The Whole Nine Yards - An Ode

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'

A couple of weeks earlier, at the behest of our mothers, my husband and I performed a 'homa' at home. The priest who was going to guide us ,came home a couple of days earlier to brief us about the requirements, items to be bought and do’s and don’ts. As he was leaving, he looked disdainfully at the jeans I was wearing, just as a parent would look at a child who had brought home a ‘C’ grade. And then exclaimed, “You should wear a saree for the occasion.” I was miffed! I always wore a saree for special occasions. Incensed by the remark, it was then I decided to go the whole nine yards. Literally!

The nine yard saree, worn by Queens in days bygone and by women up to my grandmother’s generation, was now relegated to weddings (usually just the bride) and religious ceremonies. Few of my mother’s generations know how to wear it, let alone mine! Just as writers had advanced from the quill to the fountain pen to ball point pen and now the keyboard, women in India had advanced from the nine yard saree to six yard saree to salwar khameez to jeans.

It was a long and unwieldy garment. But I was determined to wear it, and not only that, I also decided to learn how to drape it. It was rather cumbersome to drape, with many tucks and folds, requiring a good amount of bending, twisting and turning. I almost broke into a sweat as if I had a gym workout! I fumbled the first time, but got it right on the second attempt. I looked at myself in the mirror; I felt like a stuffed doll, yet there was a subtle elegance to it. I was swept by a sense of nostalgia and inspired to pen an ode to the 'Nine yard saree'

 A fabric of nine yards/As Lustrous as the stars/Like sheen of a rose/Sometimes apricot with gold/Your tradition began in/The land of yore./Adorned by Laxmi/the warrior Queen of Jhansi,/With yardage billowing ,/Like a bolt of lightning/she rode to glory/protecting her territory./Raja Ravi Varma/In a World of Bohemia,/his muses draped/in velvety regalia;/Voluptuous and coy,/A graceful sight!/Sensuous as night./You were my grandmother’s livery/Together with finery/Exquisite as dreams,/But now replaced by/modern seams,/You’re just a part of a/bride’s trousseau/Not haute couture/Now Obscure and old/yours is /a story untold.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: Net Browsing, Participation Count: 2

My other mother

She came into my life when I was a year and a half old. With green tattoos on her forehead and forearm, nauwari (Maharashtrian nine yard sari), and cherubic moon face, she wafted in to our home, becoming an integral part of our lives for the next 20 years.

 

She had had a dismal life, and like most women of her times, never questioned but accepted her fate. She was married off at a very young age, as was common those days. Within a year, she had a son, who didn’t live beyond a few months and shortly, her husband followed suit. Considering her to be ill-fated, the in-laws threw her out. Already bereft of a mother, now widowed and childless, she had no place to go.

Luckily, her married older sister took her in and found her a job as a nanny. And when the family didn’t need her services anymore, she came to live with us as both my parents were working and needed someone to look after me. She soon endeared herself to all, friends and family, with her garrulous and affectionate nature.

We were bowled over by her culinary skills; she even mastered our South Indian cuisine, alien to her until then. I can still picture her sitting on the floor , turning the grinding stone with one hand and shoving rice and lentils with the other  until the two coagulated together to form a smooth batter of dosa, the quintessential South Indian delicacy.

She was my sole companion for five years until my sister came along. It was heartening to see the special bond she shared with my sister, having attended to her from the day she was born. One day, when my sister came home with a split forehead and blood pouring down her face (after being accidently hit by a swinging cricket bat), it was hard to tell who cried more.

She is now around 85 years old, suffering the brutalities of old-age, but still remembers every member of our extended family and enquires about each one of them by name. When we visit her in Bombay, where she now lives with her grand-nephew, she proudly calls the neighbours to come see her daughters.

Strangers in the night: A short story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 31; the thirty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Strangers in the Night'

It was dark and eerie, a narrow alley that took me into a world of surreal. The only sounds were the   croaking of crickets and the screeching of bats on the lone tree at the far end. I’m nearing the end and expect to hear the familiar whooshing of the waves that will soon engulf me. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, I see a man, just his silhouette actually. I stop and wonder if I should turn back to the dystopian reality that awaits me. Suddenly, I hear a voice; the words at first seem muffled .Then a clear ringing intonation,

 “It is your own consent that will lead you down the path to freedom and happiness. All you need is to find the power within you, to release the chains of confinement.”

Startled, I want to scream, but all that comes out is a whisper, “Who are you?” I can hear my heartbeat echoing through the alley.

Strangers in the night, with no future or past,  but then a sense of calm washes over like an old friend.

The sonorous voice wafts back, “I’m a figment of your imagination. A passing memory.”

A gust of wind roars over, picking up some leaves, rustling, as it floats away. The stranger continues, “You can choose to be fettered or to let go like those leaves which are now on their way to freedom.

“But the leaves didn’t choose to part”, I said as I found my voice. “They dried and fell and now they are carried by the wind.”  

“That’s an illusion! They fall off only when they want to, just like everything else that is in harmony with nature.”

As if on cue, a falcon shrieks in the sky above and my eye catches the first rays of the morning sun sparkling over the placid waters.

When I look again, the stranger of the night has vanished and I wake up from my reverie to the beautiful and comforting sound of silence.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: Net browsing, Participation Count: 1

 

Book review: Next Door by Jahnavi Barua

The world of publishing in India has seen a flourish of debut authors in the last few years with many of them grabbing accolades and eyeballs of the media and young readers. So, I, too, decided to join the bandwagon and turned my attention to this growing breed of new Indian writers. I picked up a collection of short stories ‘Next Door’ by   Jahnavi Barua, published in 2008. This debut collection(of 11 stories) had garnered much critical acclaim and after reading the book, I can say it is well-deserved.  Her writing is very mellifluous, filled with vivid descriptions and rich textures of her homeland, Assam, the North-eastern state of India, known for its natural beauty and tea gardens. Jahnavi’s stories are woven with intricate emotions and complex patterns that define human relationships.And just as the mighty Bramhaputra River, known for its flash floods, yet is the lifeline of the Assamese people, so also it flows through her stories quietly and at times, tumultuously.  There’s also a sprinkling of Assamese words throughout, which though hard to understand, gives it a unique flavour.

The first story ‘Magic Spell’ starts with a day in the life of a young school-going girl, Jui Das. “She sits up in the bed and gingerly eases the bedclothes off herself. From there, she contemplates the cement floor. Her slippers lie on the floor, neatly aligned, just out of reach of her short legs. Jui sucks in her cheeks and places her palms flat on the bed, on either side of her, arms rigidly straight….Jui takes a deep breath and swings her body again, stretching her legs and feet and extending her toes until they ache and feels her hands begin to slip. Holding her breath she reaches out further and then she feels her toes touch the rubber; she grips the slippers gently and draws them slowly towards herself.” The story goes on to describe the rest of her day as she gets ready for school, witnesses an argument  between her parents about bringing her paternal grandmother home, the walk to the school with her  mother and then school itself. Her day ends rather unexpectedly on a tragic note and does indeed cast a spell on the reader.

There are several references to the insurgency faced by Assam in the last 2 decades. One such story, ’The Patriot’  deals with the relationship of the protagonist, a retired Government official, Dhiren Mazumdar with an  insurgent, who takes refuge in his house. The story begins with an interesting narration of the elaborate morning rituals of Dhiren Mazumdar, the strenuous task (for an old man!) of collecting a basketful of  flowers for his morning puja, an awkward encounter with the dhobi (washer man) who has his shop across the road, followed by a cup of piping hot tea as he sits in his veranda examining his ‘kingdom’- a humble 2 bedroom house, built by himself, in which he and his wife live. And  another two- storeyed old dilapidated ancestral house, described as “ When the wind blew in from the river, laced with sand and the smell of fish, the house strained at its joints, moaning piteously….Wild vegetation had taken over the hapless building; tenacious creepers spread over the remaining standing walls …Taut green stalks of the kosu thrust belligerently through the rotten floor , their elephant-eared leaves tightly meshed above” One day he sees some movement in the run-down house and finds a young injured boy, an insurgent,lying there. The insurgent initially bullies and threatens Mazumdar into bringing food and medicines for him and keeping his presence a secret. But over the days, as he tends to the young boy, Mazumdar develops a fatherly responsibility towards him and helps him to escape from getting arrested by his own son who is the Deputy Commissioner (with whom he apparently doesn’t share a great relationship).

Another touching story is ‘Holiday Homework’. The protagonist, an old man, Mr Barua, after observing his new neighbours (a young couple and their son) and the intense love between the mother and the son for a few days, decides to befriend them, and soon discovers that the young lady is suffering from cancer. The rest of the story goes on to narrate the unusual friendship formed between the three of them and the climax, though predictable,  is so moving,  that it brought tears to my eyes.

While some of the stories have an abrupt ending, they are still worth reading for her style of writing and keeps the reader engaged with even pace and unique plots . Jahnavi has previously won the Short Fiction contest hosted by British Council in ’05 and the second prize in the Children’s Fiction category of the same in 2006; but with this book, she has truly arrived in the world of literature . Her latest book, ‘Rebirth’ (2011), a novel, was shortlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize.

'schools kill creativity'

Sir Ken Robinson in his now famous and humorous talk ‘Schools kill Creativity’   (http://www.ted.com/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html) narrated the poignant tale of Gillian Lynne, a prodigious dancer and choreographer. In the 1930s, as a young student, Gillian was believed to have ADHD .Her talent for dancing was discovered by a doctor to whom her mother had taken to have her assessed. He made the observation, ”she isn’t sick, she’s a dancer” and recommended putting her in a dancing school, which  her mother did and the rest as they say is history. She worked on several Broadway productions and later started her own dance company, making her a multi-millionaire. But rather than blaming schools for undermining talent, I believe it’s the system and the society that needs to be blamed.

This year, the government has made it compulsory for schools to execute the RTE act. But rather than shoving education down the throats of children, it would have been more sensible to establish vocational schools instead, with an emphasis on life and job skills. Now, don’t get me wrong! I am a strong crusader of education and academic excellence. But as a teacher as well as in my personal life, I have seen many kids who struggle with academics. One of my sister’s friend has a son who is brilliant in craft work and making models. But he is a non- performer in school and is totally uninterested in Math and Science. Yet, he is forced to go to tuitions in order to get better grades. I was fortunate to work in a school that not only catered to but was also emphathetic to children with learning difficulties. A student, who came after spending 4 years in another highly reputed school, was found to be dyslexic. Her parents  had no clue about her problem and were in shock when informed of it.  They found it hard to accept that she would not excel in academics as some of the difficulties persist for life. Another student with LD, struggled with language and Math, but was a district level swimmer. In spite of the parents being adviced to encourage him in his swimming, his swimming lessons have been stopped and he now goes thrice a week for remedial classes. These parents undergo a lot of agony worrying about their future as there is no future without at least a’ 10th pass certificate’. And the worst-affected are parents of autistic children. They move their kids from one school to another in the hope that they will fit into a mainstream classroom somewhere, unable to accept that they probably never will. These children and their parents would be spared of their misery if there was a system with schools that groomed their talents or taught them life skills with just a basic knowledge of literacy and Math. But most important of all, we, as a society need to be open up our mind and heart to accept them.