Chuckles Galore, Wisdom Ahoy!

6:00 p.m.: I am probing fresh vegetables at the local departmental store. There is a mad rush at the store with people jostling fellow customers that gives a feeling that today is the last day of this only departmental store in our locality, and so the most obvious thing to do is hoard, loot, and stock up whatever you possibly can. Fortunately, my nightmares are not true as the rush is due to people hurrying up to finish their weekend errands to reach the venue for burning the Ravan on the eve of Dussera. Our scriptures say that the idealist Ram killed the demon Ravan on this very same day centuries ago. So, we erect a giant structure of the demon king and alight it to flames to reminisce that day.
6:30 p.m.: I follow the crowd to reach the grounds where the ‘Burn the Ravan’ act will be performed. Though the replica of the demon king can be easily spotted (yes the tall stuffed structure built with so much effort and money only to be burnt down in a jiffy), where is the Ram who will do the honors of burning the structure. If that is the question that lingers in your mind, let me enlighten you. We the hoi polloi are the Rams who do the honors of reproducing the story that happened ages ago. Eyes rolling? Hiccups? Coughing? Save it; for all of these will show up when the Ravan facsimile is set to huge flames. We have terrorists, rapists, goons, and dacoits sipping coffee in jails and our parliament, but here we are setting fire to the replica of a demon who actually was a great worshipper of Ram himself.
7:00 p.m.: It’s a pleasant winter evening, and as I stroll back home from the ‘Burn Grounds’, I decide to pay a visit to the departmental store now. I can complete my weekly shopping in peace; thanks to the Ravan who burns to ashes and the people who are now gulping prasad (offerings to ‘God’) while witnessing the fire show. Tired and hungry as I am (trotting up and down a store helps you burn calories), I go to the local vendor who sells frankies – our colloquial name for rolls and wraps. A boy of fifteen gives me these pearls of wisdom – ‘Madam, every year people spend so much on burning the Ravan. Where does all that money come from? I am trying to convert this make shift shop of mine into a permanent one, bahot bada nahi Madam, choti si dukaan (not a very big shop Madam, a small one) but no bank is lending me money neither is anyone helping me to get a loan.
When I read the lines above, does it ring a bell? It does. Why? I can relate myself to the ‘you know who’ in the latest lighthearted read by Twinkle Khanna, Mrs Funnybones. She believes that nothing is sacred than laughter, and with her self-deprecating humor she makes you smile at every page that you turn. She picks on everything from her name to the man of the house to her prodigal son and her baby to her dear mom to her mom-in-law to the numerous people she meets every day at work to the leaders of the country and the entertainers of the society. She identifies with every urban woman who runs the daily chores of life, goes to work, and deals with people in and out of her family, her own and by law both. This urban woman encounters situations as described in the beginning of this blog post wherein her agony comes out as satirical musings sometimes or ends with an emotional thought or two at other times.

Mrs Funnybones lends you a kaleidoscope through which you can look at life in its various nuances. She makes you realize that with each passing day we are growing old, and with that we are learning sundry things right from the circumstances and people surrounding us. So, with our learning curves rising to the peak, we are also becoming younger in our own peculiar ways. As are hairs get grey, and those lines of wrinkles start showing up, we fail to remember that they are the result of so much learning that we have amassed over all these years. And what use is all this erudition if we cannot pass it on? After all the sole purpose of evolution is to pass on the best that we know. She can actually be accredited for passing her wisdom in her unique way. She is a modern mother and yet not a preacher or imposer of her thoughts on her children. She is not proving anything to them, letting them choose their actions, and yet protecting them from anything that can malign their innocence. She laughs her heart out when they fall, and she also picks them up while rubbing a note or two into their brains.

There was a lot of reality check while reading this book, and quite a bit of hindsight. It may be owing to two reasons – one being the fact that Mrs Funnybones is a lot like any present-day woman out there or that the ‘me’ within myself relates to her thoughts. For example, she says that there is a difference between trying and holding on or when she says that life is like flying a kite wherein there will be turbulent times in its motion but don’t let go or when she says that love is imperfectly perfect or when she looks on to the festivities at her in-laws’, and ponders that most women are a misfit who enter families that are so different from theirs or when she is at the verge of crying because her toddler is driving her crazy or when she is venting out the most scornful remarks with an inkling of sarcasm after a hard day at work. The fact that she sounds like an ordinary real woman keeps you hooked on to the book. She has touched almost every fabric of life right from being named ‘Twinkle’ (a story that many can relate to for being bestowed with non-acceptable names!) to dealing with the herculean issues after getting married (yes we have the stories of those thirsty fasts and not feeding the husband enough) to the sulking that all daughters suffer at the hands of their moms being so ‘awesome’ at so many occasions to the fears of every mother with regards to their growing children to the nostalgia of teen and college life adventures that strikes all of us at some point of time to the horrifying days at work to bearing with the most stupid acts put up by maids, house helps, those far-away cousins and acquaintances, to the taboos that haunt our country (yes there are tales of the ‘Whisper’ being wrapped in those clandestine packets)!

Mrs Funnybones touches the subtle shades of life that we all experience in one form or another. Her writing is like fresh air – she breaks all the stereotypes, and yet sounds so ordinarily extraordinary. And they were saying, ‘so much intelligence for an actress!’ Buy your copies today, and you will learn to laugh at yourself, at those moments that tend to make you impulsive and snap at the spot, at those days when you felt that life couldn’t be worse! Laughter is the best therapy, and when armored with wits and intelligence, you will grow wiser with your chuckles, and look at life with an unblemished view.

The Black Beauty

A misty morning in the monsoon, and I stepped out of my apartment to begin my daily commute to work. Becky, the dog, rested peacefully at the stairs bidding me goodbye with her poignant eyes. She looked more tired than usual or was she ill; I didn’t know. I stroked her black hair, and rubbed her forehead before leaving. The murk of the fog that morning shielded the greenery around – holding a silence that can move you. Taz, the dog, emerged from the murk with Aunty Daisy. I stopped by him for our morning love session, and then continued to walk towards the spot where I board the cab to work daily.

The rain and I do not get along too well. Well, it’s not abhorrence – it’s just that we generally encounter each other in the wrong timing.  So, in adherence with our history, it started pouring on the day I forgot to carry the umbrella. Getting wet unwantedly is not my cup of tea (clothes and shoes all spoilt before reaching work – I find no joy in it!). My only respite was the fact that this is Bangalore’s drizzle – where drizzle actually means a sprinkling shower unlike Bombay. (Bombay, my love, you are still special.) The cab wasn’t on time to make things worse. As I kept looking at my watch and wished that the cab arrives before it pours badly, I could feel the shelter of an umbrella over my head. A voice called from behind – “Didi, umbrella?” I turned sideways to see who the protector was. I saw eyes laden generously with kohl that sparkled with the rain drops on her face and a smile so full of life that can brighten a misty morning! She kept smiling while I tried to reassess my memory. I thought of Mumbai a while ago, and the past came alive – was this true? Was I actually seeing Nauheed? Yes, she was there in front of me asking if the umbrella was protecting me well.

I had met Nauheed in a local train in Mumbai. We commuted together to Andheri every weekday in the 7:10 local – while she travelled back from Andheri to New Bombay after the local reached its destination, I trotted off to sweat in an air conditioned office. Nauheed used to sell costume jewelry in the local train. Vendors have a thriving business in the lifeline of Bombay that runs incessantly.  The ladies’ compartments are their most remunerative targets for business. Nauheed also resorted to this lucrative zone of the Bombay locals. On the first meeting I had asked her, “Who buys these so early in the morning?” She had replied, “You will see in some time, Didi.” As the train jolted at a station, a gang of college girls entered the compartment, and Nauheed’s baskets were seized. “Limited edition, Didi”, she had chuckled with a twinkle in her kohl loaded eyes. I had scanned her basket, and replied, “Limited indeed. I don’t get these in Colaba too. Where do you hunt for them?” Nauheed had been prompt in replying, “That’s my secret Didi. First rule in the business is to maintain confidentiality of source.” We both had exchanged wide grins, and from then our daily exchange of stories had begun. The stories ranged from far and wide – from her village to my native city, from growing up to surviving, from sustaining to dying – every day a new face of life. She used to speak with such innocence, with an eagerness to narrate.

Nauheed touched my arm, and I was back to Bangalore. She said, “You didn’t answer anything I asked. You don’t remember me?” The innocence was still intact. I told her that it was impossible to forget her. I had drifted for a while to the city that never sleeps. I enquired about how she had reached Bangalore. She said, “I will tell you. Tell me why did you leave the city? You liked it a lot. What happened?” I smiled, and answered, “I found another job here.” She asked, “A better one? I came here for better work too.” The downpour was increasing, and I pulled Nauheed closer to me in the umbrella. It had been a fifteen minute wait, and there was no sign of the cab. I called up the driver to enquire about the delay, and realized there was going to be further postponement to the commute. “For whom are you waiting, madam?” she asked. I wiped the rain droplets falling on me from the tips of the umbrella, and said, “Why are you calling me madam? Has Bangalore instilled pretentiousness in you?” Nauheed answered, “No Didi. I think I have developed it as a habit after working at the salon. I have to address all the clients as madam.” “You work at a salon now. Where?” I asked. Nauheed told me she worked as a masseuse at a local salon. After I had stopped travelling by our common route to my work in Bombay, Nauheed told me a group of goons had looted their house in the slum. A gang bout out broke and things turned ugly. She had managed to elope with her younger brother to her village in the outskirts of Bombay. A man in her village runs an agency for people to find work. He had arranged for her to find work here at the salon.

The mild downpour had stopped by now, and yet my cab had not arrived. The driver called, and said that another cab will be coming. “What will you do madam, sorry, Didi, if the cab doesn’t come? Will you take the bus?” I shrugged, and said, “I will just go back home. Going by the bus is absolutely a waste of time now. Actually, I am thinking I might as well go home now. It’s late already.  Do you want to come? It’s getting cold. I will make tea.”  Nauheed said, “It isn’t that easy to go home madam.” I was perplexed at her answer, and asked, “What do you mean by that?” She diverted from the question, and said that she was waiting for a friend. They both were travelling to Belgaum today.

A few seconds later, Nauheed’s friend Leela arrived. She was clad in a sari, and decked up with makeup and flowers in her hair. Nauheed introduced me to Leela as her ‘Didi’ from Bombay. Leela glanced at me, and asked, “How much do you earn in a day? You don’t put makeup to work?” I didn’t quite know how to answer that.  My mind started calculating my salary per day. After a moment I held back my mind, and asked myself, “Are you seriously thinking of answering that?” By then Nauheed had nudged an elbow to Leela. I could see that she was fuming, and whispered mildly something to her friend. Her words seemed to vaporize into the moist atmosphere. I tried to read her lips but in vain. She told me, “Sorry madam. She didn’t mean it like that.” “Like what?” I asked.  Nauheed diverted again saying that Leela’s home is in Belgaum, and they both are visiting an ancient shrine there. “Oh is it? Which shrine? I have read about Belgaum. I’ve heard that it’s beautiful” I told them. Leela lost no time to answer, “Have you heard of Saundatti and the temple of Yellamma there?”  I had read about it in Nine Lives, one of my favorite books by William Dalrymple. My mind was thinking a thousand thoughts now – Saundatti, Yellamma, Devdasis, servants of the goddess, concubines, and the thoughts were endless. The whole world occurred to spin around me.

I brought myself to composure, and controlled my emotions. Maybe I was over thinking. It was possible that Leela and Nauheed were plainly visiting the ancient temple of Yellamma in Saundatti. However it was hard to believe that they were plainly visiting the shrine. Why would they do so? The ancient Devdasi system wherein young girls were dedicated to a life of sanctioned prostitution and their virginity was auctioned in the name of service to the goddess was banned in the 1980s. When I had read the history behind the whole concept I was flabbergasted by the orthodoxy and malevolence that kept this practice alive for so long, and continues to keep it alive clandestinely. In the wake of unburdening themselves, poverty afflicted parents continue to see it as a means of ‘better work’. Better work – that is what Nauheed had told me. Nauheed couldn’t have been a Devdasi, could she? I had known her for so long. What about Leela? I was struggling to find the answers that were haunting me.

Leela and Nauheed were busy counting money and discussing some route details. I interrupted them saying, “Are you travelling to Saundatti for the first time?” The cab arrived. I was looking at Nauheed waiting for an answer from her. She was silent. The silence was killing me. “Why?” I asked. Leela was arranging the folds in her sari, and was sitting on the pavement now. The driver was honking. He opened the door of the car, and called out, “It’s getting late, madam.” I sat inside the cab still waiting for an answer. Nauheed closed the door for me. The cab started moving, and then she ran behind the cab. The driver halted the cab. Nauheed tapped on the door. I lowered the glass to see her kohl enamored eyes, again.  “Didi, I was born as Nirupama. I was dedicated when I was seven. I was sold when I was twelve. I started working in the red light area in Bombay when I was fourteen.  You keep this umbrella with you, Didi. You don’t like getting wet unwantedly, I know”, she said. “Madam, can we go?” the driver asked me. “Go” Nauheed told him, and the cab sped past.

Life – the moment you think that you know it all, it will surprise you like never before. Servants of god – that is what these girls are called – the literal translation of Devdasi. What dogma dictates this? I fail to understand why humans are the most loathsome creatures on this earth when they have been bestowed with the most beautiful emotions. I had never imagined that one of those “Nine Lives” from Dalrymple’s travelogues will meet me in real life. As I alighted from the cab that evening when I was back from work, the rain came pouring again. However, this time around we were meeting at the perfect time – a time when I opened Nauheed’s umbrella to shelter myself and the rain’s twin adorned my eyes. I strolled back home. Taz was out for his evening walk with Aunty Daisy. I stopped by him again for our moment of love at dusk. I kept walking towards home remembering the black beauty. Becky was there to welcome me at the stairs. As I folded the umbrella, “What did you do all day, missy?” I asked her. She was jumping to sniff the folded umbrella – yellow colored with black spots all over it. A little butterfly came fluttering in from nowhere. It fluttered for a while around me, and finally rested on the umbrella. We all were home.

What’s in a name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”, wrote William Shakespeare, centuries ago, in Romeo and Juliet. Juliet Capulet explains to Romeo Montague that if Romeo was not called Romeo, and if he was not a Montague, it would have made no difference to her; she would still love him for Romeo Montague is nothing but a name. So, indeed what’s in a name? Not so easy to answer when you have a name that goes beyond six letters, and counts down to fifteen letters with the surname added to it! Shakespeare’s archetypal quote will be of no aid when people find your name highly difficult to pronounce, misspell it, and embarrass you!

My parents named me after the intellectual princess of Vidarbha, Lopamudra. Lopamudra means the one born from the loss (lopa) of a distinctive form of beauty (mudra). Princess Lopamudra is reckoned among the most influential women of Vedic India. The Rig Veda is full of numerous hymns written by this philosopher wife of sage Agastya. So far so good for the Princess, not for me though! People find it a herculean task to pronounce a name with Sanskrit origin; thanks to most peoples’ dearth of Sanskrit knowledge.

I grew up in the eastern half of India, mostly Orissa and parts of West Bengal, where to my good luck the name is not alien. So, I was saved of the enormous job of making people understand that it’s ‘Lopamudra’, and not ‘lop-mudra’, or ‘lopam-udra’, or ‘lopam-dra’ or ‘lopamudhra’, which sadly I had to do when I moved to the western half of the country. Ironically, Lopamudra originated in the western half of India – Vidarbha, but this did not rescue me of the pronunciation-stigma associated with my name.

To add to the pronunciation issue, is the length of the name. I have to squeeze the letters in Lopamudra to fit it into the space provided in most application forms. My surname ‘Mishra’ makes it lengthier. I have to use a lot of handwriting-tricks to put down the gigantic ‘Lopamudra Mishra’ in the minuscule space provided in application forms. When I received my graduation certificate, I was dumbfounded to see my name: Lopamudra Rabindranath Mishra; many thanks to the University norm that appends your father’s name to your name! When I have to spell out my name over the telephone, it takes more than a millennium for the person on the other end to decipher what I am saying. And, when they finally claim to have understood it, I realize it’s wrong.

Lopamudra over the time became Lopa. Most of my friends, and acquaintances started calling me Lopa. I was not annoyed with this as opposed to many people who immensely dislike their names to be cut short. It’s not my official name, but yes it’s more than official. Lopa is much shorter than Lopamudra, and definitely much easier to pronounce. This was a tremendous relief until a new bunch of names dawned into my life. I was now introduced to new avatars of Lopa: ‘loba’, ‘loma’, ‘lupa’ ‘lopha’, and the champion of all versions, ‘Rupa’- an altogether new name! Could I be more blessed? My father consoled me with, “It’s our tradition to have two names, daak-naam (nickname), and bhaalo-naam (good name). You are loved so much that you have so many daak-naams!” My father’s cajole did not help me laugh at the myriads of misspellings created from my name. I was tired of being mis-spelt.

A year ago, our house-maid had brought her daughter along with her to work. While she cleaned the house, her daughter sat in a corner of the kitchen. Seeing her stare silently in a corner, my mother asked her, “What’s your name?” She replied, “Nakusha.” “Nakusha means…?” my mother asked again. “Unwanted”, she said promptly. I and my mother exchanged glances of surprise. Why would someone name their child unwanted! What was more disturbing was the fact that people in a village in Satara, name all new born girls as Nakusha – undesirable in this world. This derogatory practice was the result of couples’ dislike to have a girl child. If the rural couples had two or more daughters, and if the third or fourth one turned out to be a daughter again, they named her Nakusha. (In 2011, the Zila Parishad in Satara identified 280 Nakushas from school records, and renamed these girls under the Nakusha campaign.)

So, what’s in a name? Nakusha would still be the pretty girl she is, had she been named anything else. But can this convince her to take refuge in the classic quote? The whole Nakusha incident brought a new perspective to me. I had been perturbed so much that people can’t pronounce my name. Think about Nakusha. She would have been more than happy had she been named Lopamudra or, say Lopa.

A name is one of the foremost aspects of one’s identity, and yet Shakespeare says that irrespective of the name, it’s the person that counts. Truly a name does not say anything about the individual; just puts a label to the individual’s bottled essence. Someone had suggested that I can change my name if it bothers me so much. Well my name never bothered me; it’s the way people made it sound that bothered me! So, from now on whenever I encounter a new avatar of Lopamudra or Lopa, I just say, “The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names”.

P.S. Happy to be Lopa. Happy to be Lopamudra! No qualms!

Confessions of a Technical Writer

At a college reunion party recently, someone asked me what job I’m pursuing. On replying that I’m a writer, a friend jumped in to clarify that I’m a ‘technical’ writer. My friend considers that technical writing has nothing to do with creativity, contrary to ‘plain’ writing which is a highly ingenious endeavor. To be honest, I was of the same opinion when I was still exploring the opportunities in the field of writing. But contrary to my friend, I do not hold the opinion anymore. The change of opinion has a story that I think is worth writing about.

At the verge of graduation a year ago, I was facing the same ordeal as all would-be graduates do; the ordeal to decide what you want to do in life! I was about to finish five grueling years studying IT, and even after majoring in the subject I did not feel that I wanted to become a software developer. I did not detest IT but I felt I was not someone who could write endless lines-of-code. The voice within me kept whispering, “Do what you love doing most”. I loved writing but I had no idea of how to make a living out of it.

In the final year of graduation we had a paper on Component Object Modeling or COM as we commonly call it. It was a tough paper to deal with and the fear of flunking had set in deep. As a prudent measure I bought the book at the beginning of the semester! I was a bit scared to open the book as it had been rumored that the author had filled the book with jargon and the component flow diagrams were nothing but jumbles that were best left unsolved! With great courage I opened the book and plunged into the first chapter. After two days of thorough reading I was ready with my notes and illustrations for the chapter. When my friends came to know about it, they said, “You made notes out of that complex waffle. How crooked is your brain?” 🙂

I started teaching COM to my friends, making notes, drawing simpler diagrams and deciphering code. I had done this so many times for myself; only this time I had started teaching my friends. Did it ring a bell? Yes, it did! It was my solemn realization of what I was best at – figuring out how things work, structuring and organizing information, and presenting it in a way that is easy to understand. This called for a job that brings together all these aspects and that is when I felt technical writing would be a job where I could fit in well.

Realizations can often put you in a state of unrelenting contemplation. My realization had now dwelled another question in my mind, “Is technical writing creative?” Few people told me that it is nothing like writing a book where you can let your mind wander into the wonderland, and that I would have to stick to specific styles and standards while writing. It would in no ways be similar to what I write in my blog, and I may actually be left with no time to write any other stuff. I did not want to get into a profession that would make me quit it soon after joining.  As much as I love writing I had to keep in mind that I could not afford to write blogs and get paid for it. There is no end to daunting thoughts, and so having faith in my abilities I appeared for an interview for the job of a technical writer and got through.

It has been a while since I started working as a technical writer. I am now in a position to answer the question – is technical writing creative? As a technical writer you have to present information in a manner that helps someone get it in a jiffy, and by no means can it be done without creativity. You have to think like the person who is going to use the content written by you and most likely on occasions when the user is stuck at a point when clear instructions are life savers. Right from the design and look of the document to the illustrations, videos and screen casts you need to take care of every little detail that helps make the user’s life easy. You have to think of new ways to convey information if the traditional approaches do not work for the user. On many occasions, you have to make sense out of bedlam, bring order to haphazard chunks of information, and organize random facts. On other grounds, when the document is aimed to draw the reader’s attention, you need to design and draft engaging content for the reader.

I am quite new in this industry but I’ve realized that there is a huge learning curve here. There is a lot of opportunity to explore new technology. It also breaks the monotone as you get to learn something new in each project. In a short span of time I got the opportunity to be involved in a variety of writing projects, covering the span of software, marketing and academics. It is interesting to pick up and master different styles of writing. It is fun to fidget with new applications and authoring tools, and figure out how stuff works. It helps me to face my deficiencies and motivates me to understand my thought process better. When I get my hands on an application, I also get down to the intricate details of it and discover functionality that are not told by the developers. Being a technical writer has also helped me bring in more discipline to my writing style, in terms of structuring and planning the content. It has helped me improve my flow of thoughts in a write-up and aptly choose between elaborateness and brevity. It has also enhanced my word choice, especially in situations where I need to opt for simple words over complicated. It constantly refines my creative abilities.

Do I suffer from writer’s block? Well, it’s easier to deal with it now. Thanks to my new-found ability to churn out words at the drop of a hat! Sure, there are times when I write in dribs and drabs. Sometimes the pressure at work takes a toll and the sentences are oddly formed, no matter how hard I try. At times I get engrossed in content research so much that when it comes to writing my mind is in a state of moribund. But I do not remember a time when I stared at the monitor and said, “I’ve nothing to write and there are absolutely no thoughts to pen down.” Technical writing has cured me of the pandemic that writers are most worried about. It involves a lot of reading, which eliminates paucity of thoughts. It also provides the opportunity to interact with other writers and know about things they are reading and stuff they are writing. This in turn stocks a lot of ideas for writing.  Over the time I’ve realized that there is no such nothing as a writer’s block. You needn’t put up a masterpiece every time. You just need to let yourself go and allow even drivel to come up on paper. It is from this twaddle that you build your masterpiece.

To conclude I would say, writing whether technical or not, is a creative activity. I am happy that I get a chance to indulge in both! I believe writing fluently is a gift and I hold it close to my heart. I am living my dream of being a writer and each day I am getting better at being the writer I always wanted to be 🙂

First Love

It was another evening when I was standing at the window in my room and sipping hot tea from the inverted bell shaped mug that I have preserved since the past six years. The Sharma family lives right across my window in the neighboring wing of my apartment. I saw Sharma aunty descend the stairs of the building with her daughter and her husband, carrying huge amount of luggage. As I stole a glance across the garden I saw a taxi was waiting outside the colony. I could hear aunty instructing Nikky, her daughter to be careful and not to talk to strangers and reminding her of a big to-do and not-to-do list of things. “Nikky is going to California today!” she exclaimed as she saw me. Aunty added, “It’s a new land altogether and she has never been away from home. I am so worried.” “She will be fine aunty”, I cajoled her and waved a goodbye to Nikky.

As the taxi drove past the road I was driven down memory lane to my hometown. I could reminisce a similar day of my life; the day I was packing my bags to come here, Bombay. My mother was apprehensive, just like Sharma aunty. She had her fingers crossed. My father’s nervousness was pretty obvious on his face. Sending an eighteen year old to an unfamiliar unknown land was not easy for them. It wasn’t easy for me either although I was not afraid. It is difficult now to recollect the precise contemplations. Perhaps it was a muddle of excitement, seizure, anxiety and pensiveness. But not once I had thought that this was the beginning of my protracted love affair.

When I came to Bombay for the first time I was diluted amidst the exasperating throng. I was filled with fear; fear of being lost, fear of being lonely and fear of failing to manage my life. I hated to rush in the crowd. The locals brought a wave of stiffness to my nerves. I just couldn’t understand when the train would leave. I was so confused. The gargantuan city seemed to engulf me into it and I detested the course of struggle that Bombay hurled against me. I was a small town girl and Bombay seemed to me to be made of millions of small towns. It all appeared like a big chaos. I had never been away from home and now I was all by myself. I found it tough and harsh. Life kept unfolding and situations turned up that I had never before encountered. There were moments of downheartedness, moments of anger and there were moments of melancholy. However what is admirable is the fact that despite this ordeal, I was never even once struck with the idea that I should leave Bombay, the reason of which I realized sometime later.

I was shopping at the Colaba Causeway with my friend. We stopped at a shop in front of the Parsi colony where I was buying the inverted bell shaped mug. “Madam, can you please drop aunty at her house. It’s just adjacent to the shop. Her walking stick broke down.” said the shopkeeper, pointing to a nonagenarian lady, who looked feeble and shaky. She was dressed in a dull blue middy. Her hair was short and all white. Her eyes were covered with large thick spectacles. “I can’t leave the shop madam. You just need to hold her hand. She lives in the next building”, the shopkeeper pleaded. I gestured a yes to him and gave my hand to aunty. She held my hand and smiled. She asked me my name and said she had never heard of such a name though it sounded quite lavish to her. She introduced herself as Mrs. Dorabji. Her husband had been in the air force and it had been several years since he passed away. Her children were all settled abroad. Aunty Dorabji had the sweetest voice I had heard. Her feet took steps smaller than a baby and she spoke with the eagerness of a child. Aunty told me that the distance from the shop to her house is a mere two minutes but she takes eternities to cover it. “Thanks to you dikra, it won’t take eternities today” she said. On being asked why she steps out of the house when it is dangerous and difficult for her she said, “I can’t always depend on others. I have to step out of the house. If I always fear, I would never learn and I would never risk. If I don’t risk I would always regret. I have lived in Bombay for ages now. Once you come here you would never leave. Bombay has taught me well. Taught me to live by my own and on my own and whenever there are troubles god sends angels like you!”

That evening when I and my friend were sitting at marine drive, I looked at the massive sea in front of me, the sea I have always loved. Then I looked at the skyline of towers adorning the city and the Queen’s Necklace that shines with the illumination of the city. My friend asked, “Have you ever fallen in love?” “Yes”, I was quick in replying. I had fallen in love with Bombay. It had drawn me into it as it does to millions every day. It had woven a bond with my heart that I had not realized till now. How, when and why were questions that I could not and cannot answer. It’s just the way it is. There would be hundreds and thousands like aunty Dorabji who come here and never leave and I was one among them now. All the hardships that I confronted here did take a toll on me but never once did they make me think of leaving Bombay. Perhaps that is the reason it is hailed as the city of hope. It fosters the undying spirit to live and learn, to find companionship in solitude, to pace ahead and yet to stop and enjoy the special moments in life, the courage to dream and to live that dream. Although loaded with riches and poverty, lonesomeness and masses, excesses and deficiencies, it still manages to bloom a dream in every dweller’s life and the robust fortitude to keep going even when life is not at its best.

If diversity is to be viewed in all its glory, then the destination is Bombay or Mumbai as it is better known today. The name might have changed but the assortment of cultures that the city has held has not changed. It is a city of extremes. From the towering buildings to the dusty slums, from the scorching heat to the pelting monsoons, from the mega malls to the cheap shopping by lanes, from the glamorous eateries to the roadside snack sellers, Mumbai has it all and Bombay had it all too, always. The two things that have remained perpetual amidst these contrasts are dynamism and hedonism, and that is how Mumbai continues to attract and submerge huge populations of people. It has its own tales of courage, victory and defeat. It is mixture of people who lead different ways of life and keep the magic of Bombay alive. Everyone is a common man here and yet everyone has a unique story to tell.

This city made me fall in love, in love with absolute strangers, with the everyday tribulations, with the encounters and experiments I undertook, with the feeling of taking risks, taking second chances and with the spirit of living a life despite the plights that surrounded me. It taught me to dare and to dream! I don’t know if I am sounding stereotype or if I am sounding conceited but the truth will persist that after living here I never want to leave it. My six years long love affair with Mumbai has made me fall in love time and again and each time it feels afresh. It has impressed me with all its sumptuousness, benevolence and affability. It has helped me identify myself and made me strong. It has given me love that will last for lifetime. It will forever be my ‘first love’.

The Ganga, As I Know Her

“Om Gangayeh Namah!” my mother chants everyday as she emerges from her bath every morning. She continues with the chanting as she offers waters to the Gods during her prayers. She hails the Ganga as the divine goddess who nurtures the earth with her holy waters. I grew up listening to the pious hymns of Ganga that filled our home with a mystical purity at the early hours of dawn. As a child I was a zealous listener to the stories narrated by my mother. Among the many fables told by her was the immortal tale of the Ganga, the river of life, tradition, culture, faith and much more. My mother, an ardent story teller instilled in me the seeds of curiosity and bewilderment about Ganga. I listened to the legends of Ganga with amazement and gradually started imagining her as a lady with mystical powers. My inquisitiveness about the holy river of India augmented with the passage of time and made me fall in love with her progressively.

With the introduction of the subject of geography in school I came to know Ganga as a river for the very first time. I meticulously studied about her voyage beginning at the glaciers in the Himalayas, through the extensive northern plains of India enriching the sacred cities of Varanasi, Hardwar, Allahabad and many more where she is joined by her varied and numerous tributaries until she encounters the Bay of Bengal and ends her long journey. I also realized the significance of the river as a life-giver. She crafts the most fertile soils in the world by bringing in colossal amounts of alluvial sediments right from the Himalayan valleys and dispersing it all along the northern belt of India, thus creating the food bowl of the country. Her banks are the abode of tremendous flora and fauna. She is also ascribed to the nourishment of the massive mangrove forests, the ‘Sunderbans’ along the delta that she forms as she merges into the Bay of Bengal. Ganga was no longer just a magical figure for me. She was now my hero, who had the prowess to flow incessantly for her lifetime to feed India.

In August 2007 BBC aired a documentary on the Ganga, titled “Ganges” which featured Ganga’s biography. The documentary covered the life of Ganga in three episodes, “The Daughter of the Mountains”, “The River of Life” and finally “Welfare”. Ever since I saw the feature on the Discovery channel I have been watching it over and over again, not once feeling jaded. The narration reminded me of my childhood stories of the Ganga. It also elucidated the spiritual aspect of Ganga in a more elusive manner. Ganga tells the story of the Indian civilization. She has been a witness to the thousands of folklore and legends in the Hindu mythology. She is worshiped as the mother goddess who bestows life upon this planet. A dip in her consecrated waters is considered to be a means to attain salvation and to wipe away the sins committed by an individual in his lifetime. Although the authenticity of such a belief cannot be affirmed, yet the spirituality of Ganga remains indisputable as she is indubitably the spectator of the evolution of the Indian culture. So Ganga became a historical masterpiece for me from then onwards.

During my vacations in school days I got the opportunity of visiting this whimsical river. I was fortunate to watch Ganga’s beauty in several colors of nature. I saw her wear the fresh redness of the morning, the sultry yellow of the noon, the dusky orange of the evening and the chilly black of the night. On the final day of our tour of the Ganga I sailed on the sacred waters on a boat. As evening began to approach, the boat docked and I saw the banks of Ganga, the ghats, getting crowded with thousands and thousands of pilgrims who assembled to offer their prayers. The evening prayer or ‘aarti’ began and with the fall of the night the waters of Ganga got illuminated with the shining light of the earthen lamps or ‘diyas’ which gave the impression of Ganga wearing an attire of gold. The loud incantations about Ganga created a musical harmony with the ringing bells, ‘dholaks’ and ‘jhumars’. The splendid river seemed to dance to the rhythm of the songs recited by the devotees. The impulsive rhythm reaching its reaching it crowning point and the heavenly lit Ganga seemed to transform the soul into a land of tranquility within. I felt entering into trance. As the jingling of bells started to fade off I started moving away from the ghats only to turn back once to see Ganga in all her grandeur. She seemed to gaze at me with her sedate eyes asking me, “When will you come again?” That day Ganga became the immortal epitome of reconciliation for me. I haven’t had a chance to return to the ghats since then. However hitherto when I seek serenity I close my eyes to see Ganga and all my fears are calmed.