Introduction- A change of genre. Enjoy the fictional mystery. I had to use the sentence written in italics in the story for a competition for which i had submitted this story.

                             Mr&Mrs. Sur

                                 It was late in the evening and my office light was still burning. Heena had called me at least five times in the last half hour to remind me of Dev’s 25^th anniversary. “Dev mama is my only living relative, how can we miss such a big event” she had tearfully screamed in the last phone. The ping went on again and I knew it was her frantic message. The mobile must be sued for denying us our basic right of freedom, I thought wearily as I read her message, her anger palpable through the words. Closing down the computer I was about to get up when the lone remaining office boy walked in with a customer.

                             Dressed nattily in a sheer blouse over a dark slip, a pair of dark blue denims complementing her graceful figure and smelling gently of jasmine and tea-rose, she looked the quintessential working girl as she delicately pulled a chair opposite me and sat down. No permission or no asking if I was still working.

I quickly assessed her. She was well groomed, suave and had bright dancing eyes. Her face seemed poised and the only sign of anxiety came from her rapidly moving ring finger by the way her fake solitaire dazzled in my eyes.

“I have just closed down my office, Mam” I said without letting the irritation show, throwing an angry glance towards my office boy.

                             “This will not take much time, but it’s urgent” she said as casually as she fished out a photograph from her faux leather purse. “My husband is cheating on me and I want you to tail him”. I noticed a slight quiver in her voice. I couldn’t say no.

                       “Hi, I am Malini Sur. I work as a project consultant in the firm where my husband is the vice-president. We have been married for three years now. Since the last six months I have a feeling he is seeing someone” she began. I shut down my mobile and pressed the Dictaphone button placed under my wooden table.

                        Dev will have to wait and Heena will now sharpen her claws.

                       I have had the dubious distinction of solving hundreds of infidelity cases as a private detective and this one was so obvious that it looked solved even before I had heard it completely. All I had to do was tail the man with my best agent, click some pictures and submit proof. I also thought of charging a little more for making me face the wrath of Heena.

                     “I think he is seeing someone from a client company” the Dictaphone whirred into action as I pressed the play button. “Suddenly he seems to be taking off to various places frequently on week-ends for client meetings. I tried to ask but the answers are evasive. He snaps at me for questioning his motives. Says his company has big plans and that I will eventually know. Oh yes, just once I thought I smelt a feminine perfume in his travel bag” she said and as an afterthought she let me know that she would like a daily progress report and incriminating evidence. “I trust you do that” she said.

                      Armed with the information and the photo, Ravi, my trusted agent set out the next morning. The plan was simple. Just tail the man in the photo and report it to the client on her mobile phone.. A few days later, Ravi barged into my office. He looked perturbed. He showed me pictures of our quarry talking to the lady in question, driving her to office and even entering a flat together. There was no attempt at hiding the relationship. Ravi had been sending the pictures and the information to Malini all the while.

                   I was disturbed. Years of training had sharpened my antennae towards body language and expressions. Very few people in this world can act very well, Bollywood included, I thought. I decided to follow the quarry myself, a task I had almost forgotten but then one does swim well even when thrown in water after a long absence.

                Handing over most of my project report work to my assistant, I set out one late evening at the designated place. There was a small roadside temple on the curb opposite the office where my quarry worked and I let myself on the cement bench next to it, looking as discrete as one of those evening home bound loiterers who wait for the mandatory sunset to drown a quick quarter of tipple before heading to the hell they call home. I observed them as they came out, he sombre and she admonishing him to give her the car keys. My eyes looked keenly through the lens shutter to detect that guilt on the face, ever so slightly, but they seemed oblivious. I sat there thinking, almost forgetting to follow their car as they drove to the building where they lived, just as Ravi had said.

                   Something was not right. My detective brain was sending sharp signals. I decided to talk to Malini. “The number you have dialled is currently switched off” the mobile number she had given me just wouldn’t budge. I had to talk to her once again. There was something not right. For the next whole week I tried contacting my elusive client. The mobile phone messages too went unpicked by the number after the day I had started following Malini’s husband. For once, the case did not seem as open and shut as I had thought.

                   My contact in the mobile business gave me the name of the number holder. To my utter surprise it was listed as Roshan Bal. The address of the owner turned out to be from Mangalore. I arrived in Mangalore the next morning and by evening I was convinced that no such address or no such person exists. I then decided to casually confront Mr.Sur. A few visits to the office gave me some idea about their work and I booked an appointment on the pretext of being a client.                       “Hello,I would like to see Mr.Sur” I began before being abruptly told that Mr.Sur no longer worked there and he had resigned a month ago. I desperately tried to hide my shock/surprise/bafflement as I walked out of the building not knowing how to untie this knot.

                  A few days later a small piece of news caught my attention. A woman had been found dead in a small apartment, apparently a case of suicide. Her description vaguely fitted Malini. I was intrigued. I called my contact in the police department. It was Malini but the name was Malini Aks. I needed to see the body. I urged my contact. Later in the evening as the mortuary office shut down, I was discretely shown into the inner room by my contact. It took me less than a minute to know it was the same Malini who had walked into my office a couple of months ago. I felt a tinge of sadness at the beautiful life lost. I vowed to get to the bottom of this.

                         I had a plan.

                         I had to find out the main link in this mystery, Mr.Sur. Over the next few days posing as a client I befriended the receptionist. Fortunately she loved to drink so we became drinking buddies and over pitchers of Long island iced tea, I discovered a few surprising facts. Malini was Mr.Sur’s secretary while his wife was his boss, the one who went home with him every day. Mr.Sur hated his bossy wife and fell for this girl. Over the next few months they hatched a plan to eliminate his wife. They had even planned to hire a detective to make it look real and quietly tail the wife’s movements. God knows what went wrong and a few days later Malini stopped coming to work and Mr. and Mrs. Sur resigned and left for Mangalore.

                       I had got my first lead.

                           I arrived in Mangalore early one morning. The humidity was still trying to catch up with the early morning chill and the ubiquitous coffee cuppa put my strained muscles to rest as I contemplated my next move. I had checked into a fairly decent hotel called Krishna Residency and after freshening up I decided to befriend the manager. My business had taught me to be fluent in many languages, tulu being one and I quickly got talking to the short, balding round faced jovial manager. Although I made very little headway, I had made a contact.

Next day I headed out to Gunjimutt industrial area for a recce of the offices where Mr.Sur could have taken up a job. I decided to stay there till I had seen almost all the offices disgorge their employees. Three days and no luck. On the fourth day, I saw a familiar face coming out of a tall building along with other office goers heading home. Her eyes were hiding behind large glares but the face was unmistakable. It was Mrs.Sur. I followed her. To my surprise I saw her hurriedly climbing into a car driven by a tall rough looking man who certainly wasn’t Mr.Sur. Soon they drove out along the highway and stopped at a wayside lodge. I waited for almost an hour before I saw them come out and drive back. I followed them till he dropped her off at a small apartment complex.

                  Through my newly found contact at Krishna residency, I managed to rent a one room flat in the same apartment complex where Mr.& Mrs. Sur stayed. I followed their routine and one day when I was sure about it, I entered the flat where she stayed. A small photo-frame of Mr.& Mrs. Sur stood on a corner table. Rest of the flat was sparsely but tastefully decorated. With gloves on, I rummaged through the drawers where I found a small black diary with dates and numbers written in it. The date 5 on one page coincided with the same day as Malini’s suicide with the number 5L written next to it. The next entry showed the date 10, two days from today,10pm, and the number 10L. A small ‘s’ was scribbled at the bottom of the page. I turned to the first page again. A small ‘m’ was scribbled at the bottom. And then I knew.

                        I had to warn Mr.Sur. But first I had to find him. I had not seen him during my entire stay in Mangalore.

                        I flew back to Mumbai hoping to find some way to trace him. I did not have proof but my sensors told me a story and I had to protect the next victim.

I called the receptionist friend for a drink.  After a few glasses, she let go of information. No, she hadn’t heard of Mr. Sur. Yes, she hated Mrs.Sur. No, she didn’t know why Malini had disappeared into thin air. Yes, she had Mr. Sur’s forwarding address. My money was well spent.

                        Next day I flew down to Bengaluru where Mr.Sur had taken a new job. I patiently waited across the office building to accost him as he came out. The time in the diary was just 12 hours away. I had to move fast. But he was nowhere to be seen.

                      I waited patiently for the man to show up. It was almost eight in the evening. The lights of the building threw a bright shadow on the road. The night had sprung to life. The thousands of cars, two-wheelers, autos moved in their own rhythm as people hurried home. And then suddenly I saw him.

                I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..." Could I tell him what was waiting for him. I had no proof.

                 I mustered courage and walked up to him. “I bring greetings from Malini” I said, noting the sudden surprise and fear on his face. “We need to talk”. I had done my job!

                “Heena, calm down. I am on my way home. Yes, I know it’s been three days and I will make it up to you. Let’s begin by visiting Dev Mama” I said chuckling under my breath as the wheels left the runway and the aeroplane flung towards Mumbai.

SUCH A LONG JOURNEY

SUCH A LONG JOURNEY

                                        Let me tell you a story.  Long, long ago, in a highly conservative middle class family a highly educated couple took the brave decision of falling in love and getting married. The families too were educated and cultured and consented, albeit with some reservations on either side as is always with such unions. Thus the bond made in heaven was sealed on the Earth in presence of the eternal Fire God! In no time the handsome boy-man took charge of his life and overcoming all the economic and social burdens, set sail across the seven seas holding the hand of his equally talented and courageous wife. The ship tumbled on lashing waves, occasionally smoothening the ride on quiet water as it set sail for England. 

                                      Strange world, strange circumstances and strange dialect, yet they managed to stay afloat and carve out a place in a relatively hostile environment. Their hard work, intelligence and ability to adjust with new people eventually saw them settling down in this new country, even making few friends. A small home grew around their love, warm fires brought romance and love in their hearts, new sights and fresh crisp days brought enthusiasm and happiness and life rolled on, just as it should have been for these two brave-hearts.

                                          It was a harsh cold winter. Snow fell incessantly on the window panes building white soft walls around homes that lined this normally leafy and quiet by-lane. The blue cement roads quickly disappeared under a dense white blanket and the air turned hard and frozen. Thick black coats, woolen scarves and black fedora caps was all that could be seen as people made way through the thick layers of snow, brazing the rough cold wind to reach their work places or buy groceries on their way back home. It was a tough time for all, but especially more for the girl in our story who was dangerously on the verge of entering the next phase of her life. She struggled through deep snow with swollen feet snugly fitted in boots balancing her slender body that now carried the weight of two as she walked to the hospital where she was working. The winter pierced through her into the bones as she shivered with every blast that hit her while crossing the road to the neighborhood grocer. Her prince charming was a hundred miles away, struggling through an equally unforgiving winter, working long hours to make life comfortable for the new person that was to enter their lives. He would dash back home through the week-ends, check on his pregnant and glowing wife, caress the bubble that held the growing new life, organize groceries, just in case she went into labor and drive her to the ‘mom and baby’ shop to buy those hundred sundry things that a new mom needed. He didn’t even know their names. She was equally ignorant about baby things and most of the list came from kind hospital matrons whom they worked with. They would look at each other and smile, ever so slightly revealing the longing they felt for their mothers and aunts who would have by now taken charge had they been back home.

                                       In the early sixties, child-birth and mother care was almost always in the maternal home and expectant mothers would arrive from their husband’s home well in advance, well into their seventh month of pregnancy, and spend the last crucial trimester surrounded by the warmth of the unconditional mother’s love and pampering, remaining happy and peaceful to bring forth a happy baby. The older aunts and relatives would buzz around the girl, oiling her hair, feeding her fresh and healthy food, telling her stories of valor and courage, giving her spiritual guidance and sharing the pains and pleasures of motherhood, thus preparing her well for the new role in her life. She did not have to think about who will drive her to the hospital, a cousin or an uncle was ready. She did not have to think of all the small little things that were needed as soon as the baby was born, her mother was all packed and set with innumerable baby clothes, nappies, sweaters, mittens, caps and soft cotton blankets all made from thoroughly washed soft old cotton sarees. She did not have to think of recuperation and getting that precious ‘fifty winks’ when the baby bawled till dawn and feeding took away all her strength to stay awake, a sister or an aunt was always there to comfort the little one as she slipped into a deep comatose sleep till the next feed. She did not have to think of making lunch or dinner or even that much needed cup of tea, it was always ready in her mother’s kitchen. Thinking of all this, they would look at each other and smile, ever so slightly revealing the longing they felt for their mothers and aunts who would have by now taken charge had they been back home.

                                           She knew she had to all this and more as they welcomed their first child into their lives in a strange new land. They weren’t even sure if he would be there when the time came. So each week-end was spent in organizing the kitchen, rearranging the furniture, packing bags for the big day, keeping the car ready with packed bags and petrol and hoping the baby would come into this world on a week-end!

                                           It was not to be.

                                           The baby had a mind of its own. It not only not came on a week- end but decided to push its way out a month earlier than its time. Like the water, all hell broke loose at midnight, midweek. Struggling to keep up her morale and contain her panic, she managed to drive herself to the hospital where she worked in the dark of the night through blinding snowfall and thick sheets of ice and collapsed in the arms of the buxom smiling night matron. Rest was a blur and she was awakened by the soft sound of her husband calling her out. She smiled gently as she looked into the reassuring eyes that she had fallen for many years ago. ‘It’s a girl and she is fine’ he said. They looked at each other with a new sense of respect. Their boundless love had turned a new page and they were ready for the challenges of parenthood, come what may!

                                          The birth of a child is a conscious decision taken by two adults bound by love and tradition. It is a reaffirmation of their trust and faith in their relationship as it is also the next level of the biological system of the body. It is as much their commitment to each other as it is to the new life that they bring forth in this world. The hardships endured and the unconditional love showered, are just a small part of their commitment. That happiness of seeing your miniature self divided unequally but presented as a whole in the form of the child that grows under your wings, is magical and extraordinary.                                             Each day brings with it a new joy and a new responsibility. It makes you aware of the blessings you have received from all the wonderful people who surround you. It makes you aware of your upbringing and the culture imbibed in you that you must now propagate further. The stories of honesty, loyalty, truth and courage must be told. The values of respect, love, trust and integrity must be taught. The teachings of great saints, of great men and women who have made us understand the value of being human must be passed on. Just as you are made, the child must be made too.

                                               Each step must be carefully walked as there is now someone behind, watching and learning. Each decision must be carefully weighed as there is now someone who will be affected by it. The gaiety and romance of life need to be redefined and continued giving the child a joyous childhood so that his/her life stands on the firm foundations of love, trust and happiness. This is the story of each one of us born to loving parents and becoming one as the cycle of life continues.

                                            This is the story of my birth and it is more special because the time and space and circumstances of birth were unusual and special. Having gone through parenthood I could understand the blessing that my parents have given me but it was necessary to trace their journey to this strange land to know the level of endurance and understand their belief in their love, strong enough to bring me into this world in spite of all the challenges.

                                               Life took me through various twists and turns, lifting me up or hurtling me down at its own will. I smiled through good times and I gasped for breath as I gagged under difficulties but the partner I had chosen to spend the rest of my life who is the boy in my story held my hand firmly, just like the boy in the story here, and parenthood became a walk on silk route. In all this, I forgot to look back where I came from and finding my birthplace lay hidden in a deep crevice in the heart. As I walked through the years, I forgot the enormity of the sacrifices and the love my parents had put into making my life as I became more involved with making lives of my two miniatures born whole with unequally divided characteristics.

                                             The cycle of life took away my parents, one after the other just as they had walked around the sacred fire many decades ago, to another world leaving behind memories that formed the strong wall I leaned against ever so often. I realized that this strength came from the immense love they had poured into my heart even as they struggled to make their lives.

                                        Re-discovering the source of my strength and my ability to give forth the same values I have imbibed was like looking into the past, walking through every little pain and pleasure my upbringing may have brought, pondering over all the moments that I had made them proud and hearing all the laughter that made my childhood a happy place to be.

                                       It was a fine sunny morning and the rare blue clouds smiled happily over the Cheshire sky, yellow buttercups swayed in the gentle breeze and the ‘prim and propah’ manicured lawn lazed in the mellow sun. The small town of Heswall was just stirring in its warm blanket. Trees were getting ready to shed their inhibitions and welcome the autumn. It had taken more than five decades and nine hours of exciting flight journey to where I stood now. A kind friend had been gracious enough to drive me here. It was that moment! I stood teary eyed gazing at the place where my life began. The place, where I was hugged tightly and warmly, kissed tenderly and gently and loved deeply, stood mute witness to my being and the wonderful life of my parents.

                                        The enormity of what our parents have given us and done for us comes to us as we stand on the throes of parenthood. Somewhere down the line we get truly engrossed in fighting life’s battles. We forget what they have done for us and more importantly, we also forget what we are doing for our children.

                                     Taking the journey back to our birth gives us the strength we have been blessed with and eases the path that lies ahead. It gives you glimpses of the life you have left behind. It connects you to your roots and evokes a sense of being enveloped in a warm tight hug on a frosty cold day.

                                      It’s a long journey but must be taken. It’s a reaffirmation of our respect to our parents and our love and faith in our relationship with each other as we walk holding not just each other’s hands but also those who are our continuation.

                                  A journey so that our children know what we have done for them.

                                  Such a long journey!!

My lord, Ganesha!!!

                    Come September and the Ganesh festival is here upon is in all its glory, colors, festivity and noise. Every home eagerly awaits their favourite Lord's arrival, preparing for days to welcome this 'most privileged' guest, who is omnipresent in homes of millions who believe in His power and blessings and wait to 'officially' bring him in idol form for those special days that fall in the month of Bhadrapad, which in English calendar is around August/September. These magical ten days are filled with so much joy and happiness that all negativity in the weather fades away, there is bonhomie, laughter, reunions and repairs of broken relationships and hearts. Friends and relatives gather leaving their all-important routine on the back-burner and joining in the aratis and prasad rituals, making music in unison that percolates through the walls and winds about the blessed house.

                     My memories of Ganesh festival are a treasure in my childhood chest that has flown over my years of growing up and growing out of my house, getting carried into my abode that I eventually built with my husband and children. The month of August came with rains slowing down their feverish pace of June and July, falling in a lazy pace on lush green fields and mountains, bubbling brooks and overflowing rivers, intermingling  with the warm,mild, mellow yet bright yellow rays of the Sun. The abundance of nature's bounty filled every mountain, every forest, every garden, every branch hungry for the myrrh after the scorching heat of summers. The large brown swathes of dry crusted earth smiled with relief and joy as the green life engulfed and caressed the dried broken heart. The air sang songs of rebirth and joy as it blew through parched homes bringing with it hope and relief all over again.

                     My home too filled with untold anticipation of festivities to come. The groceries and the sugar bags that got stocked in the store house heralded the beginning of months of joyous occasions that would be now filled with sweets and savories that dreams are made of. The main excitement was ofcourse the arrival of our very own, very favourite and very dear Lord Ganesha who would be staying with us for all of ten days bringing in the happiness and light as only He can!!  The kitchen got busy what with the helping hands kneading and rolling, frying and baking, stuffing and mixing foods whose aroma wafted through the house, spreading across the lanes, crossing with the aromas from houses across ours and creating a jamboree of fragrances that can only stay in permanent and special memories. Specialy prepared prasad of 'modaks' would be the highlight with each house claiming to make the best ones. Nobody could beat mine though!! A specially designated area decorated with crepe paper rolls, lace cuttings, thermocol figures and ferry lights marked the seat of the Lord and all the neighborhood kids joined in the force that went from home to home helping in the decorations. The celebrations were upon us and the world around us had suddenly become a place where people of all ages pitched in and helped, came together and worked through nights, laughing, eating, sipping on endless cups of tea and making merry. For the child in me, this was the power of the Lord. This was the effect and this was the cause. I loved the way it changed morose, dull routine into an effervescent bonhomie, a fountain of celebration of faith and happiness. I loved every moment of these ten magical days.

                                  The ten days were packed to the brim. The mornings saw us getting up much earlier than usual so we could complete our arati before leaving for school. Mother insisted on us singing all ten aratis and the final prayer. The arati always began with 'sukhakarta, dukhaharta' penned by Swami Ramdas, the 17th century saint, who has used the exact words to describe what our Lord Ganesha means to us. This was Mother's way of making us remember by rote the prayers that stand strong with us today. The evenings followed the same ritual of ten aratis followed by prasad, but not just in our house. We children went from home to home across the community, singing aratis and eating sumptuous prasad. Time seemed to be aplenty and adults had the enthusiasm of bringing the neighborhood into their homes as a part of the festivity.

                                 Ganesh festival has always been an integral part of the Hindu culture for more than three hundred years. The festival was an important celebration in the household of the erstwhile Peshwas from 1715 to 1818, whose reigning deity was Lord Ganesha. They celebrated the festival for the people and concluded it on Anant Chaturdashi day by distributing sweets and clothes to the poor and royal luncheons to high class brahmins. In 1818, Peshwas lost their rule to the British and the glory of the festival was lost. The festival lost its public identity and was relegated to private celebrations behind closed doors. It is rumored that a pure gold idol of Lord Ganesh studded with diamonds and rubies with large ruby eyes, valued at 50K pounds in 1818, was stolen and taken to England.  The festival remained a truly home celebration till 1892 when first, Pune based Bhau Rangari , impressed by celebrations in Indore province, decided to start celebrating in Maharashtra as a purely home celebration. National leader Hon. Shri Bal Gangadhar Tilak realised its importance of uniting people in a slavery ridden country and igniting the passion for nationalism. In 1893, he installed the first public idol and thus began the public celebration of Ganesh festival. The ten days were now marked with much song and dance with nationalistic messages exhorting people to unite and fight the enemy. Faith and nationalism made a deadly combination for the invaders. Soon the entire Maharashtra fell for the beauty and charm of this festival, credit more to the favourite Lord, and Ganesh festivals became an annual ritual of public celebration bringing entire communities, towns, cities and states together,gathering under one umbrella of love and faith for their Lord, the destroyer of all that was bad.

                    The public programmes gradually changed over time and from nationalistic songs and dances, like the powadas and kirtans, became more entertaining after Independence. The first few decades saw local talent with crude instruments, hastily and shabbily put up props and stages performing with minimal light and music, folk songs and folk dances with costumes hand-stitched by amateurs. These programmes were called 'mele' and were simplistic yet full of heart and participation. Over the last couple of decades lavish stage decoration, professionalism in organising the festival, professional artistes charging huge sums but delivering high-class acts on stage and music blaring through unscaleable walls of loudspeakers have replaced the original concept of the festival. The faith, the happiness and the excitement remains the same.

                   I too have continued the legacy of my mother and have discovered the joy of having Lord Ganesha, 'Bappa' as He is called by all, visit my home, albeit for five days,and give me five magical days to remember and a year full of anticipation. The major change I have done is to reduce my carbon foot print. I have found my lord in a silver idol, represented by the betel-nut that leaves our home to get biodegraded.

              It's  strange, or honestly, not strange at all that these five days or ten or one and a half as in some homes, are filled with untold happiness and sunshine. The remover of all obstacles, "Vighnaharta" and remover of all pain,' dukhaharta' comes to each home with so much hope. In a life riddled with anxieties and worries, unhappiness and illness, rage and greed, corruption and red tape, He comes with the promise of an honest and pure time, putting hope for a good tomorrow in each one who folds his eyes, bends his head and prays from the heart to their one and only, Lord Ganesha. 

              He comes with so much positivity that it is hard not to smile through the day. The slackening of the burdened shoulder and the smoothening of the forehead wrinkles puts back that lost smile on the face and warmth in the heart. He goes away with the promise of returning back. He never fails to come back year after year, giving us the cherished moments that shower like rain bringing life back to the parched earth.

                                    'Ganpati Bappa Moraya'

I WILL NOT DIE- DIARY OF A CANCER FIGHTER

I will not die- Diary of a cancer fighter

Preface- During my stint at the famed Tata Memorial Cancer Hospital, I came across hundreds of men and women suffering from cancer, landing in the hospital with hope in their eyes, incurable disease in their body and complete trust in the healing power of the hospital. I was astounded at the strength of the human mind and the courage displayed by these patients even when the crab of cancer was furiously eating away their bodies and life. They walked tall even if the body was disfigured and the hair loss was total. They laughed, ate in the canteen with gusto and went about discussing reports of primaries and secondaries with their doctors with total non-chalance. The doctors who saw the suffering of their patients with no hope in sight, showed tremendous dedication and compassion, tirelessly working to give them a disease free period of hope, happiness, albeit for a short time and sometimes even life.

Some pages from a diary…………

Day 1

          My nerves were raw as hell, my heart pumped forceful beats into my throat, my hands and feet were washed with sweat as I waited for the doctor to call me inside the consulting room. Tentatively I looked around. There were scores of women sitting beside me on a long bench that stretched from one end of the rectangular hall to the other. Most of them seemed to be chatting away, barely aware of their heads covered with colored scarves hiding the bald pate or the bare skin over their eyes where once were the brows. A few of them seemed nervous, just like me. Obviously the first time in hospital, carrying the distinct red file, just like me. My vision was blurring against the sweat that trickled off my forehead. My name was called. Will I be sentenced or God will pardon me so that I can bring up my little girls and get them happily married?

Day 5

        I had a disturbed sleep, bad dreams and palpitations alternately kept me awake. Had I done something wrong? I kept looking back in time to find out why I was singled out or if it was to be then why not a little later in life when most of my responsibilities as a wife and mother would be on the wane. The doctor smiled a little but the pain in her eyes was evident. I was to be sentenced then! “It’s just the beginning, you will do just fine” her voice was confident but to me it came in heavy hammer blows completely crushing whatever tiny ray of hope I had been praying for. She held my hand and asked me to be positive. “Only those with a strong will and mind do best” she smiled genuinely, “help me to help you”. She saw hope but all I could see was my world blasting into million smithereens with complete darkness. In a flash my life of 39 years flashed before me. My responsibilities of bringing up my girls, caring for my family, loving my husband even more than he did, creating relationships, all came to a screeching halt.  I collapsed. I wept copious tears as my doctor gently held my hand. “You and I will fight this together”. Her words brought little comfort.

Day6

          I hadn’t slept whole night. The nightmare was real and no amount of screaming could wish it away. The Gods seemed to be sleeping or my pleas were falling on deaf ears. My husband held me tightly and asked me not to be afraid.  I will do anything to get you out of this, he said. His brave words brought little comfort.  I don’t want the girls to know till we decide our options. I was trying to protect the innocent lives from the hell that was awaiting us.

Day 10

          “Surgery and chemotherapy will cure you” she smiled again giving me hope. By now my tears had dried up. It was time to confront reality. I agreed, trying not to show my fear, my anxiety, and my sheer hopelessness. Surely she knows best. It was the moment of truth. I prepared myself to fight for my life. My husband smiled at me holding my hands in his wet palms. He was nervous as hell too. I have to put up a brave front to give him courage, I decided.

Day12

           My close ones gathered around me, each one in a different state of reaction but each one praying only for me. So much of love and prayers can’t go waste. I felt hopeful for the first time and ready.

Day 13

          “No, I will not allow you to sell that plot, it’s for my daughters and not to be wasted on me” I was crying hysterically as my husband patiently explained the means to raise money for surgery and chemo. I need you, was all he said. I cursed my body and my destiny. I was losing that ray again. He won and we left for the hospital.

Day 15

          The large room is full of strange equipment and smells of spirit. A bright huge lamp shines above the table where I am sleeping, blinding me. My doctor with bright eyes (I can see only her eyes, rest of her face is behind a mask) smiles at me holding my hand assuring me that all will be fine. I want to believe her. A needle is poked, some routine questions later I drift off into darkness.

Day 20

         My girls are sitting on my bed asking me innocent questions. I smile and hug them. I am amazed at what a simple smile can do. They both happily smile back convinced that the worst is firmly behind them and their mother is new again. My body is rid of the menace. I am ready to go home. Only one third of the ordeal is over but I feel strong enough to face the rest. Anything that will keep me alive till my girls grow up, I promise myself.

Day 30

          First chemo cycle. I have nausea but I am determined. I have to go through this fire to come out unscathed. The medicine burned my hand, the needle had to be inserted many times. “You have thin veins” blamed the nurse. I seem to have many things that can go wrong, I bemused. Exhausted and drained I come home with the next date.

Day……………

          I get up one morning and to my horror, notice a thick bunch of hair on my pillow. My counselor has warned me but the actual event takes the breath out of my lungs. I am reminded of the multi-colored scarves I had seen on my first visit. Tears come back in torrents but I hold back and compose. It’s a small price to pay. Hair will come back. My head gets covered but the brow area looks ghastly. Girls are shocked and retreat to their room, crying. He smoothens their anxiety, but I can feel their horror. We know they have to face the truth. Soon I prepare myself for the next hospital visit.

Day…..

           My life presently seems to be just hospital, injections, hope from doctors and mind numbing bills. I have forgotten to shop for vegetables and groceries and clothes. Things that made up my life were suddenly out of reach for me. Going down for a kilo of potatoes or a bunch of coriander or to the tailor for the girls’ dresses was not even registered in my brain in the past. I just did it. Now I was jailed behind a mask, my white blood cells unable to protect me from my routine. The tears have dried up but the heart bleeds. I want this to end but I will not give up, I tell myself. This too shall pass!

Day……….

               The radiation therapy is less tiring than chemo but the nausea won’t go. My bald pate is darkening daily and I look like I’ve had a smart military cut. I have thrown the scarf away. My appetite has returned in a small way and most of all my hope is back. I have survived the worst, I’ll survive the rest. In normal phases I even go buy vegetables and grocery and drop the girls to school. Oh! What an ultimate pleasure it is to feel normal again.

Day……

              It’s been quite a few days and the effect of therapy is showing. One night he tenderly started caressing my new hair. I was hungry too but scared of my mutilated body.”I don’t look good anymore” I said gently without trying to hurt him. I could see the pain but he quietly and gently made me feel like a beautiful woman again completely forgetting the dirty scar and the ravages of radiation. I cried later as I nestled in his arms. “I am sorry’I said. “You are beautiful” he said and went off to sleep.

Day……….

            “Your scans and reports are normal, your treatment is over” she smiled at me once again holding my hands tenderly in a warm grip. My ears burned with pleasure as the words I was dying (oops I’ll never say this again) to hear reached my heart. Tears rolled in torrents but this time they were tears of relief, of hope, of happiness, of having lived to see the light at the other end of the tunnel .I looked at my husband. For the first time I could see the relief flow out through his eyes.

Day………

              It’s been four years since the tsunami struck my home. I have made it this far, I know I will go further. Occasionally the sleeping giant wakes up like a dark cloud in the form of fear, pulling me away from my courage. I fight back tooth and nail shooing it away. I must drive away any intruder that threatens to spoil the happiness of my loved ones. I will do it, no matter what!

(The Author wishes to express great respect and admiration for “courage under fire” shown by cancer patients known to her and those across the world who are fighting this battle ‘tooth and nail’)

My Aunt's Wedding

My Aunt’s Wedding

Come May-June-July and the wedding season is all upon us in all its wealthy splendor splashing a rainbow of gold & silver, red & orange, pink & purple & hues of green. A few days back we were invited to one such society event which would aptly be called “the big fat Indian wedding” (sorry for the cliché`). The invite (its passé to call it invitation)came in a purple and gold box with a gilt-edged lining tied with a gold ribbon containing color coded invitations for the various programs that would stretch over a full five days starting with sangeet and the last grand finale, the reception. Each invitation was sealed with a gold seal that had the initials of the super-rich parents and a gold signature for the personal touch. Green invite was for the mehendi with the dress theme to match, red for the sangeet, cream for the wedding and purple and gold for the reception that was to be held in the ball room of a 7-star hotel which could accommodate a couple of thousand guests expected to attend. The invitation for the special “hen” party meant only for the under-25 girls(above 18 , I think?) was printed in psychedelic colors that had the insignia of a famous neo-artiste known for his abstract work(read, indelible) to be held at an undisclosed destination with an undisclosed itinerary. Knowing vaguely about such do’s I could only thank my advancing age for sparing me the orgy (some advantage of growing old).

The “sangeet” preparations had begun a month earlier when a famous Bollywood(our eternal Indian fixation) choreographer, now out of work, was hired to train the bride, groom ,their parents and friends all the steps of popular wedding songs that had made a Madhuri or a Kareena famous. Suffice to say, the girls were happily learning the dance intricacies under the able tutelage of a diamond stud sporting caricature dressed in lime green shirt and tight pink pants. Lehengas for this occasion were ordered from a special boutique and the bride wore a Svarvoski studded lehenga, just like “Aish’s”! (there we go again). Even the groom had a made-to-order dress –yes, you guessed it right. Just like SRK’s.

The sangeet started with the mandatory popping of the finest bubbly which opened the bar from where flowed the choicest single malts and French wines and was soon besieged by the men folk. The women and children merrily clapped to dances including the one by the groom who seemed to have two left feet and the parents whose bellies shook more than their legs. I was blissfully sipping on my orange juice laced with vodka and surreptitiously handed over to me by husband dear! The sangeet extended in to the mehendi where artistes trained to decorate fair manicured starry palms (what else?) drew intricate designs on all the feminine palms, albeit for a hefty fee. The proud parents beamed at the extravaganza thanking the wedding planners for a ceremony fit for a princess!

I have by now exhausted my repertoire of adjectives but can’t help describing the grandest of all, the wedding reception. Attired in gold and red designer lehenga, the bride looked every inch the princess she was meant to be. Gold and diamond jewelry stretched from neck to waist making me wonder how she could smile so sweetly with all that weight around her neck. But then no girl ever gets bogged down by the weight of gold! A long queue of Armani suits and brocade silks waited to bless the couple while the others milled around what appeared to me as the world palate. Stalls of Continental jostled around Punjabi food. Chinese counters competed with Thai and Mexican stole attention from Lebanese. Desserts of all continents including an array of special Indian sweets topped the long lines of guests. The wedding planners had left nothing to chance and it was, to use a cliché “an affair to remember”.

As the wealthy world whirled around me I was transported back 40 years to another wedding that took place in my grand-mother’s front-yard and holds a special place in my heart. My Aunt’s wedding! As a ten year old I had watched in amazement as my Grand- mother and Mom took charge of the wedding preparation of the younger daughter as soon as the “boy’s side” confirmed her acceptance as their daughter-in-law and decided on the date. After a brief celebration of feeding pedhas to one-another, the ladies in the house got down to preparing the list of work to be done, guests to be invited, letters to close relatives, trousseau to be finalized, sarees for the close female relatives and jewelry  for the bride. Each elderin the family was handed over one responsibility and one small note book to jot down the work to do, guests to be invited, letters to be sent so that far off relatives could plan and book tickets well in advance. The men folk were entrusted the work of hiring the maharaj for cooking the wedding meals, arrange for the decorative shamiyana in the front yard where the wedding would be held, and the invitation card which was a simple white and gold card that said, “with blessings of Lord Ganesh, we invite you……………”. The women busied themselves with planning the food menu which consisted of simple Mahartastrian wholesome delicious food and the mandatory saffron “jalebi”, packets of savory and sweets for all those who would attend and a list of gifts for the groom’s family. The back yard of the house was converted into a make-shift kitchen where after a small puja, began the preparation of wedding savories and sweets. The women sat around huge trays of golden pearls and rolled them into sweet laddoos as they laughed and teased the bride. The younger girls were assigned the duty of counting the laddoos and packing them for distribution. There was laughter and joy, energy and activity all day long. The house seemed magical, with so much of happiness around, milling with people working, talking, eating and making merry. As the D-day arrived the house turned into Cindrella’s castle with fairy lights all over the place, fragrant jasmine and mogra flowers wafting from all corners and the front yard bedecked with golden globes of marigold interspersed with the pious mango leaves. The wedding ceremony lasted for just two main events, one when the groom’s family was officially introduced to the bride’s family on the eve of marriage and the next morning when my Aunt got tied in the holy matrimonial bond amidst chanting of Vedic mantras and copious tears from grand-ma and Mom’s eyes. The grand lunch had everyone sitting on the floor with the women in heavy silk sarees serving all the guests with loads of love and urging them to eat more. The whole place was filled with much laughter and bonhomie and it was hard to believe that the groom’s family had just met mine!

It was then time for my Aunt to move on from her home of 22 years to a completely new home, new people who would now be her own, new life, new adjustments, new relationships, and new responsibilities. Grand-ma and Mom suddenly seemed to have lost nerve and I could see them clinging on to the bride, crying, laughing, worrying, and putting up a brave face to bid her a happy farewell. There were tears all over and to my tiny mind it seemed ridiculous that such a happy occasion mandated for so much crying. I was too small to know the change that comes over with marriage. Needless to say, I found out why many years later.

As I broke off my reverie, standing in the perfectly planned super event that I had just witnessed, I noticed that the bride was about to leave for her new home. Copious tears began to flow with tight embraces from the heart-broken parents. I smiled to myself. Well at least something hadn’t changed!