be just able to make the ends meet. His prefered offsprings would be male- thus enabling to continue the family business into unforeseable generations ahead. Daughters of the family, predictably leading a very sheltered life. Most likely would be married by the age of eighteen into a household that would further strengthen the Seth's existing business. A lucrative solution for an unasked blessing. For he has been disciplined into making money ever since he was a child (Even out of the tap water that he adds to the milk he sells). So nothing wrong in making room for some business expansion through a relationship that he creates for his daughters. Sons of the family groomed early on to gauge every situation encountered in terms of an inequality. The "greater than" symbol in this inequality always showing affinity towards their direction. Like the way iron mends its direction towards a magnet. Or vice-versa. But making sure that the mutual afffinity is never absent. Personal gain always heralded. Always on the fore-front. Moral dilemmas discarded in this process. Brains tuned only to extract profit. At any cost. Loss and defeat most of the times are not an option. Authority from the outside world mocked upon. Authority from within never questioned. Rebellious attitude instantly expelled. Conditioning to this tradition passed on from generations and carried forward with considerable pride.
A routine day in the Seth's life begins early at around 6:00 am. When the milk packets from the local dairy farm are delivered to his garage (which is also the store). At times when he is not feeling lazy, he mixes this milk with tap water and lets his wife neatly re-seal the packets with a very rudimentary set-up of a burning candle and a wet cloth to instantly remove the traces of any molten wax. These packets then are stacked hap-hazardly in an old Allwyn refrigerator ( the exterior of the fridge usually white in color- but gradually acquring an off-white/greyish tinge due to the lack of maintenance). The Seth then heads for a very quick nap usually lasting for an hour. During this time, the maid makes her daily appearance with a broomstick. To sweep the floor daily and on Mondays and Thursdays, mop it with Phenyl. While carrying out this daily chore of her's, the maid is always on the lookout. For an extra one rupee coin that somehow might have slipped from the Seth's hand and also his attention. Now hiding under a chair or an old Almirah. Waiting to be rescued and quickly slipped into the knot at the edge of her Sari pallu or into her blouse, resting in-between her voluptuous breasts. Always optimistic about this possibility. Thus conniving herself to reach even into the remote corners of the room, looking for an extra buck and pretending to get the dirt away. Most often the end result being a very clean room. And at times a fifty-paisa coin finding its away ( maybe once a month). That was cleverly tucked away by the Seth under the old Almirah stacking the Natraj pencils and the Lepakshi notebooks. To add fuel to the maid's optimism.
After the maid, appear the school children. For their last minute purchases, as they wait for the yellow colored school bus. In front of the Kirana Store. A pencil, an eraser. Maybe a notebook or a ruler. Perhaps English Marie biscuits for the snack break? Or Parle-G? The Seth by now is forced to wake up and go into the store. By his nagging wife, repeatedly reciting "Uthiye Ji .. Aath baj Gaya" (Please wakeup..its already 8:00 am). In a tone that camouflages contempt as concern. The decibels loud enough to agitate the sleep cells in the Seth's mind and thus break their harmonious existence. But not as harsh and unpredictable as the old Titan alarm clock (on the brown end table with floral designs painted by the Seth's wife in red and green) which sometimes shriek's a very shrill "Cuck-doo-koo" and at most other times just sleeps like an old dog. But whose batteries always run out too soon. Unlike this alarm, the Seth's wife adds her own personal touch and charm(??) to this very automated chore. Thus coercing the Seth to finally wake up and get out of his bed. And prepare himself with a cup of filter coffee.To attend to this aggregation of cantankerous children. Often intermingling their words and choices with each other's. Often knowing what they donot want and predictably, not knowing what they do. Creating a havoc within a few seconds of their arrival and this confusion lasting until the school bus arrives. Their Pocket money per day around 5 rupees. But their pockets demanding goods worth firty rupees. This inequality, something their Math teacher will not bother to resolve. Algebra as they always knew, thus was a very unfair discrepancy.
The school bus's exit always created a lull in the Kirana store's existence. A lull after the storm. That continued to become the lull before the storm the next day. Until the school children arrived again. And in the weekends, this lull continued for two days. Only sporadically interrupted by middle class house wives with stingy purses. Carrying bright blue or orange plastic baskets and swinging them along as they walked. Always haggling to the final fifty paisa. At times not even purchasing that kilo of Aloo for Subji after almost an hour spent on bargaining. Deciding to go further ahead to another store, to maybe find a better deal on a little more rotten produce.
At times the officers' wives sent their maids when they didnot have enough time to run into the centrally air-conditioned retail store in the mall that had opened recently. They always ordered the costliest of the vegetables ( Capcisum, Bringal and tomatoes) and always wanted aerated water and soda (Thumbs up, Gold Spot ..the Zing Thing as they advertised in those days) for their kitty parties. Their maids' never bargained about the prices. All they asked for was a bill that most of the times went unchallenged. The street smart ones made deals with the Seth where exorbitant prices (almost comparable to the air-conditioned store) were put on the bill and the profit equally split between the maid and the Seth. Ohh the Officer's ladies..in their sleeveless blouses and Silk Sari's. Trimmed eye brows and red lip-stick on their lips. Always in fashion and merry making. The Seth, always trying to make them a larger part of his clientele as opposed to the grim middle class clerk's wife. Trying to add a very personal flavor in enquiring about their and their relatives' well-being . "Ohh how is Pinky baby doing today?" " Did Bunny babu finish his homework in time? " "And how is the saab liking his new job? " Imagining that this little intimate inquiry would be remembered, safely stored in their memory and would be missed during their next visit to the air-conditioned retail store with haughty store-keepers.
The evening customers mostly comprised of the Bachelors back from work, stopping in for a quick bite of Samosa and a sip of steaming hot Adrak Chai that the Seth's wife had made in the afternoon. And indulging in small talk with the Seth about their jobs. The government employees always complaining about everything but doing nothing. The private sector employees also complaining about everything but atleast working. Sometimes a quick fued rising between both the parties and seldom quickly resolving. Most of the times, giving birth to heated arguments. The Seth's wife till then glued to the television in the living room ( Chotu helping the Seth serve the Samosas) quickly turning off the television and concealing herself behind the curtain in times of these heated conversations. Her empathy always for the under-payed, over worked private sector employee. Silently nodding her head with every argument made by the private sector employee. Not realising that her mute backing behind a curtain doesnot translate into a major force. The Seth cunningly not taking any sides. His wicked mind recognizing that by taking sides, his business will also dip. Just like the Bombay Stock exchange. Especially careful to not hurt the sentiments of the government employee whom he might have to bribe in the future to get things done. Hoping that his silent withdrawal from these arguments now would also result in the withdrawal of the scale of the bribe in future.
As the bachelors' leave, the Seth's wife usually heads towards the kitchen to prepare dinner for the family. In this non-peak, after school hours, most of the times you get to see the Seth's eldest son at the counter. Getting a grip of the business. Trying to remember the prices for all the commodities and also learning how to secretly place a magnet underneath one side of the old scales, thus adding weight to the side where the groceries would be placed for gauging. In these hours when business usually is dull, the Seth heads back to the living room to listen to the 7:00 pm Doordarshan News in Telugu (which he understands) and also the 7:20 pm News in Urdu.Making sure that the Urdu reporter didnot miss anything that the Telugu reporter mentioned earlier on.The Seth's eldest son and his aide Chotu stay at the counter for the rest of the night..until the store closes at 9:00 pm.
Thus goes on another day in the Seth's life. The same job that he has been carrying on for nearly half of his age. The same job that one day hopefully he would pass on to his children. The same clothes that he tends to wear daily. A white vest and a white dhoti. Heavy gold chain with Hanuman locket circling his neck. No attention paid to his appearance. Tending to his customers and in this process trying to entertain himself. Being nice to those who can afford his "niceness". And always looking out for an extra buck or two. The Marwari Seth in a Kirana Store..in the years to come will his existence get replaced by the ever sprouting retail markets in chic malls? Only a visit back to Hyderabad in the coming years will tell...

Marwari Seth

I grew up amidst Marwaris - the primarily family business oriented community in India. At one point in my high school years, I remember myself being the only South Indian in my class - a stark contradiction to the demographics of the local geography I grew up in. If I look back now, I see a majority of my life spent being a minority. Under different circumstances. These circumstances teaching me to fight for what I believe in and also over the years, helping me to recognize even the minor tints of beauty present in various forms that generally would have escaped a common eye. I distinctly remember my early years, when as a kid of 7 years, I would go along with my maid to the neighboring Kirana store to procure a Kilo of Rice or Atta, that my mother had just discovered we were running out of. Those were my first years of dependability. When my mother would trust me with 10 rupees to go and purchase what she wanted. My math abilities by that time graduating enough to do the required calculation. Also, in some occasions, when I behaved for the most part of the week, I was allowed to purchase orange candy that tastes similar to Altoids, with the remaining change. A Kirana store in India can be described as your friendly next door local businessman's small garage-ish store (friendly- only if you belonged to a privileged family - that is atleast if both your parents were earning and the family household income thus falling comfortably into the upper middle class. In my case, I was always more than welcome as both of my parents were Doctors, thus elevating my status into the affordable echelons of the society) where in a state of disorder, you would find the basic amenities that were required for your every day household needs.
The Kirana Store next door had a peculiar smell that oozed into the surroundings that cannot be precisely described. A smell that indicated the store's survival. An amalgamation of half lit incense sticks, camphor burning in a distance infront of a Ganesh idol - further sooting the wall behind and the pungent odor from the rusted iron fringes on the garage door . (Most often, the garage of the house that the Seth lived in, became the grocery store. Thus facilitating his afternoon siestas on a hot summer day) A smell that couldnot be missed while passing by the store. Somehow reminding you of its presence and luring you into a quick purchase- maybe a candy to satisfy your sweet tooth or a lemon soda ( Usually served in a green bottle with a marble that had to be balanced to let the soda flow) to quench your thirst. The Seth always at the counter, his constant exposure belying his intentions of lurking onto a prospective customer, then engaging the customer in a friendly banter, at times mocking at his own personality, at times ridiculing the abilities of the underaged "chotu" who worked for him, most of the times not forgetting to mention how lack-lustre the business has been and in that process pursuading the customer to try a new rice-bag that suppposedly was hand checked for insects or some fresh "Brookbond Coffee" that had just arrived. Always Fresh. Only for this special customer. And incase the customer happened to be a woman, not forgetting to mention how crisp her cotton sari looked today.This compliment carefully constructed so as to not sound cheeky. Only a genuine observation made as a matter of fact. As a result, an unnecessary purchase most often materialising into a fact. An ounce of flattery and a milligram of importance paving way to a purchase of a few kilograms of rice or flour. This concoction always working. Especially in a country where daily chores went unnoticed. Unappreciated. As if your surroundings were programmed to function according to your needs. No effort recognised from the people who make your surroundings.Where it is granted to take your spouse for granted. Thus, an occasional ounce of flattery shown from an unknown stranger (in this case, the Marwari Seth) resulting in an act of gratitude as the opposite reaction. Newton's theory of every action has an equal and opposite reaction thus being proved.
The Marwari Seth's life, a repitition of his father's. His father's life most likely a repition of his grand father's. Of managing to successfully run a family business while appearing to be just able to make the ends meet. His prefered offsprings would be male- thus enabling to continue the family business into unforeseable generations ahead. Daughters of the family, predictably leading a very sheltered life. Most likely would be married by the age of eighteen into a household that would further strengthen the Seth's existing business. A lucrative solution for an unasked blessing. For he has been disciplined into making money ever since he was a child (Even out of the tap water that he adds to the milk he sells). So nothing wrong in making room for some business expansion through a relationship that he creates for his daughters. Sons of the family groomed early on to gauge every situation encountered in terms of an inequality. The "greater than" symbol in this inequality always showing affinity towards their direction. Like the way iron mends its direction towards a magnet. Or vice-versa. But making sure that the mutual afffinity is never absent. Personal gain always heralded. Always on the fore-front. Moral dilemmas discarded in this process. Brains tuned only to extract profit. At any cost. Loss and defeat most of the times are not an option. Authority from the outside world mocked upon. Authority from within never questioned. Rebellious attitude instantly expelled. Conditioning to this tradition passed on from generations and carried forward with considerable pride.
A routine day in the Seth's life begins early at around 6:00 am. When the milk packets from the local dairy farm are delivered to his garage (which is also the store). At times when he is not feeling lazy, he mixes this milk with tap water and lets his wife neatly re-seal the packets with a very rudimentary set-up of a burning candle and a wet cloth to instantly remove the traces of any molten wax. These packets then are stacked hap-hazardly in an old Allwyn refrigerator ( the exterior of the fridge usually white in color- but gradually acquring an off-white/greyish tinge due to the lack of maintenance). The Seth then heads for a very quick nap usually lasting for an hour. During this time, the maid makes her daily appearance with a broomstick. To sweep the floor daily and on Mondays and Thursdays, mop it with Phenyl. While carrying out this daily chore of her's, the maid is always on the lookout. For an extra one rupee coin that somehow might have slipped from the Seth's hand and also his attention. Now hiding under a chair or an old Almirah. Waiting to be rescued and quickly slipped into the knot at the edge of her Sari pallu or into her blouse, resting in-between her voluptuous breasts. Always optimistic about this possibility. Thus conniving herself to reach even into the remote corners of the room, looking for an extra buck and pretending to get the dirt away. Most often the end result being a very clean room. And at times a fifty-paisa coin finding its away ( maybe once a month). That was cleverly tucked away by the Seth under the old Almirah stacking the Natraj pencils and the Lepakshi notebooks. To add fuel to the maid's optimism.
After the maid, appear the school children. For their last minute purchases, as they wait for the yellow colored school bus. In front of the Kirana Store. A pencil, an eraser. Maybe a notebook or a ruler. Perhaps English Marie biscuits for the snack break? Or Parle-G? The Seth by now is forced to wake up and go into the store. By his nagging wife, repeatedly reciting "Uthiye Ji .. Aath baj Gaya" (Please wakeup..its already 8:00 am). In a tone that camouflages contempt as concern. The decibels loud enough to agitate the sleep cells in the Seth's mind and thus break their harmonious existence. But not as harsh and unpredictable as the old Titan alarm clock (on the brown end table with floral designs painted by the Seth's wife in red and green) which sometimes shriek's a very shrill "Cuck-doo-koo" and at most other times just sleeps like an old dog. But whose batteries always run out too soon. Unlike this alarm, the Seth's wife adds her own personal touch and charm(??) to this very automated chore. Thus coercing the Seth to finally wake up and get out of his bed. And prepare himself with a cup of filter coffee.To attend to this aggregation of cantankerous children. Often intermingling their words and choices with each other's. Often knowing what they donot want and predictably, not knowing what they do. Creating a havoc within a few seconds of their arrival and this confusion lasting until the school bus arrives. Their Pocket money per day around 5 rupees. But their pockets demanding goods worth firty rupees. This inequality, something their Math teacher will not bother to resolve. Algebra as they always knew, thus was a very unfair discrepancy.
The school bus's exit always created a lull in the Kirana store's existence. A lull after the storm. That continued to become the lull before the storm the next day. Until the school children arrived again. And in the weekends, this lull continued for two days. Only sporadically interrupted by middle class house wives with stingy purses. Carrying bright blue or orange plastic baskets and swinging them along as they walked. Always haggling to the final fifty paisa. At times not even purchasing that kilo of Aloo for Subji after almost an hour spent on bargaining. Deciding to go further ahead to another store, to maybe find a better deal on a little more rotten produce.
At times the officers' wives sent their maids when they didnot have enough time to run into the centrally air-conditioned retail store in the mall that had opened recently. They always ordered the costliest of the vegetables ( Capcisum, Bringal and tomatoes) and always wanted aerated water and soda (Thumbs up, Gold Spot ..the Zing Thing as they advertised in those days) for their kitty parties. Their maids' never bargained about the prices. All they asked for was a bill that most of the times went unchallenged. The street smart ones made deals with the Seth where exorbitant prices (almost comparable to the air-conditioned store) were put on the bill and the profit equally split between the maid and the Seth. Ohh the Officer's ladies..in their sleeveless blouses and Silk Sari's. Trimmed eye brows and red lip-stick on their lips. Always in fashion and merry making. The Seth, always trying to make them a larger part of his clientele as opposed to the grim middle class clerk's wife. Trying to add a very personal flavor in enquiring about their and their relatives' well-being . "Ohh how is Pinky baby doing today?" " Did Bunny babu finish his homework in time? " "And how is the saab liking his new job? " Imagining that this little intimate inquiry would be remembered, safely stored in their memory and would be missed during their next visit to the air-conditioned retail store with haughty store-keepers.
The evening customers mostly comprised of the Bachelors back from work, stopping in for a quick bite of Samosa and a sip of steaming hot Adrak Chai that the Seth's wife had made in the afternoon. And indulging in small talk with the Seth about their jobs. The government employees always complaining about everything but doing nothing. The private sector employees also complaining about everything but atleast working. Sometimes a quick fued rising between both the parties and seldom quickly resolving. Most of the times, giving birth to heated arguments. The Seth's wife till then glued to the television in the living room ( Chotu helping the Seth serve the Samosas) quickly turning off the television and concealing herself behind the curtain in times of these heated conversations. Her empathy always for the under-payed, over worked private sector employee. Silently nodding her head with every argument made by the private sector employee. Not realising that her mute backing behind a curtain doesnot translate into a major force. The Seth cunningly not taking any sides. His wicked mind recognizing that by taking sides, his business will also dip. Just like the Bombay Stock exchange. Especially careful to not hurt the sentiments of the government employee whom he might have to bribe in the future to get things done. Hoping that his silent withdrawal from these arguments now would also result in the withdrawal of the scale of the bribe in future.
As the bachelors' leave, the Seth's wife usually heads towards the kitchen to prepare dinner for the family. In this non-peak, after school hours, most of the times you get to see the Seth's eldest son at the counter. Getting a grip of the business. Trying to remember the prices for all the commodities and also learning how to secretly place a magnet underneath one side of the old scales, thus adding weight to the side where the groceries would be placed for gauging. In these hours when business usually is dull, the Seth heads back to the living room to listen to the 7:00 pm Doordarshan News in Telugu (which he understands) and also the 7:20 pm News in Urdu.Making sure that the Urdu reporter didnot miss anything that the Telugu reporter mentioned earlier on.The Seth's eldest son and his aide Chotu stay at the counter for the rest of the night..until the store closes at 9:00 pm.
Thus goes on another day in the Seth's life. The same job that he has been carrying on for nearly half of his age. The same job that one day hopefully he would pass on to his children. The same clothes that he tends to wear daily. A white vest and a white dhoti. Heavy gold chain with Hanuman locket circling his neck. No attention paid to his appearance. Tending to his customers and in this process trying to entertain himself. Being nice to those who can afford his "niceness". And always looking out for an extra buck or two. The Marwari Seth in a Kirana Store..in the years to come will his existence get replaced by the ever sprouting retail markets in chic malls? Only a visit back to Hyderabad in the coming years will tell...