The sari connection

Palakkad. It was the first name that sprang into Subhadra’s mind.

“Palakkad,” she told her inquisitor, tired of avoiding a reply. The young man had been grilling her for some minutes now. .

“Seriously? In which state is that?” Sunjiv asked, uncertainty clearly written on his brow.
Subhadra decided to take a chance. “Kerala,” she told him rashly, making a mental note to check it on Internet the moment his back was turned.

Sunjiv worked in the HR department, and sat in a cabin opposite to hers, at the far end of the big hall.

Subhadra in a sari.

Digital sketch: Harjeet

Once he heard her speak into the phone in impeccable Punjabi, and sauntered across to her table on some pretext. He began a casual chat on a small office matter. Soon she got used to making small talk with him. They conversed in English, always, till one day he dropped a line in Punjabi and she replied in the same language. He seized the opportunity swiftly.

“Are you a Punjabi?”

The cocky lad should have seen it coming, but did not.

“Oh no, how could you think that of me?” she pouted, sounding offended.

The young man fumbled for words. “I wondered how you could be, but the other day you were talking quite fluently in Punjabi. So …”

“So, are you an Englishman by the same criterion?” she retorted.

“N-no, I always thought you were from Bengal. Now you say you are from Kerala.”

“Why, do I look like a Bengali?” She was beginning to enjoy pulling his leg.

Sunjiv was positively squirming now.

She wore such a diverse range of saris that it was difficult to tell which part of the country she came from, he explained.

“You mean to say I should not be wearing saris? Or only one type of sari? Or only salwar kameez? Perhaps western suits? I had no idea you kept such a sharp eye on what women wear,” Subhadra said, ragging him more.

“Actually, the variety you wear is so wide, we often discuss it,” Sunjiv blurted, now profusely apologetic.

“We? Who else is tracking what I wear?”

“Don’t take it otherwise, please,” Sunjiv begged. “Banjyot in my department and I often talk about the way you glide into office in your crisp sari. You don’t circulate much, but whenever you do talk to someone you sound very pleasant,” he coloured deeply as he defended himself.

“Is that such a bad thing?” she asked him, picking on him.

“N-no, ma’am, it’s not that. We fell into this habit of betting on what colour of sari you would come in.”
“That’s not done,” Subhadra frowned. “You lay bets on such trivial issues?”

“Believe me, ma’am, it’s all healthy and with no money involved.”

She pretended to be annoyed now.

“How is it anyone’s business what I wear to work?” she demanded.

“But that’s exactly what we mean,” he sounded almost deferential. “It’s a pleasure to behold you … business-like, professional, self-contained, and — and tastefully dressed. That is all, ma’am, I assure you,” Sunjiv was almost babbling. “That is how we came to wonder which part of the country you came from. It’s entirely harmless talk, ma’am. No offence whatsoever, ma’am.”

Subhadra decided to let up the pressure a bit.

She made him sit down, and called for coffee. Soon the talk veered round to the sari she was wearing that day. It was Sambalpuri, from Orissa, she told him.

Later, she accompanied Sunjiv to Banjyot’s cabin, at last making a friend in her office, indeed, two friends.

Banjyot was a Punjabi, too, like Sunjiv. She had little knowledge of saris, being more inclined towards western attire. The trio shared some light moments over the episode and then headed back to their respective desks.

Subhadra’s saris helped cement the friendship. Sometimes she told the duo how she had picked out a particular  colour combination. Sometimes her new friends tried to guess the type of silk used in her sari. Almost every sari had a story behind it: how Subhadra’s husband had pulled out a particularly striking one from a heap of silks in a South Indian shop, how husband and wife ended up buying the same shade of rust at separate stalls, and so on.

A few weeks later, Subhadra decided to tell Banjyot the truth about herself, but waited for a good occasion to tell Sunjiv.

He was quizzing her about her husband one day: “How did you decide to marry a Punjabi?” “How come you are so fluent in the language?” “Does your husband speak Bangla?”

Humouring him, she said: “We met at a seminar, and clicked.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, it took some effort on his part convincing me,” she smiled naughtily.

Sunjiv was clearly bent on romanticizing her so-called affair. She embellished her story with nonsensical tales of the courtship. She said her family hailed from Kerala but she was born in Bengal and studied in Delhi. Sunjiv seemed to lap it all up … how she had scorned her husband’s advances at first but secretly admired him from day one; how he turned up at her doorstep every other day; how they dated for two whole years. Wide-eyed, he exclaimed, “Ah! Sir must really have fallen for you.”

At one stage, she could no longer hold back her mirth: “Silly, I am a born Punjabi and had an arranged marriage! Within months.”

“I don’t believe you, ma’am,” Sunjiv said indignantly.

“You spun a romantic web about my marriage, and I led you on because you were so hung on it,” she replied. “It’s just that I’m a cosmopolitan Indian woman. My husband and I share this love for all types of saris. It helps that I have a non-Punjabi look, which fooled you. I just played along, man,” she replied.

Sunjiv’s bewilderment gave way to a sheepish grin when he realized how his runaway imagination had invited an elaborate joke on himself.

Tastie Toast Café

Honee worked at Tastie Toast Café. He attended two-hour morning classes at the slumside tent, then scampered off to the bus station for his 9.20 a.m. ride to the city centre.

The café was famous for its black tea and black coffee, but most of all for its Tastie Toast. All six working days of the week, the owner kneaded the dough with his own hands and prepared the stuffing five times a day to get that perfect taste into his unique patty.

The whole staff – that is, Honee, Bindi and Mandra – had become good friends. Their work bound them closer than any Fevicol could, Honee mused. After all, they worked sort of butt-to-butt in the tiny kitchen at the back of the café.

It hadn’t always been such a tight squeeze, but the cafe’s growing popularity had forced the boss to make more space for his customers and push the kitchen wall closer to the back. As a result, they had to lightly shove each other by their backsides to move in or out of the kitchen. It was dicey, manoeuvring with trays and steaming mugs balanced on each palm. Like today.

“Coming, saarrr!” Honee replied in a singsong tone when the perpetually drunk Bear called out a third time for his Tastie Toast.

“Bear” was their nickname for the grumpy, bearded man who lurched in every morning, his cap dangling down one ear and spiky hair shining in the sun. He slumped into the corner by the big glass window, ate Tastie Toasts and drank till he was sozzled.

 Another regular was the “Dream”. Some years back she used to wear skimpy blouses and flared pants tied high on her waist. Now she had put on weight and wore tight, ill-fitting tops with skirts or pants that did not match. She loved Tastie Toast Café even more than her cigarettes. Once she was inside the café, she wolfed down Tastie Toasts and had black coffee laced with a drink she poured from the tiny flask ever-present in her huge purse. She did not smoke except on her way out. Boss served her himself, preparing Tastie Toasts in quick succession so that her plate was never empty.

Tastie Toast on a tray.

The black coffee was a hot favourite.
Digital sketches: Harjeet

Honee’s personal favourite was the “Cane”, a quiet old man with thick eyebrows. Short and stout, he walked with a cane, his head erect, and always landed up at 11 sharp for a cup of tea with milk, a Tastie Toast and a cookie. Then he would strut to his office hard by. It seemed he had no cook at home because after work hours, he dropped in for two Tastie Toasts and one mug of black coffee. After that, he walked out in the opposite direction, to the bus station.

Cane’s friend was of middling height, sporting a moustache. He usually darted in 15-20 minutes after Cane, whispered some secrets perhaps, and scuttled off before Cane had finished his cookie. It was done in clockwork precision. But Honee had not been able to establish if Cane and “Moustache” worked in the same office.

Bear interrupted Honee’s reverie: “Boy, what are you dreaming about? Where’s my toast today?”

Honee looked around. He had unwittingly put down the Tastie Toast at Cane’s table. Swiftly retrieving the plate, he muttered a soft “Sorry, saar” and shot back into the kitchen.

Cane was fidgety today, and to top it Honee had delayed his order. Mandra was poised at the door, and passed on a tray.

“Quick,” he hissed to Honee, who darted back to where Cane was sitting.

“Here, saar!” he panted as he put down the tray. “The other saar is not coming today? All well, saar?” he asked.

“No, he hasn’t come in, and I’m worried,” Cane replied. “I hope he is well.”

“He will be fine, saar,” Honee said reassuringly.

This was Honee’s longest conversation with any customer. His boss did not encourage small talk. He philosophized that rich people were best left alone. Serve them well, and earn your living. Stay out of their hair, and they won’t bother you. “It’s that or your job. I don’t want trouble in any form,” the boss would often say.

But today Honee felt impelled to ask more. So, undaunted, he prodded Hero for more information.

“My friend lives all alone, just like me,” Cane said.

“So I was right about him,” Honee thought. Aloud, he asked if he could be of any help.

“I’ll let you know,” a distracted Cane replied.

Honee fretted all day, waiting for Cane to come in before they shut shop. The boss had to pull him up twice for not paying attention to his work.

Cane did not turn up that evening. Honee felt concerned. Mandra had left early, so Honee told Bindi about it when they were scrubbing the floor.

Downing the shutter, they noticed a lone light in the building next door where Cane worked. Climbing two steps at a time, they gained the glass door in a trice. Cane was sitting alone, staring at his typewriter. They roused him, and guided him down the stairs. Bindi stood guard by him while Honee clambered back to lock up the office. They offered to escort him home, but Cane shook his head determinedly.

They decided to trail him. He wound up three or four lanes later at what was probably his friend’s place.

They waited in the shadows. Cane was back in five minutes, his shoulders shaking. Honee made bold to step forward. “All well, saar?” he asked for the second time that day.

“I could never have guessed!” Cane had been laughing silently, and did not bother to ask the young men what they were doing there.

“That woman who comes in to drink liquor with her coffee proposed to him yesterday. He’s so scared he’s holed up since, ha-ha!” Cane said gleefully.

He was referring to the Dream. That much Honee could figure, but he had not seen her and the middle-aged Moustache exchanging a word.

Cane said the two worked in the same office, and she had been chasing Moustache for some time. He would leave for the café the moment she entered office, pour out his agony to Cane. Somehow, that fortified him for the rest of the day. Today, however, she had waylaid him, and proposed. He ran off and had since been hiding in his one-room tenement.

“He doesn’t like her?” Honee asked curiously.

“He does, but he’s scared of her ex, the one who sits in that corner in your café,” Cane told them.

“Her ex?” they exclaimed.

“Well, they went around a bit. Though she broke off the affair, he does not let anyone near her,” Cane explained. “He is a violent drunkard, and my friend won’t risk offending him.”

“They can complain to the police, or get married and go to a new place. Why are they spoiling their lives for a drunken man?” Honee said with naïve wisdom.

“It’s not easy to change jobs, and anyway he has never discussed it with her. He’s too scared of him,” Cane told them as they walked to the bus station.

“He won’t be around too long,” Honee assured Cane lightly, leaving him wondering.

Honee went straight to his teacher’s house in the slum, and told him about Moustache and the Dream. He asked if there was a way to get rid of Bear. The teacher said the café owner could complain about his drinking. But Bear had been doing that for so long without creating a scene! “So you create one,” the teacher suggested.

Three days later, Cane was beaming at the corner where Bear usually sat, for Moustache and the Dream sat holding hands there.

And Bear? He had been taken away by the police for drinking in public and threatening to kill some youth harmlessly indulging in Tastie Toast at the café. Bear had actually brandished an evil-looking knife drawn from his pouch! It had been touch and go.
The plan was carried out so smoothly that no one suspected the young men came from a slum, dressed in their Sunday best for the occasion, and there at Honee’s behest.

Honee could not stop grinning all day. The Dream had for the first time taken her coffee neat, without drawing out that flask from her bag.

When Stuti met Dhwani

Their biology teacher had asked the children to separate the different parts of the flowers on their desks. When Ma’am called out “Sepals”, they were supposed to hold up the sepals; then the petals or stamens or ovary. Stuti could not bring herself to ruin her cute purple flower, though her classmates were doing just that.

Winning pair Stuti & Dhwani.

Digital sketch: Harjeet

The boy sitting next to her nudged her: “What are you waiting for?”

She shook her head silently. When her turn came, she stood up, held up the full flower and pointed to the stamens nonchalantly.

“Why did you not pull the flower apart?” Ma’am asked.

“I want to keep it this way.”

Ma’am decided to overlook it, for there was no gainsaying Stuti.

The child was so sensitive and self-assured. She was also very responsible and helpful, willing to fetch and carry study materials for her teachers, sharing her tiffin with her class fellows or setting their school ties right as they poured into the assembly hall.

Indeed, Stuti was the talking point among her teachers. What spooked them was Stuti’s total lack of self-consciousness. She did exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted. The physics teacher often recounted the incident of the pencil. A boy in the front row had come to school without a pencil. Stuti did not wait for Sir to ask if anybody would lend the boy a pencil. She rose from her chair as Sir began scolding him, passed on the pencil and was back at her seat without a word.

The English teacher had another tale to share. Stuti came to the rescue of four or five children who could not fill in the blanks, turn by turn. While they shuffled on their feet and stammered, she just uttered just one letter that made it easy to guess the word.

No amount of persuasion or harsh words could deter Stuti if she thought she was doing the right thing. She was just about 14, but her demeanour was one of a peaceful sage. Not for her the typical tricks that children play on each other; no antics, no teasing. Her soft “Good morning” shamed her naughtiest classmates into returning the greeting. Pranksters kept away from her.

Every morning, Stuti wiped her desk with a piece of flannel she pulled out from her bag. Then she would lay out her books period-wise inside the desk, pencils and rubber to one side. She never forgot to bring the right books, her pen never ran out of ink and she always had a rubber and sharpened pencil at hand. She submitted her assignments on time and she also topped in class, invariably.

The teachers noticed that the rest of the class stood in awe of her. They knew it was not fair, but they could not resist shifting a recalcitrant child next to her. The child would be miraculously reformed. Stuti never exerted herself or imposed her will on them; they just submitted to it. She could do no wrong, unlike them. She did not scramble out of class, she did not push or shove, she never stuffed her books into her bag anyhow and rush out when the bell rang. Her placid manners won her admirers, but she was friends with none. Rather, all were wary of befriending her.

That did not seem to bother her. She lived in a world of her own. Her teachers brought up the subject with her parents, who said she behaved exactly like that at home as well. She was a loving child, but kept to herself. All efforts to draw her out were in vain, they said.

Stuti’s well-organized world went topsy turvy with the arrival of Dhwani. The new girl in her class was as noisy as Stuti was quiet. She was a tomboy, playing a prank on the unsuspecting math teacher the very day she joined. She banged her desk shut, scraped her chair loudly, and merrily nicknamed her classmates by their looks.

One was dubbed “Mr Hairy”, another was called “Miss Curly Hair”, yet another “Mr Broad Shoulders” and so on, but somehow the ebullient Dhwani could not fathom Stuti.

The tall Stuti just walked up to her when Ma’am introduced her to the class, shook her by the hand and said: “Hi, I’m Stuti. I sit in the second-last row.” No other child in the class had done that. It was not the norm, anywhere. And Ma’am had not blinked.

She determined to try breaking “The Silence”. Yes, Dhwani decided, that would be her name for the enigmatic girl beside whom she was made to sit the very next day. She refused to be intimidated by Stuti’s orderliness and self-contained bearing.

Dhwani would sing loudly during lunch break, exhorting the others to join in. She would play pass-the-parcel with a greasy lunch box, wipe her hands on her skirt, empty her bag onto the desk if she couldn’t find a book – and the class was loving it. She was normal. They flocked around her, enjoyed her silly antics and generally became a livelier lot.

Stuti watched apprehensively. She did not grudge Dhwani her boisterousness, but she could not digest such lack of restraint either. She did not want to be seen as stuck-up, but she couldn’t join in.

Being deskmates, they had to spend a lot of time together. So one day when Dhwani left her rough notebook at home, she sheepishly accepted the sheets Stuti handed out from her own notebook without being asked. Dhwani sprang to massage Stuti’s foot when her chair toppled down on it. And when they knocked their heads trying to shoo away a lost-looking frog from under their twin desk, they shared a hearty laugh.

The teachers could see the change in the two girls. They compared notes in their common room on the pair of complementary role models in the making. One was opening up to the world around her, the other was getting tamed.

Stuti was not as stand-offish now. She could make shy conversations of more than one syllable. She even played the parcel game with Dhwani, whose lunch box was no longer grubby. Dhwani did not slam her desk or screech like a parrot during lunch hour any more, and moderated her jokes that Stuti was beginning to smile at.

The companionship was sealed the day the girls won an inter-school debate. They had independently signed up to represent the school in a declamation contest, in which they had to think on their feet, be on the same wavelength and bond well to take on the competition. The topic: “Who comes first – friends, or me?”

The usually pushy Dhwani hung back, allowing the once-reticent Stuti to step forward and receive the trophy, and to make an elegant acceptance speech on behalf of them both. There was a loud cheer backstage. Only their classmates and teachers knew it was more in celebration of a newfound friendship.

Red Riding Hood & Prince Charming: A love story

Ribha held out the faded red garment for her twin Rishu to see. “A red riding hood!” he exclaimed. The 13-year-olds loved to live out the stories they’d grown up with.

They were rummaging through their grandparents’ old suitcases stacked up in the attic with a slanting roof. It had been years since they had come over for a long vacation, and wanted to do all that the kids in their story books did – go on wild adventures, hunt up treasures, play war games with painted faces, munch Grandmom’s delicacies under a lazy picnic sun, and much more.

Their grandparents lived in a rambling mansion beside a hill. In their city home in India, this was not possible. Here, though, the stories came alive. The kids chased each other around trees, ambushing and attacking unsuspecting thieves, catching imaginary poachers, pouncing on marauding animals out to destroy their grandparents’ corn fields, and much more.

So if Red Riding Hood hung around here, they figured they needed a wolf as well.

They sped down to the living room.

Imaginative twins Ribha and Rishu.

Digital sketch: Vini

Grandpop looked up as they burst in from the hall: “I’m guessing you’ve found something exciting or those stairs of mine wouldn’t have protested so much!”

“My red riding hood!” Grandmom shrieked, and pulled it away from Ribha’s playful hands.

“Your hood, Grandmom?” the girl asked, her eyes lighting up in anticipation of a fine story. She was an unabashed romantic.

“Yes, dear, her hood,” Grandpop interjected. “The one I saw her in, the very first time.”

“And were you the wolf in disguise?” Rishu, the one with the gory imagination, ran to his grandfather’s side.

“What wolf, child?”

“The one who ate Red Riding Hood’s grandmother!” Rishu rolled his eyes and pretended to growl.

The grandparents laughed loudly.

“Well, if I had, indeed, why would she marry me? And I look like a wolf, do I?” Grandpop asked Rishu.

“I don’t think you are a wolf, Grandpop,” Risha reassured him. “But I think Grandmom is Red Riding Hood who escaped the wolf and grew up to marry you.”

“When I saw her first I did think she was Red Riding Hood,” Grandpop twinkled his eyes at her.

“Does Mom know of this? I want to hear the full story,” Ribha said as she deposited her little form firmly on the rug at her grandfather’s feet.

“Me, too,” said Rishu, who really looked up to her, seven minutes his senior by birth.

As a young lad, Grandpop lived in apartments that were set in a square. Wide roads lined by thick oak trees provided a good practising ground for riders and drivers.

One hazy morning he lifted the curtains of his room to check the weather, wondering if a light cardigan would do or a thick jacket was needed.

A flash of red streaked down the lane right beneath his window. He opened the window wide to follow the biker, forgetting that there was a big flower pot on the ledge. Leaning far out, he knocked the pot down. It landed in the middle of the road just as the red figure rode again into the lane.

“Crash, sheee-ie, eeeeek!” came some loud sounds as the rider applied the brakes to avoid the broken pot and crashed into a hedge.

“Grandpop, that was Grandmom on the bike? And you also fell out of the window?” Rishu was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“No, son, I managed not to topple out. But I just had to see what damage had been done,” his grandfather replied.

Half the neighbourhood was out by then. Grandpop tore down the stairs to rescue the red-clad biker, now lying flat on the stomach. The hood completely covered the head, making it difficult to say if it was a man or woman. Grandpop decided to play it rough, and yanked up the dormant figure by the jacket. A wonderful thing happened then. The biker rolled over, rested a curly head on his shoulder, and decided to shut her eyes again. Only then did he realize he was holding a young girl in his arms.

Their grandmother chided her husband, her cheeks now a lovely pink: “You don’t have to tell the children these gory details.”

“What’s gory, Grandmom?” asked Rishu.

“Hush, Grandmom. Hush, Rishu. So you hugged her right then, Grandpop?” asked Ribha, truly entranced by the romantic episode.

No such luck, he told her. He wanted to, but her aunt and uncle appeared right then. She had come to live with them for a week, and had found the calm morning too much to resist. So she had stolen out on her uncle’s bike.

“And landed in your arms,” Ribha whispered happily.

Grandmom was now all a-tizzy.

“Come away, little ones, meal’s been waiting for long,” she called.

The kids were in no mood to oblige. “Not till we hear how you got married, Grandmom,” the twins spoke in unison.

Grandpop loved to revisit his love story, and who better to share with than his own grandchildren? “Ignore her.”

Ribha put her head in his lap. “Grandpop, no short cuts, please,” she urged him.

So he continued, and his wife eventually joined them while supper went cold.

Her uncle and aunt, his parents and the neighbours tut-tutted over the hapless biker, checking if all her bones were intact. Once it was clear that she was just shaken up by the fall, they fell upon him. How could he be so careless as to let fall the flower pot? Did he not notice anyone on the road?

That was the whole point, but they would not let him speak. He had noticed someone on the road, which is why he leaned out, which is why the flower pot fell!

He decided to stay mum. Apologizing awkwardly, he seized the moment to look full into her face once more. He wanted to fall at her feet and ask her to marry him right away, for she looked so sweet. But surely she was naughty too, to be driving like a maniac in the nippy morning. She dimpled at him as she accepted his apology, and limped away.

Her aunt and uncle lived on the opposite side of the square. He sighted her once or twice, but couldn’t wait for Sunday when most families sunned themselves in the common lawn after breakfast. He wondered if she would be there.

His parents couldn’t help notice his frequent trips to the window when Sunday came. How could he tell them his heart thumped madly for this girl from distant India? He just wanted to meet her once again so that he could know if she too had liked him. And then he saw her enter the lawn from the far end, wearing the same red hoodie. She seemed to be looking for someone.

He dashed out, then slowed and sauntered up to her. She gave him a radiant smile, but turned away. He caught up with her, and blurted out: “I just have to ask you, will you marry me?”

“And just how old are you?” she shot back.

“Twenty-three.”

“And I am only 20,” she retorted.

He fell to his knees. “You must say yes,” he pleaded with her.

“This is embarrassing. You know nothing about me, nor I about you.”

“I’ll tell you all you want to know, just say yes.”

“Grandmom, just like that? He came straight to the point?” a thrilled Ribha asked.

“You’ve been reading too many novels, I can see,” Grandmom retorted.

“There was no wolf in your story?” a disappointed Rishu asked.

“There nearly was,” Grandpop disclosed. “I would have kidnapped her if she had refused, but she couldn’t resist me, you see.”

“What do you do when you’ve been imagining robbers are chasing you around the lane and so you are riding at lightning speed, and when you open your eyes you find Prince Charming holding you safe?” Grandmom protested.

Ribha jumped up and kissed her grandmother soundly: “I so much love you, I always knew there were princes around.”

“He is no prince, but he has been a loving husband, yes. Even princes can be bad or cruel. You want a good, kind man to marry and be happy with forever.”

“And don’t you get ideas now,” she admonished Ribha, firmly tucking the garment under her arm.

Ribha later told Rishu: “I’m getting myself a red jacket like Grandmom’s. Promise me you won’t tell Mom why, and one day I’ll help you find your Red Riding Hood!” The twins laughed conspiratorially.

For Grandma's sake

Kushal and his friends were absorbed in animated conversation. Grandpa watched them intently from across the room. They did not notice when he quietly moved to a sofa close by.

“Aha! So they want to open a day school for little ones,” he nodded to himself approvingly.

Two of Kushal’s friends were young women, evidently very taken with the idea. The men in the group obviously could not quite see the point, Grandpa reckoned.

“Men will be men,” he groaned.

He became restless, and decided he needed tea. He walked to the kitchen and told the maid to prepare seven cups of tea.

She looked enquiringly at him, but he growled at her: “Do as I say.”

Grandpa returned to his sofa, and the steaming tea arrived soon after.

“Sorry, why not take a tea break?” Grandpa said loudly to no one in particular.

Kushal gave his grandfather an irritated look, but the two women squealed with delight and gladly picked up a cup each. The men followed suit reluctantly.

“I do apologize. I’m bad with names, you see,” Grandpa said.

The guests were quick to protest that it was perfectly fine. A fresh round of introductions followed, leaving Kushal a little red-faced.

“And you were talking about …?” Grandpa asked gently.

“It won’t interest you, Grandpa. It’s a business proposal,” Kushal said gruffly.

He was conveniently ignored.

Grandpa seemed to purr silkily as he addressed the women now. “So you young ladies are businesswomen, are you?”

“No, sir,” replied the younger of the two. “We are only trying to get into business.”

Now Grandpa was being openly inquisitive. “What kind, if I may ask?”

“Setting up a day school for the children of office-going parents.”

‘I see, a crèche, in other words.”

“No, Grandpa … um-m … may we call you Grandpa?” she asked absent-mindedly, and carried on regardless. “It’s not just for tiny tots. Parents who work late into the evening are worried about their children’s safety, whatever their age. Servants are no answer for nuclear families now, are they?”

“Exactly my point!” Grandpa exclaimed triumphantly.

Kushal was almost livid with his grandfather for hijacking their meeting like this.

“Allow us to carry on our discussion, please, Grandpa,” he urged, not too discreetly.

“No, no, this is my favourite subject. I’m going nowhere,” Grandpa announced grandly.

Kushal rolled his eyes helplessly, but the girls promptly flanked Grandpa.

“Let’s hear you on this,” they cajoled him.

The other three men too pulled their chairs into a circle around Grandpa, forcing Kushal to join in.

“Well, when Kushal was very young, his Grandma and I lived many miles away. We used to be very worried about how his parents were managing, since they are both practising doctors,” Grandpa began.

His story was engrossing, and the tea went cold.

A full-time manservant engaged from a remote tribal village was the doctor couple’s only back-up. On those rare days when he took leave, mostly Kushal’s mother would skip work to be with her son. Another child followed, and she had to run her practice part-time, from home. The manservant had left by then, and two part-time maids helped out.

There was no mobile phone or Internet connection those days, only STD calls made mostly from telephone booths.

Kushal’s father had taken an STD connection at home to stay in touch with his parents. There were times when Kushal’s mother had to make a short outdoor trip, and she would dial Grandpa, asking him to talk to Kushal till she returned.

Thumbs up, Grandma!

Digital sketch: Harjeet

Kushal’s friends gasped. STD calls in those days must have cost a bomb.

They did, indeed, but there was no question of hiring a baby sitter: The concept simply did not exist in those days, and anyway middle-class families could not have afforded them.

Such calls were not frequent, but they did show the dilemma of having to leave children unattended.

“Where is all this taking us, Grandpa?” Kushal asked.

“To the business plan that your Grandma and I drew up, to help just such couples,” responded Grandpa.

The grandparents, both retired educationists themselves, broached the subject with some friends of theirs, and found it to be a universal problem among working couples trying to bring up children all by themselves. They formed an elders’ forum. Living far away from their son so that their daughter could complete her medical studies, Kushal’s grandparents took solace in the fact that they might be able to assist other young parents.

They took up the matter with the mayor of the town. He spoke to some local schools but they were unable to help beyond school hours. 

A philanthropist came to know of their efforts. After a lengthy meeting, he offered to fund any viable project they proposed, including teaching equipment that some members favoured.

Grandma put her foot down at this stage. She opposed the idea of more schooling after school hours.

Their benefactor seemed to agree with her on this and other issues, such as an adjoining crèche so that mothers could be free for some time and where children could join their little siblings after school for a short while. No studies unless the kids themselves wanted them. So a glass-partitioned study was proposed, and approved.

“Let me recall … to run the project, we needed, and found, volunteers from many professions: a lawyer, a chartered accountant, a doctor, a retired colonel and at least four retired school teachers. There were others, but more of a reserve force, if you know what I mean,” Grandpa looked at the keen faces around him.

They shook their heads wonderingly.

“So you set up the project, Grandpa?” asked one.

“We could not find a suitably located building. See, we could not have afforded a bus, its maintenance, drivers’ salaries and so on. So parents would have had to take their kids home themselves. But, more than that …”

“Don’t say it never happened, please,” whispered Kushal.

“Indeed it did not. Our friendly financier suffered a setback and went broke in a matter of months. We were so dejected. Your Grandma says she still dreams of that project.” Grandpa took a deep breath.

A bespectacled young man rose from his chair. “With due respect, Grandpa, would you care to fulfill her dream now?”

“I’m an old man, child, but all of you have age and courage on your side. Do it if you want to,” he replied.

Kushal was quiet, but the others babbled on for some time. Grandpa was clearly overwhelmed.

After they left, Kushal sat down at his knee. “Would you like to see the project come through?” he asked.

“I don’t have the money, son,” Grandpa pointed out.

“But you have the vision. Grandpa, at our management school, we are encouraged to propose innovative projects. We have financiers. Some are angel investors, some venture capitalists. May I take it forward? For Grandma’s sake?” Kushal asked.

Grandpa gave a silent assent, his eyes misty.

Twelve months later, a decrepit building donated by the family of one of Kushal’s woman friends had been renovated and equipped with the necessary infrastructure. It also had a play pen, a gym, indoor basketball and table tennis courts, a kitchen and two cooks, three full-time attendants, and a bus and two drivers.

At the registration counter, Grandpa proudly put the honorary chairman’s seal on the first admission for the launch batch of 25 children, aged 4 years to 13.

He looked up to see his snowy-haired wife making a happy thumbs-up sign as the gathering broke into a thunderous applause.

JMPE: Laugh and read on

To begin from the beginning. It’s about her marriage, but Yashodhara Lal has touchingly dedicated her book Just Married, Please Excuse “To my family – for the material they provide”.

Indeed, without the family JMPE would have little meaning. The dedication seems cleverly worded, for members of the bride and groom’s respective families too move with ease in and out of the pages and the marriage Yashodhara has so wonderfully penned a story about.

This is, primarily, a hilarious account of the family life that she and Vijay embark on, right from the time they first set eyes on each other.

It is about how “Y” – as he calls her – reacts when “Vijay usually said whatever popped into his head”. It is about her own shenanigans which she sketches with amazing ease of words.

Both the situations she tends to land into so often, and the way she describes them, make you chuckle: You shake your head, you agree she is impossible and self-confessedly exasperating, and yet she is so likeable.

You look forward to “Lambu” Vijay’s Hindi one-liners; you admire him for his fortitude and also his indisputable love for Y, complete with her quick temper and her gaffes and gawky ways.

And you laugh and read on. About their life in Bangalore, the ducks he took her to admire and the plot of land they nearly bought; about Mumbai and life next to Bandstand, their maid and driver and their adventures. All keep you riveted.

When Y is in the family way, things turn less funny. The pain of the Delhi-Mumbai distance between the couple when she goes to live with her Mom is palpable.

Childbirth and the distance of a different kind between them now almost make you forget you were reading a funny novel.

Yes, a child really does things to married life. Y hangs on bravely to her quirky views on life, and Vijay and his “Buntvinder” eventually are a loving couple again. But the book could have done with fewer pages on the harsh reality that hits the couple with the advent of one little bundle, Peanut.

Yashodhara and Vijay at Mamagoto.

Pic: Harjeet  

I, for one, would still have liked to read before the book ended just a little more of the fun that undoubtedly came back to stay in their lives.

Yash, please excuse.

All in all, though, the book is an eminently enjoyable journey that traces the making, and saving, of a marriage.

Yash did affirm at our Mamagoto lunch that 99 per cent of JMPE was truthful reporting. Having read the book at long last, I’d say I believe her.

Sumanth goes moonwalking

It was cold and eerie. The sky had a strange grey pall over it. His thickly padded suit protected Sumanth, but his eyes were finding it difficult to adjust to the strange environment.

He stumbled over a moon rock and fell into a small crater. Bouncing out of it onto more solid ground – which was actually an endless carpet of grey dust – all of a sudden Sumanth realized that he was alone. He had lost his way, and there was no landmark that he could recognize. The vast expanse of bleak land pockmarked with craters and rocks, big and small, was silent, ghostly. He thought he could hear a faint hum somewhere, but soon recalled that the rarefied air made it impossible to hear, let alone locate the source or direction of the sound.

Sumanth was panicking now. His children too were lost on the moon!

The barrel on the moon.
Digital sketch: Harjeet

He tried using the speaking tube, but it dangled at a dangerous angle from his helmet and refused to obey his commands. He wanted to call the moon ship and ask his friend to look for Debie and Sambie.

Debie had a sound head on her shoulders, but Sambie was forever launching into exploratory expeditions. He scented mystery where there was none. He would go haring down playgrounds and hotel buildings alike, chasing imaginary beings, his sister hot on his heels trying to keep up with him. Sumanth was sure Sambie had scurried off now as well. The boy just wasn’t born to obey. He regretted bringing the kids along, but it was a birthday promise he had had to keep.

Sumanth had made his wife a party to this silly moonwalking trip, and now the children had wandered off in a different direction. He hoped the two were at least together. If only he could figure out where he stood and how far he was from the moon ship, he might be able to join his wife and his friend. His wife was mapping the area around the landing pad. His friend was manning the controls and was in constant touch with the tour organizers back on earth.

He took out his moonometer and peered into the glass surface. Fine particles had formed a layer which he tried to wipe, but his thick gloves smeared it with more moon dust. It was a frustrating exercise. His anxiety levels were rising, and the pressure valve in his helmet was beeping so loudly that he could hardly think.

He pressed his chest hard to calm himself. That set off an unexpected alarm, a sort of hoot. He had forgotten the embedded device, meant to signal to fellow tourists to converge. He sounded the hoot again, hoping the children would come scampering from over the horizon.

He looked that way. God, no, not over the horizon. That was the dark side of the moon. Sumanth prayed fervently that Sambie had not been foolish enough to lead Debie there. No one had been able to fathom what went on there, for no light worked once you crossed the horizon and all missions to that part so far had failed miserably.

Sumanth rolled down a huge crater, having missed seeing it because he was deeply worried about his kids. A big barrel lay at the bottom. Left behind by some moon tourists, he assumed. Still, he rolled it over lightly and stood back in surprise as it bounced upward to the other edge of the crater. He watched bemused as it started lumbering back in slow motion. Out peeped his son’s head!

“Sambie!” he squeaked in relief.

“Sambie, what are you doing here?” he fumbled with his speaking tube. Clearly his son could not hear him.

The helmet on Sambie’s head was greyed over with moon dust, and it was difficult to make out Sambie’s expression. Where could Debie be hiding? Not in the same barrel, surely? Of course, there she was, her head popping out from the other end of the hollow barrel now.

They seemed to be stuck. Their thick suits must have got entangled somehow, and now the kids were unable to wriggle out, he realized. Giving chase, he bounded down the crater but overshot the barrel by a huge margin.

“Easy,” he told himself. “This is the moon, where gravity is one-sixth of that of earth. So I have to use that much less force.”

But he had underestimated the moon. With Debie and Sambie inside, the barrel hit the bottom of the crater and sped past him back to the huge open space above him. He braked hard, which meant he had to dig his thick moon shoes deep into the dust, and got blinded by it. By the time he cleaned his visor enough for some light to come through, the barrel had sailed over the edge and was out of sight.

Sumanth clambered up gingerly, not wanting to slide back into the big hole. It was not easy to take big strides on the moon’s surface, and this slope made it even tougher. When he gained the edge, he found his two children flailing their arms and trying to exit the rolling monster. He swore he was not taking them for a moonwalk again.

Again he overshot the barrel because he ran too fast and rose too high in the moon air. The dust he had kicked up down there created a spooky cloud in the background, against which his children in the barrel formed a grotesque silhouette. He landed with a soft thump, more dust rose, and a lump formed in his throat. At this rate he would not be able to rescue his children. He stood still, and motioned to them to stop struggling.

Nerves somewhat steadier, he took measured little leaps that brought him close to the barrel. Catching hold of Debie’s moon suit, he tried to pull her out. But the harder he tugged at her, the more she seemed to resist it.

“Papa, Papa!” Sumanth heard her cry.

He tried to pull with all his might, and landed on his back.

He had crashlanded – on the floor of his bedroom.

His children were laughing heartily, having watched him struggle in his sleep to pull a bolster pillow from his wife’s hands.

“Oh, so there you are,” he said as he lay splayed helpless on the rug.

He smiled dreamily to himself. He had extricated them from that awful barrel at last.