The Listener

 

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The Listener

 

I’m a Listener.

People give me the tinkle when they’re short of lent ears. Or have run out of them. 

No prior appointment, no booking; no advance payment:I’m all ears, notwithstanding.

There is never need to hesitate: I’m respectfully, empathically attentive, by default.

I listen without interruption, interject with compassion, intersperse with soothing benediction.

An anguish bothering you?

A sadness cloying you?

A doubt clouding your mind?

No fret: send word for the Listener.

I will give you top class listening: silent, soothing, uplifting; I will empty the air around so that you can vent to your angst’s content; I will arrange my countenance to suit your want: pity, reassurance, support, disbelief, shock…whatever……

It’s a 100 % guaranteed genuine-feeling professional listening…..No questions asked, no judgement passed, always gratis.

💛🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺💛

At night, the Moon climbs down the late night sky and dangles her beams from atop the bottle brush tree.

The world sleeps.

 I sit on the rusted swing and talk to my heart’s content.

To the Moon who is my Listener.

The Endless Knot

 

I spot you at the airport and a gust of breathlessness blows through me.

Tiptoeing up to your turned back, I whisper in muted eagerness, “Hey!”

You look up from the cell screen; and time stands still. Very still yet very fleeting; but long enough for me to sunbathe in your happy surprise.

“Hey.” You echo and take my proffered hand. Hands have memories and mine remembers: roughness and a faint imprint of heat.

You ask the polite usuals; and I answer with the proper usuals. But time has resumed its flow and I feel an urgency welling up: there is so much I want of you but time is sliding, like play-slime through a kid’s fingers…….

“Could we sit?” I interrupt, impolitely abrupt.

“Sure.” You are still the ever-courteous. “Coffee?” Then you correct yourself, “Tea, isn't it?”

Yes, tea it is; the plebeian kind: chock full of milk and lashings of sugar. Quite unlike your coffee with its chic black bitterness.

The paper cup is hot and the chrome seats are cold. The tea scalds my mouth but you are here and I pacify the burning with the pat of my cooler tongue.

“So,” you ask, “how is it going?”

I don't like the way you say it, as if you couldn’t care either way. Maybe its only your acerbity, an old ill; but then, no one is perfect.

“Very well, thank you.” My studied politeness doesn't escape you.

You look amused, the amusement deepening the hills and vales on your face. “No really, tell me how is it going?” You repeat, eyes  this time conciliatory, concerned.

I am at a loss as to how to answer your innocuous query. How do I choose what parts to tell and what parts to omit: whether to talk about the job, the family, the past-times, the city, the parents, the car, the friends, the health, or the kids………or what? How do I condense a lifetime into these paltry moments?

I choose counter-attack. “And you, how is it going with you?”

But you deflect, choosing silence. You were always the smarter one. I smile within and let you lead, opting for silence too. Side by side, we sit with silence and watch the airport flow around us; here where meeting, partings, goodbyes and welcomes play out all day and night, like a never-ending prime-time soap……..

I so like sitting thus beside you, not touching; no never touching, but the warmth and the want that wells up and wafts around us makes me woozy…………………….

And the wooziness makes me wanton. I touch your arm, but carefully with a single finger, lightly……. “Tell me, what if….?”

You move ever so slightly away from beneath my touch. “Don’t. Touch me and I’m mortal.”

I make a face. “So then, what are you now? Immortal?”

How you learnt to smile like that, I could never know. Your smile, heavy with an ancient knowing yet light, playful like butterflies on a summer day, pulls a thousand laughter lines to your eyes, making them dance with tender amusement…….. All I do know is that it is this smile that draws me to you, every-time………………………..

“We could leave this question of mortality aside and go back to your 'what if'.” You offer, still sparkling your champagne smile at me.

“What if you loved me?” I blurt. The champagne smile pushes the wooze two notches higher.

“But I like you. Very much. A lot.”

I feel let down. Goddamn, that’s it? “And here I am, all in………..”

“You like me too. A whole lot.” You pause and then challenge, “Why, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.” I’m petulant. And surprised how brazen I am with the expressing of my feelings.

“Love is over-rated don’t you think? Isn’t this so much better?” You ask.

“This ‘liking’ ?” I snort. And mentally slap myself for daring to be so careless in my demeanour before you.

“Yes, just this liking, sans the baggage of expectations, responsibilities and all the hidden, heavy agenda of love?”

“Yes, it is.” I concede. But I cannot resist a rejoinder. “And it gives you freedom. To always go away.”

“You go away too. Every time. It's not just me.”

"These going aways are so terribly, terribly sad," I am now thinking. 

“Your eyes are great lakes.” You remark kindly; and then point to the gallery lining the first floor of the lounge. To take my mind off reality.

“See that?”

“Yes.” I see it, though wavy, refracted. 

The eight auspicious symbols of Tibetan Buddhism, carved in huge panels of wood and painted with beautiful bright colours, hang against the wall of the gallery. I recognise the lotus, the conch, the fish and the wheel. The others are unfamiliar. Your finger is pointing at one particular carving: a loop, entwined over itself, again and again.

“That is the Endless Knot.”

I’m both intrigued and amused by your sudden interest in spiritualism. I tell you so.

You run your gaze over me, carefully. “Well, I’m happy that it has at least helped dry the great lakes from your eyes.”

I dab at my eyes self-consciously. “So then, what of this Endless Knot?”

You run your finger on the back of your palm, tracing the pattern of the knot.

“See how the loops of the Knot have no start and no finish, representing eternity.” You explain. Your voice comes from somewhere far-away. “Like the interconnection between all sentient beings in this Universe, between life and death……”

“Yeah, like between you and me……” I finish for you, sarcastically. “So, this is your measly excuse to go away every time?”

You look towards my girls, standing a polite distance away but making great exasperated eyes at me. Our flight is boarding too and the gate is all the way at the end of the terminal, a good half a kilometer trudge. All the boarding passes are with me.

“It seems you too are going away. Again.” You accuse but I know it is in jest.

Yes. It’s that time again. But this time, I don’t offer my hand. “I prefer your immortality.” I tease. And wonder whether you picked the catch in my voice.

I hoist up my duffel and hand you your case.

“Thanks. See you then.” You smile and walk away with rapid measured steps.

But I linger. For a bit; to watch you pass under the gallery, beneath and beyond the Endless Knot.

 

 *********************************************************************************

That morning, all e-papers of any worth had carried your obituary. I came to know of it the moment I awoke, thanks to the Twitter notifications on my mail.

I had thought no one wrote obituaries any more, had thought it was passé, a relic of the British Raj. But for some reason, they had made an exception in your case. And they all had nice things to say about you. I had gone through a few, reading carefully, savouring the bits that I had not known and reliving those few I was aware of; till the great lakes spilled over and hid everything from view.

********************************************************************************

And ever since that morning, we meet every now and then, here and there....

At train stations.

At ISBTs.

At the Metro.

At airports with Tibetan auspicious signs carved in wood hanging from their walls.

At all such places where going away is the norm.

But then that's quite ok.

Because now, every time you go away, along the twists and turns of the Endless Knot, you always find your way back to me.

 

 

 

 

"Condemned"

I had told myself that for my next blogpost, I'd write a gentle love story just to take my thoughts and after-thoughts away from the angst ridden last post (which by the way, was hugely unpopular, getting only about 30 views). But no, the universe is no mood to give me a breather. The state and fate of women on this earth and more specifically, in my country continues to haunt me.

A young woman, barely 22 had a disastrous labour from which she was extracted safely at the nick of thanks to the expertise of her gynaecologist. Though her child, a strapping 3.1 kg bonny baby boy is healthy, her errant uterus had to be removed to save her life. The whole episode was  an achievement of sorts for the entire team of  doctors and I thought, chalo, all's well that ends well: the young woman's life was saved, she had a happy healthy baby and she was already looking forward eagerly to the future when she would be appearing for a professional examination in a few months time. But of course, my relief was premature. It seems not everyone was happy with this purported win-win situation. But before I tell you more, I must tell you that in the Army, when an equipment malfunctions and cannot be repaired, it is given the epithet " condemned" meaning it is to be discarded. The gynaecologist who was the young woman's doctor is my friend and today as we took our morning walk together, she told me, "Aibee, you know what that woman's mother-in-law declared to me last evening?"

I looked at her askance.

My friend gazed back at me with resigned despair, "She said, meri Bahu to condemn ho gayi."

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

A young woman pregnant with her first child had a complicated labour which resulted in a rupture of her womb. Thankfully, once again due to the surgical skill of her doctor the womb was repaired and the baby delivered safely. A second pregnancy in such cases is a trifle tricky and all such women need a mandatory caesarian section. Her present baby was a girl. Hard to say what was running through the young mother's mind and what psychological pressure she was subjected to by her family, but today morning she took her own life.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

A woman can be a fighter pilot, a CEO, a DGP, a pioneer doctor, a successful businesswoman, a weightlifter, a football player, an award winning scientist....anything....But those are merely hobbies, time-pass, of no consequence. She must never be made to forget that she is defined by her reproductive functions,  that her primary task in this life is to procreate and therefore, God forbid if her womb malfunctions, she is a "condemn" item.

****†**************†*********†

"Will it ever stop?" I ask the mirror as I do my hair . The woman in the mirror shakes her head hopelessly, "No. Never. Not until we stop linking the value of a woman with her ability to procreate."

 

Hey You!

Hey you!

Yes, that's right. You! You, the one because of whom she lost her life.

Yes, yes, you.

You, the supercilious in trousers, kurta, dhoti, jeans, lungi.

You, the overbearing in cravat, tie, skull-cap, shikha.

You, the oh-so-smugly secure, brandishing your Y chromosome as passport to privilege.

You should know that she paid with her life because of you, the you who hides your precious honour in the space between our legs, turning the unimportant bit of blood & sinew filled emptiness into your bank vault. 

....and chains us forever as keepers of the crypt of your honour.

Since aeons thus we die for your honour: your fragile, brittle, labile, affected, sensitive, susceptible honour; burning on pyres, hurling into depthless abysses, shredding our innards with swords, feeding on poison..... strangled, stabbed, tongue ripped, and spine broken....

Father, brother, son, friend, lover: you've professed your love for us, have you not? Then why do you do it, turn us thus into repositories of your honour; and then watch us die for it, day after day after day?

Don't tsk tsk at the news of her dying. Don't hashtag meribhibeti. Don't expound on the need to teach gender-sensitivity to sons. Don't debate on the need for harsher laws, stricter enforcement. Don't announce crores to compensate.

Just muster up a little courage. Only a mite. 

And take back this your honour from between our legs.

Mask Hai Na Ma'am

When I say "soldier" what is the image that appears before your mind's eye? I'm quite sure it is that of a tall, strapping young man in a bulletproof vest worn over combat fatigues with a gleaming AK 47 rifle slung across his shoulders.....

Well, I know of a soldier, a soldier who is very different from this picture. This one is about five foot and zilch, with a single hurriedly constructed plait hanging over her petite back and of the wrong gender. I've seen her mostly in drab navy-blue trackpants worn with crumpled grayish T shirts walking briskly for her evening rounds at the hospital. She doesn't have rifles and nor bullet proof vests; and if given one, she would be very awkward with it. She's more at ease with the stethoscope she hangs around her shoulders, her steadfast, dependable weapon. I know also that she has limpid eyes and a flawless complexion but that secret is hidden safely behind large thick framed glasses. I'll call her Anahita, not only because it rhymes with her real name but because when it comes to pseudonyms, I am, for some reason rather partial to this name. So this Anahita is the youngest doctor in our hospital and without doubt, the spunkiest. She is only a graduate doctor but hopes soon to clear her NEET and join the hallowed ranks of the specialist and then God willing, onward into the folds of  a superspeciality. But till that comes to pass, she is on the forefront of our COVID battle. All patients:  young or old, anxious or resigned, breathless or not are first attended to by her. She is the one who talks to them, examines them, pacifies them, scolds them, advises them and decides whether they need to be tested for COVID, whether they need to be hospitalized or whether they could be let off on their own at their homes. Everyday numerous patients line up before her COVID clinic: talking, coughing and sneezing, filling her tiny room with aerosols, microscopic droplets of phlegm some of which may be carrying the SARS-CoV-2 virus piggyback. Anahita has been mistress of the COVID Clinic for the last five months and I've never ever known her to complain or ask for a break from her undeniably risky duty. Ever smiling, ever in good spirits and blessed with a loud unselfconscious laughter , she is my favourite youngster in the hospital. So yesterday when I was speaking to her for something else, I thought I'd enquire after her well being.

I asked her, "Anahita, you ok kid?"

Her laughter-tinged voice floated to me over the ether, "He, he, mask hai na Ma'am."

Cowards there are many on this planet and great heroes too. This pandemic has pulled back the veneer of civility that we all wear and  revealed to the world our true mettle.  Over the last five-six months, I've come to know of cowards: people so scared of the virus that they turn their faces and walk the other way when they encounter a doctor acquaintance. I've also known of older, experienced doctors who have taken to hiding behind N95 masks and PPEs and looking for excuses to avoid seeing patients. And at the same time, I've also known little heroes, those very ordinary frontline workers who are the true soldiers of this COVID war: little five foot and nothing soldiers who march unflinching into battle laughing and reassuring you, "Mask hai na, Ma'am....!"

Kaam to Karte Rehna Chahiye

 The day was especially bad, one of those interludes of life when it appears as though Time is squeezing out all the bad floating around and pouring it in a steady stream into your life. Fractured wrist, absentee cook, incessant rain, dreary day, mould on the walls, truant pets....the list was endless. And to add garnish to my already ghastly day was a Corona infested work environment where no one was ready to listen to my professional advice. After a particularly infuriating session which mainly consisted of me banging my head against a non-reactive wall of preconceived and totally unscientific notions, I was at the very bottom of my mood. I convinced myself that I didn't care a naya paisa and that from this day onwards I would simply stop working. I reported to work next day pointedly late, called imperiously for tea AND biscuits at 0930 am and immersed myself in Souad Mekhennet's "I was told to come alone". There was an important SOP to be formulated but I did not even glance at the thick bundle of letters sitting smack in the middle of my desk, references for the policy I was to formulate. The dak kept piling up and the telephone rang incessantly but I ignored it all, resolute in my role of SCNI (SuperCeded Not Interested) 😂At exactly three minutes past one pm I packed my bag and sauntered out of the office leaving the staff wondering what it was that was eating Madam today.

Later in the evening we visited the plot where my house is being built. It was around four o clock in the afternoon and I found one of the labourers sweeping the raw floor of my half built house, gathering the rubble that is generated everyday as a consequence of all the construction activity: bits of broken bricks, fine cement dust, plaster, burnt beedi ends, packets of guthka and chips consumed by the labourers throughout the day. The house is only about 40% complete and no one lives there. I was intrigued as to why the labourer was even bothering to do this extra, seemingly unnecessary job. These labourers are hired by our contractor on a daily wage contract, something they refer to as Dehaari here. They work from 9 am in the morning to 5 pm in the evening with a lunch break in between. Most of them are semi-skilled and quite poor. Unable to control my curiosity, I asked him, "Bhaiya, aap yahaan safaai kyun kar rahen hain?"

The man answered simply: "Hamara kaam khatam ho gaya hai. Par abhi paanch baje nahin hai. Isliye thoda safai kar de rahen hain. Phaltu bhaithna theek nahin hai...Kaam to karte rehna chahiye...."

I looked at the man with surprise and with new respect and humility. He smiled at us, a large open hearted smile that filled his  dark, ugly sweat dribbled face with something very beautiful, very endearing, very inspiring.

That was yesterday.

Today I'm sitting in office, the SOP draft criss-crossed with corrections, deletions and additions. I think we will be able to despatch it by 2 pm today. Definitely.

Should I be afraid of COVID-19?

 In March or perhaps in April  this year, quite at the beginning of the pandemic, I had written a short post on COVID-19 in my professional capacity as public health specialist. That post had proved pretty popular, an inference I reached when someone re-circulated my own post back to me. Now nearly six months into the pandemic, I feel the need to once again write about this disease. Today's post, just like the one before is motivated by the urgent need I feel within myself to cut the clutter and talk about the most important issue with respect to this disease. 

Today, the pertinent and all encompassing question about covid-19  is

"Should I be scared of COVID-19?" 

And the answer is both a Yes and a No, which means that there is both good news and bad. 

So let's take the bad news first.

Yes, I should be scared of COVID-19. But only if I am a babe-in-arms, an elderly or  someone with a pre-existing disease viz. diabetes, heart disease, cancer, obesity and lung disease. Just like that seasoned bully who preys on the bullied's insecurities, the SARS-CoV-2 virus preys on those whose body's immune system is compromised by certain pre-existing illnesses. In such people the disease can be relentless and often fatal. Even as I write this, a close relative of mine is battling covid pneumonia in a hospital back home. The gentleman is a diabetic with an extremely poor record of blood sugar control. He is overweight, has high blood pressure and is a chain smoker. And it no surprise that SARS-CoV-2 is playing havoc in his lungs.

Now let's come to the good news. For the vast majority of people in the world, COVID-19 disease is either asymptomatic or only mildly symptomatic. This means that if you are the average human being with no major health issues even if you happen to be infected by the SARS-CoV-2, in all probability you will not develop any symptoms at all. And in case you do, these symptoms would be very very mild or at the most moderate in severity. That means you would probably have some Sardi Zukam Khansi Bookhar and nothing more and you would be up and about in four or five days. 

Having said that I think I am duty bound to explain the little rider that accompanies the good news which is that in a very small percentage of cases it is seen that the virus causes florid disease even in an apparently healthy young person with no pre-existing illnesses. Though we are still not completely sure as to why this happens, scientists conjecture that certain genetic defects or differences in the immune system of such persons render them vulnerable to severe disease.

The question that logically follows my statements is in that case what is it that we should do?

I will divide my answer into four parts:-

A. Protect the vulnerables. That means the elderly and those suffering from diseases like diabetes, lung disease, heart disease, old strokes, cancers and obesity. Pay special attention to their medication and if diabetic the control of their blood sugar levels. Explain to them why they should remain at home and avoid public places. Incase you are exposed to crowded environments in your day to day life then it is wise to restrict your interaction with these vulnerables.

B. If you would like information about COVID-19 disease, then consult your doctor, or better still genuine internet sites like the CDC, the MOHFW and the like.  Even the WHO is not bad, though it has suffered some loss of credibility, mostly media fuelled. Please avoid mainstream TV media and the WhatsApp/ YouTube University.

C. You must accept the fact that the virus is here to stay. Once the first spate of attacks is over, the virus in all likelihood would go into what is known as endemicity and in the the years to come, its ugly head will crop up now & then, manifesting as the odd, sporadic severe pneumonia. We have to therefore,  learn to live with this disease like we have learnt to live with thousands of other diseases like TB, malaria, dengue, Ebola, heart disease, cancer and the like.

D. If you are a reasonably healthy person on the lesser side of sixty, then the only advice I have for you is  : "जा सिमरन जा, जी ले अपनी जिंदगी" (with due apologies to Amrish Puri in DDLJ)😂

Reclaim your Life, friends.

( and I'd also like to mention how I keep remembering the Shakespeare's Julius Caesar: Cowards die many times before their deaths....)

PS. Would be happy to answer any query you may have about this disease. Feel free to contact me on email or on WhatsApp.

TOILET TALES

 Toilet tales

The Netflix biopic Kargil Girl on the Indian Air Force woman helicopter pilot Flight Lieutenant Gunjan Saxena has had social media buzzing like indignant bees, nay hornets with heated discussions about the purported misogyny of the Indian Air Force and by larger inference,  of the entire Indian Armed Forces. I must confess that not having a subscription of either Netflix or Amazon Prime, I have not had the opportunity of watching the film itself, but having read the raging controversy on social media, I did take time out to watch critically the official trailer of the film. Of course, I am acutely aware that a trailer is just that: a trailer and therefore  forming an opinion about a film based solely on it's  trailer is rather premature and kind of juvenile. But having said that, a trailer does give you some indication as to the the tone and tenor of a film. And while I am in no position to comment or to review the film not having watched it completely, given the histrionics of the few frames of the film I did see as it's trailer, I can say with conviction that the portrayal of the Armed Forces in this film too is typically and  tediously Bollywood : very larger than life and quite, quite dissociated from reality. And as for the misogyny bit, the sad truth of life is that while no organisation or institution or society however hallowed, is completely, hundred percent free of this scourge, in real life misogyny is not the dramatically blatant and hysterically loud discrimination as has been portrayed in the film. In real life, wherever it exists, misogyny does so as a subtle undercurrent of deeply ingrained prejudice against the female sex concealed under a thin veneer of modern-ness.

But today, I am not going to give a discourse on misogyny. I am going to talk instead, about more pressing issues: about women's changing rooms, specifically about women's toilets.Not many years back I was posted to an institution which till I joined had only one woman employee. I remember not without some amusement, about how my only female colleague came up to me on the very day of my reporting for work and handed me a key. 

It's the toilet key. She informed me. Ladies' toilet.

It seems that this toilet had been won by her as right after a fierce and bitter battle with the admin and invoking the sacred bond of sisterhood, she bade me never ever to let anyone, any male that is, to use this toilet. And thus for the next  one year my female colleague and I had exclusive access to this toilet which was always sparkling clean and fragrant with Odonil, unlike the vomit inducing ammoniacal odours that emanated from the male toilet just 5 feet away. Then my colleague was posted out and I went on vacation. When I returned to work and asked for the key to the toilet I was told peremptorily that the toilet would henceforth also be used by a male colleague who shared the same floor with us.  The reason given was that since this gentleman was a little unwell, he found it convenient to use our toilet which was at a distance of about 20 feet from his office rather than use the toilet for male colleagues which was quite far away from his office: at a distance of 30 feet.

 This ludicrous explanation got my gall and I marched up to the admin (a male). I positioned my elbows on his desk, leaned forward, pulled my glasses down to my nose, fixed him with my iciest stare through their tops and declared, " Partner, if the ladies' toilet is not returned to the ladies, I will not hesitate to raise the level."

Now "raise the level" is something that everyone in my institution is petrified of. This thinly veiled intimidation along with the steel in my eyes convinced the admin that retreat was the wisest and only option left for him. He quietly handed back both the keys to the toilet. I sauntered back to my office smug in victory, dangling the keys as trophy; and enjoyed the use of the sparkling clean and Odonil perfumed Ladies' toilet uninterrupted for the next 2 years.

Before you tsk tsk in sympathy and empathy with me at the the rampant misogyny in my organisation, let me tell you to other toilet tales.

Both happened again many years back while I was part of a relief team that moved to Orissa during the super cyclone of 1999. The first tale is from the time I was on my way to Odisha and the second is from my journey back.

We were a group of three doctors and a few paramedical staff who moved early one rainy morning from Ranchi to Cuttack by road. It was a long and tiring journey of almost 24 hours punctuated by many stops because of the bad roads made worse by the rain and storm. The man in charge, Dr P was a very senior doctor colleague of mine and I was the only woman in the entire convoy of vehicles that night. At the start of the journey , Dr P who was sitting in front of the vehicle turn around and said to me, "AiBee, do let me know whenever you need to take a toilet break. Please do not hesitate. We will stop and make sure that we find a suitable toilet for you."

 Those days I was a complete novice just out of Med school and thinking that I might be shy, he repeated his reassurances to me many times throughout the entire journey and true to his word, whenever I did request for a stop he stopped and made sure  a toilet was found for me. I also remember how that night we camped at an old PHC which had only one toilet without a door and how in the morning, our attendant told me, " Madam, I have kept the toilet free for you. You see, it does not have a door." At my horrified expression, he was quick to reassure me, "Don't worry, Madam, I will stand guard at the corridor entry. No one will come inside." And he stood, at a distance to ensure propriety, not unlike a lioness defending her cubs till I had finished my job safely. He was just a waiter and his name was Barik. I will never forget him.

On the way back we covered the distance again by road but this time there were no doctors with me. Instead I took a lift in the vehicle which was part of an infantry convoy. Again I was the only woman. The man in charge this time was not a doctor but an infantry person, again a very senior colleague. And this time too, just like my onward journey I faced no toilet travails. On the contrary I remember how accomodating and good natured everyone was when I suddenly needed to answer nature's call in the midst of nowhere (this was '99 and there were no roadside swanky dhabas with luxury washrooms on highways and this was just a poor state highway) and we had to move off the road right into the village in search of a suitable toilet.

(Now those were Aswachh Bharat times and even the only pakka house of the village  did not have a toilet. When I requested the lady of the house if I could use her washroom she happily pointed to little enclosure behind her house fenced off by palm leaves. I pushed the rudimentary door and peeked in to check whether it was clean. But there was no toilet; it was just a bit of ground overgrown with some suspicious looking vegetation, fenced off by the palm leaves. I looked back at the lady askance and she nodded encouragingly: "Toilet!' she told me. I had no other option but to to resign myself to the pleasures of an open air  washroom that day.......)

So then, coming  to the point that I wanted to make by telling you these toilety tales : I strongly believe that misogyny is not inherent to an organisation. Rather, misogyny is very much an individual ailment and  personality based. A organisation may have many misogynistic MCPs within its  folds  and at the same time have many many more men who are completely free of such prejudices. Therefore, to label the entire Indian Air Force misogynistic due to a melodramatic film is I think, doing them a grave, grave injustice.

PS. As I was telling this tale to Other Half, I found him counting on his fingers: "Hema, Rekha, Jaya, Sushma.."

"Girlfriends?" I queried.

"We have four women doctors in the hospital." He told me. And then murmured to himself:" I've never tried to find out whether we have separate toilets for them..."

" Well, you can start now." I smiled at him 

Winter Rose

Having painted this rose, I was floundering over a piece of poem I was trying to write which I had titled "Frozen Love".

But inspiration is scarce today and so I've borrowed this beautiful piece of verse written by Hannah Flagg Gold called "Winter Rose".

Till inspiration flows once again, I'm happy to let Ms Flagg talk about how memory kept in bloom the rose that had brightened the bleak winter days....

Here's the poem.

O, why do I hold thee, my fair, only rose,
My bright little treasure—so dear;
And love thee a thousand times better than those,
In thousands, that lately were here?

Because, like a friend, when the many depart,
As fortune's cold storms gather round,
Till all from without chills the desolate heart,
My sweet winter-flower, thou art found!

Because that for me thou hast budded and blown,
I look with such fondness on thee;
That, while I've no other, I call thee my own,
And feel thou art living for me.

I know thee. I've studied thy delicate form,
Till reared from the root to the flower,
That opens to-day, in a season of storm!
To brighten so dreary an hour.

How could I so lavishly scatter my sight
On those, that the gay summer-sun
Had nursed with his beams, when I find such delight
In having and loving but one?

And while thou dost modestly blush at the praise,
That thus I in secret bestow,
It heightens thy beauty, and only can raise
The strain, high and higher to flow.

Although thou must droop, as our dearest ones will,
I'll tenderly watch thy decline;
And, in thy sad moments, I'll cherish thee still,
Because thou hast cheered me in mine.

Then, hallowed like dust of a friend in the tomb,
I'll lay thy pale leaves safe away,
Where memory often shall give them the bloom
That brightened my dark winter day.

COVID Memories

"Madam, ye log mujhe andar aane nahin de rahein hain...."The woman's voice sounds frantic on the phone

"Why?" I ask.

"Bol rahein hain: aap aspatal mein kaam karte ho, isliye andar nahin aa sakte. Corona faila doge!"

"Bol rahein hain, baahar hi rahon...," her voice first rises in desperation and then trails off in abject resignation..."Roz aise karte hain, Madam...roz, roz...!"

I'm appalled. 

What the hell, I tell myself and feel the sharp spark of anger form at the pit of my stomach and shoot right up to my head. "What the bloody hell........!"

I tell her, "Security vaale se baat karao.....!"

The guard agrees to talk to me since I hold some clout in our RWA.

"Namaste Madam."

 I ask him what the problem is.

The woman is a nurse in the local district hospital and resides in our colony. The RWA of our colony has committed itself to protecting its residents from "Corona" and apart from drowning the entire colony in 5% sodium hypochlorite ( that's bleach), it has decreed that all residents working in hospitals must either take voluntary leave or live elsewhere. In pursuance of this policy, the security guards at the gate of our RWA has refused this woman entry.

I know he is only following orders but I'm fuming. I bark at him, " Aane do unko!"

The man knows me and acquiesces, after a brief war of words. He hands the phone back to the woman.

I tell her, "He will let you in now. Don't worry."

The woman says thank you and then bursts into tears. Through the phone, I can hear the soft sound of her tears and her incoherent words ring in my ears..."Roz aisa karte hain Madam, roz, roz...kya kya kehte hain...mujhe apne ghar mein aane nahin dete Madam... mujhe ghar aane nahin dete...."

🥀🥀🥀🥀

The Persian poet-saints from many hundreds of years back assured us:

"īn nīz bogzarad" or "this too shall pass"..

And so COVID will also one day pass and we will relegate it's memory to the very back of our consciousness as a big bad dream. But certain things about this disease, these times will never really go away and will continue to haunt us for many many years to come. For some it could be the pictures of migrant workers dying on railway tracks as they try to return home during the lockdown, for others it could be the wry humour of the tales of people stooping to fisticuffs over toilet paper rolls, for many it could be the poignant video of the COVID stricken old woman bidding her last goodbye to her family over video chat....

And for me it will be the sound of that nurse sobbing on the phone, "Madam, ye log mujhe apne ghar nahin aane dete...."

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

On the Road: From Tezpur to Jorhat

On the Road from Tezpur to Jorhat

A wide-winged horn bill

Glides gently by;

Against the azure

Of an autumn sky!

 

Green, green paddy fields

And greener trees;

Women pluck tea leaves

Busier than bees!

 

Cloud wisps tumble

In their windy game;

White kohua fringes

Complete the frame!

Fourth August

The music remains.

Friends leave. 

Mates forget. 

Memories dim.

Brick, mortar and plaster is broken down and replaced by more brick, mortar and plaster. But this time the silhouettes are unfamiliar, sepia deficient.

Old camaraderie finds it hard to spark joy, stilted as it is by ambition and by life's nagging demands.

Even nostalgia turns tedious, unless lubricated by a generous helping of Old Monk or some spirit, stronger.

The music though, remains.

Deccan Queen hums Carpenter's "Such a feelin's coming over me" under a monsoon soaked Lonavla sky. 

Someone's Sony cassette player croons "Careless Whispers" on a tawny afternoon after Dissection class.

Two naughty young women sings Lionel Ritchie's "Hello" behind a Cunningham placed strategically to duck Attre Ma'am's disapproving gaze. Sylvester, the hurly-burly cadaver smiles his eerie, cute smile as he listens to them sing of summer skies and warm Julys.

In the dimly lit reading room an HMV LP's Barbara Streisand renders Memory over and over again in her powerful bass. 

Occasionally I sit inside Chow's forever topsy-turvy room all alone and try to decipher the method in its madness aided by Farida Khanum's Aaj Jaane ki Zid Na Karo.

On some enthu evenings, Dire Straits has a field day, thumping, throbbing, thundering from Nikhattu's room on the ground floor and reverberating round and round the quadrangle.

On certain lonely weekends, EssESS lounges on the low-lying armchair outside her room as  Bacardi white rum and Jon Bon Jovi lulls her to sleep.

And on Social Nite, Deccan Queen ditches her boyfriend for just that night and links her arm in mine: "Chal, let's listen to the music."

So we sit away from the old Insti on the steps of the Parade Ground and watch the dancers who look for all the world like writhing ET's on a charsi high. To pass time we give and take a few stars of the Orion constellation and then sit back to listen to the music: Smokie's song of love and regret 'Living next door to Alice', the scandalisingly sexy " Oh Carol", Scorpion's beautiful epic "Winds of Change", Laura Brannigan's "Self Control" (my personal favourite), Bryan Adam's nostalgia agonist "Summer of 69"........

Our summer was Fourth Term but the memories are fading fast, becoming inconsequential with each day......

This Fourth August, I'll place all those songs back to back on my iPod. Then dim the lights and let it be yesterday once more....

For only the music remains: strong, loyal and true.

KAMENG

I'm enamoured of irises and have always wanted to paint them. A few days back, I finally managed to coerce myself to sit down at a desk with my painting paraphernalia and begin work at actualising my long-held wish. And as I painted, I thought about the iris and about where I had seen one for the very first time. It was in Arunachal Pradesh in a place known as Tawang. An army officer posted to one of those treacherous icy slopes was growing bearded irises in the teeny-weeny patch of flat land behind his little hut. I had been thrilled to finally see a real iris and was mesmerised by its flamboyant beauty. That part of Arunachal is known as Kameng after the river that flows through it. Rugged, fiercely isolated, at places bare of vegetation and plagued by icy winds, avalanches and lack of oxygen, this place is a challenging terrain, to put it mildly. For the soldiers deployed here, each day, each moment is a battle to survive, a battle against the elements and a battle to stay one step ahead of the sneaky enemy on the other side.

While you are at Kameng, you are reminded of the story of the ’62 aggression, of how an ill-equipped army was sent to fight a war in those icy heights; a war, I’m given to understand ( though I am no military expert), was the result of failed politics. The soldiers were poorly equipped, inadequately clothed and incompletely acclimatised to the high-altitude environment. But they had fought fiercely, inspite of all odds, heroes till the end.

I had stood on the road somewhere up in those bare iced mountains and thought of these martyrs. The mountain slopes there are dotted with stones, which I think are Buddhist prayer stones and I remember telling myself how much they resembled people sleeping. I couldn’t help likening them to the fallen soldiers and I remember tearing up a little at this comparison.

I also remember that commanding officer and his men, uncharacteristically genteel and unequivocally cheerful in face of the harshness all around them, growing beautiful irises as they guarded our borders from aggressors.

The iris has since then, always held a special place in my soul; an eternal inspiration for cheerful positivity in the face of all forms of adversity.

This was nearly fifteen years back but I had always wanted to pen down something about Kameng. So here it is, my little piece dedicated to our soldiers deployed at the Himalayan borders.

KAMENG

On that slope, the grass has died,
Killed by the early ice.
In that bed of dead brown grass, thousands of black stones now sleep
On the cold mountain side.

Here, where blood flows like icy melt-water
And lungs freeze in the throes of hypoxia:
Sometimes, at times,
If the snow and wind permit
Gray mists rise from the frosted ground, float like wraiths
And caress these sleeping stones;
Tenderly.

If you can, for a minute stop your breath and put your face up-to the mist.
It will close in softly and touch you back with icy drops of dew.
Then if you can, close your eyes;
Listen and you might hear:
There behind and beyond the beating of your hypoxic heart,
The sound of marching boots....
Torn flimsy boots and the laboured breathing of soldiers marching in too-thin coat-parkas...
Marching without stopping.
Pawns. Pawned.
But yet straight, tall,
And oh-so-proud.

Wait with your breath still bated,
And you will hear
The short-sharp bursts of rifle fire
And the iced silence thereafter.

On this slope, now

A soldier with laughter-crinkled eyes

Tenderly grows
Deep purple irises
With hearts of gold. 

PS: Painting is that of a bearded iris. Watercolor on paper.

Alu and the Crown God

I had rolled barely a hundred metres down the road when I spotted her gambolling in the adjoining park.

"Heyy Alu," I called out. "Want to come along?"

I was going down to the office. With Corona lurking aound the corner, fierce planning was underway and I was spending most of my waking hours locked within its flimsy walls.

Alu considered my proposal for a wee minute. Then mind made up, she came skipping down the slope. After the routine foreleg-pranaam and some extra tickle and rub, she trotted happily beside me, office bound.

" You know,' She said conversationally, just as we rounded the bend near the hospital, "There's a new God these days......"

I wasn't sure I had heard right.

"God?" I asked Alu. "Did you say 'God'?"

"Yes, I did." Alu said, without slackening speed. Her tail fanned the air in rhythm with her trot.

I had a sudden vision of Alu as this evangelical preacher....waving a white robed paw and threatening the world with doom if they didn't bow down to this God.
The vision was so preposterous that I shook my head to dispel it and asked her: "What God?"

Alu didn't answer me at first. She swooped down into the कुल flowing beside the road, took a great swig of it's mountain water; and then joined me once more on the road.

"It's a completely new God. Very powerful. Potent."

"Whose God is it?" I was now extremely curious.

"Ours." Alu shrugged. "Well, at least their's."

"Whose? The animals'?"

"Yeah. And the birds'. And insects'. And the trees'."

"Okkk. A god of the wild animals. Something like the Lord of the Jungle! Tell me more, Alu." It was a most interesting conversation.

"Oh, this God is a hot favourite, Aibee. Everyone is a convert by now." Alu confided.

"And why is that?"

"The God is very powerful. And it has done wonders to the forests. And the rivers. And the mountains. And the deserts."

"Really?"

"Yes. And even for the cities."

"Huh?"

"Yes, yes Aibee. Everyone is raving about this new God. IT has paved the way for the wild to become the king again. The two-legged are all but pushed back, back into hiding."

I could now see where all this was leading.

"Oh, so you mean the Corona Virus?" My voice was scathing.

"Yes. The Crown God." Alu bobbed her head and a few drops of the कुल water from her fur landed on my nose.

" See Aibee, see how the world has cleared. The roads are dotted with fallen leaves, the skies are a clean blue, no one steals the peaches from the trees, the plum headed parakeets are back on the tune trees....and when darkness falls, the silver lamps in the sky are brighter than even the lights of Dharamshala..."

I had to agree. I had seen the night sky yesterday, shining proudly like a gaudy black zardozi sari. I know what she was talking about.

"But people are dying, Alu. All over the world."

It seemed as if Alu had not heard. She paused, sniffing the air.

"The ducks are back in the canals. And the dolphins in the waters near the pier. Neelgais are roaming on the streets of Ludhiana. And a naughty sambhar is pretending to be a reindeer in Jaisalmer."

"Aibee, can you see them?" Alu was wagging her great cream bushy tail in excitement.

"Aibee, isn't the  Crown God great and wonderful?"

I did not know what to say.

We were nearing the flagpole now.

'The two-legged are dying, Alu. What's all this to me if my people are dying?"

Alu had stopped and was sniffing at the grass. She lifted her head and gurgled, kind of like  Professor Trelawney from 'Harry Potter', only the glasses were missing.

"IT has pushed the two-leggeds back. Now they sit, quaking in fear inside their burrows and nests. Our world is emptied of them. The Crown God reigns supreme."

"Yaar Alu....dimaag tera ghoom gaya hai.... What BS!"

But Alu went on: "They will reclaim what is rightfully theirs. Very soon. Very, very soon...."

She looked at me, her deep dark eyes great pools in which the future swum.

"They are gathering around. All around. In the forests. Within the oceans. In the rivers and deserts and mountains. And in the great underbelly of your towns and cities. Under this Crown King, they will reclaim their rightful territory."

It was a bit too much for me to swallow.

"Bunkum" I declared. "Awwwww, come on Alu darling. Don't be a Doomsday prophet."

I dismissed her portents in a howl of laughter and jogged down the last few metres to the office.

Alu, now back to being my familar Alu, raced with me tail; waving, ears flapping.

But did not deign me with a reply.

When we finally returned home and I was just shutting the wicker gate behind her, I couldn't help but ask:
"So tell me Alu, haven't  you joined these Corona devotees?"

"Nope." Alu scratched the back of her ear. "I won't."

 "I'm a part of La Résistance."

"Oh!" My eyes touched my scalp in surprise. "You are, are you?"

"Yes. I am. And there are others too."

"Like?"

"The hedgerow sparrows you feed every morning. And the starling that lives in the storm drain in the garden. And some of my pals from Slate Godam village. And the civet that lives inside your office roof."

"And many others too."

I was floored. "What does your Resistance movement fellas do, Alu?"

"No violence." Alu assured me.
"We do IEC."

"What the....! What the hell do you know about IEC?"

Alu cocked an ear at me. Her eyes had a disdainful light. "More than you think I do. We tell them that not every two-legged is bad. And the Crown God is no one's God, just an opportunist."

I was impressed.

Alu had climbed onto her guard post, the pillars of our block gate and was standing tall, surveying her kingdom below.

I sat on the garden swing and watched the world around shimmering in the crystal like air.

"Alu, why did you tell me all this?" I yelled at her.

She yelled back from her post.
"So that you let your two-legged clan know."

"What?"

"Ki sudhar jao."

"Who's going to listen to a fat fish-fry like me?"

"Use that light and sound box in your hand." Alu advised.
"And don't worry about who will listen. You tell them. Someone might pick up the waves. Even if one two-legged listens, it'll be worth it."

Her night check done Alu returned to her chair on my porch which is her bed.

As I crossed her while entering the house, I stopped and asked:
"So tell me Alu Boss, why did you join La Résistance?"

Alu yawned, a great big yawn with tongue out and teeth bared. Then she put one paw out and touched me softly, head cocked to one side: "Because I like you, sweetheart."

Filled and fulfilled I climbed up the steps to my home.