About Ahalya....of the Past and Present

:)

Let me start with what we know from our Hindu mythology of Ahalya - the chaste wife of the great sage Gautam Maharishi and Indra - the god of gods. Indra had his heart set to seduce Ahalya - a task that would have been impossible had he not used magic powers to transform himself to look alike Gautam Maharishi.

The unsuspecting Ahalya offers no resistance to Indra's cunning and it is only when Indra is caught sneaking out of the cottage by Gautam Maharishi that she realizes the full effect of what she has been caught up in.

Gautam Maharishi is furious and turns her to stone. (She is eventually delivered from her curse by Lord Rama)

The scriptures differ in their interpretation of the story of Ahalya. Some scriptures tell of the fact that she had indeed seen through the disguise of Indra but allows herself to be seduced by him. Some scriptures portray her as a victim of Indra's cunning and Gautam Maharishi unjustified wrath.

Clearly, debatable. However, the question that comes to my mind is - Indra might have looked the same as her husband but what about his touch? Did it feel the same too? As women we are sensitive enough to sniff out a man and his intentions in the way that he looks at us. Every touch tells a story. Even when it comes from the same hands. And Ahalya was not an average woman - she was the most beautiful one crafted by Brahma the Creator and the wife of a sage.

In my opinion, Ahalya should have known.

Coming to the present, Sujoy Ghosh's Ahalya short film is a far off reminder of mythology and is an out and out thriller. Its a piece of twisted horror that I bet you can't turn your mind off from for the 14 minutes that it runs. Slightly predictable, but brilliant nonetheless! :)

Watch it here...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ff82XtV78xo

Imbibing Pritilata

Pritilata Waddedar – how many of us have heard this name or know about her short life that comprised of 21 inspirational years?

Wikipedia will give you some of the information about Pritilata – an Indian revolutionary born in Chottogram (Chittagong) in undivided India who lead a baton of men to raze the Pahartali European Club that bore the sign – “Dogs and Indians not allowed” to the ground.

I think of the times then and of the young men and women who were not born in a free country. Pritilata was one of them. Unlike most girls of her time, Pritilata had access to education in one of the best institutions of her time. A star pupil from the start, she went on to graduate from the reputed Bethune College in Calcutta (Kolkata) and subsequently took on the responsibilities of headmistress of a premier school in her hometown. No mean feat for a girl, especially one who was barely out of her teens.

She could have led a life a little less extraordinary, immersed in domestic duties expected from her gender. She did not. Instead, she felt drawn towards the ‘resistance’ or the swadeshi movement.

Resistance in Chattogram and the rest of the country did not admit women to be a part of their work. She changed their minds.

What made her take to a life that no one quite imagines for herself – to quit a whole life’s work, leave behind her family, forget every comfort, go into hiding, and devise a plan to attack the epitome of British presence in the region?

Was it the humiliation of not being a free citizen? Was it for the love for her country? Was it her education that instilled in her a deeper sense of self-respect than to accept whatever was meted out to her countrymen? Was it her need to be a part of the struggle for freedom in the best way she knew?

It could have been all of the above. It could be more. She had to do what she had to do. Little did she know when she bit into the cyanide that she would become Birangana or The Valiant One, an inspiration to many who would follow her path. Little did she know as she closed her eyes for the final time, that her sacrifice would be forgotten in the pages of history in years to come like those of the others like her.

1932. That was the year that Pritilata laid down her life. Eighty-three years too soon to see how far women have come. And I wonder what it might have been if she had lived or if she had a chance to come back to us this day.

Would she like what she would see? our nation? its women? Would she choose to fight a different fight? Or choose not to fight?

But, it’s not up to her anymore. It’s up to us. She is not here. But we are. There are no clubs for us to burn down. But there are evils that we need to eradicate and changes that need to be brought. Is it not possible to imbibe a little bit of her spirit in us and stand up for what is right? To stand up for our rights?

That would be, the perfect tribute to Pritilata and all like her – who once stood up for our rights.

Never Honk at a Turkey(s)

I kind of associated turkeys with Thanksgiving feasts until I saw them parading on the roads here in the picturesque city I live in. Its fun to see them strutting around in their brown plumage quite oblivious to the traffic. Pretty much like their jay-walking chicken cousins, they are no good at negotiating the pavements.

Therefore, when I saw a whole bunch of them taking to the road that other day, I decided to use the car's highly under-used horn to just let them know it was not safe, especially when I am behind the wheels. I could sense the dilemma of the bird at the side of the road as the unfamiliar resonance fell on its ears, wherever those might be in its small beaky head.

Turns out, it was not alone in its feathered quandary. One of the turkeys that had in fact crossed the road safely to the other side decided to dash back and the one that should have stayed at the side of the road made a panicked run across it.

I did not have to hit the brakes, their lives were not in any imminent danger but the pandemonium that I unleashed upon them taught me a very important lesson in driving that no manual in the world will tell you - Never Honk At A Turkey(s)!

Tanu or Datto?

Tanu or Datto? (Post does not contain spoilers)

Imagine that there is going to be wedding in the family - who are you rooting for Tanu or Datto?

It's a bit late for a review - so this isn't one. It has been already established that Tanu Weds Manu Returns is an original and entertaining fare, a combination which is somewhat rare in Bollywood. (About the minor inconsistencies in the plot - that we can all live with, right?!) and I have nothing to add to what you may have already read or heard about it. A quick and big kudos to the team and actors who were just spot-on in their performances and especially to Kangana Ranaut for giving us Tanu and Datto.

So we have an incredible badass Tanu with all her idiosyncrasies and we have an immensely mature Datto with a passionate state-level accent. And I could not decide who I was rooting for and I still can't.

Not all of us can agree with Tanu - she thrives on challenges, flirts with all her heart and is a woe, to all. And yet, there is that endearing warmth in her that draws you close to her even as she points out the pointless in that brazen manner of hers. If complexity had another name, Tanu would probably be it.

Where we have Tanu - a rebel without a cause, we have Datto - a rebel with a cause. Don't get distracted by her humongous dental attributes (which may have contributed to her name) or her accented personality, she knows exactly what she wants and how to hold her ground with ease. She doesn't have airs, she knows her strengths, her weaknesses, and has a level head over her athletic shoulders.

Where am I going with this? They are not real characters, you may say, and my perception could well be purported from excellent work of the talented Ranaut.

True. No matter how much I would want them to be, they are what they are - screen characters. We may never see a real life Tanu wrapped in a tiny towel interrogating a prospective groom or a Datto exercising her freedom to make choices minus the heavyweight category risk of being hung or shot.

However, given the immense popularity of the movie, I kind of take heart in the assumption that we have made space for the likes of Tanu and Datto - graceful and crazy or crass and good-natured, but both empowered, the latter perhaps a bit more than the former. Time then to fill that space in flesh and blood.

So, imagine that there is going to be wedding in the family - who are you rooting for Tanu or Datto?

A Strap-py affair!

Yes, this post is about straps - and before your imagination takes flight, let me assure you it's not about anything naughty! Quite the opposite actually...straps of shoes for toddlers.

My young one seldom gets his shoes right - they have had the pleasure of ending up on the wrong feet much to my displeasure. I don't believe I am alone in this hitch but that does not quite end my woes.


A little research on the information highway turned me towards exits that did little to reduce or improve my predicament in the least bit. What I learnt was that children are not inconvenienced, with their feet still taking on a harder outline, and therefore feel little discomfort for wearing them wrong. That does little to my discomfort of watching those tiny feet in action anticipating a tumble in the next step.

Observation has great power as I learnt a long time ago. And this is what I saw. My kiddo finds it more comfortable to strap the shoes in than out. Hence, he wears them so. A little experiment with my shoes made me realize that it is indeed easier to strap them on the inside.

Now I have no idea or inclination to research why the straps of shoes are on the outside. Maybe it's more comfortable to walk for adults with them on the outside, or they conform to our sense of beauty. I don't know.

What I wish for is, for shoe designers to create shoes with straps on the inside, or at least offer that option for shoes for the young ones. Till I come across one such pair (highly unlikely) or my kiddo grows out of wearing them wrong, this strappy affair of mine isn't going to end anytime soon. Sigh!

Conflicting Mind by Ronaq

This poem has been written by Ronaq Sahni, a 6th grader...rarely do we come across such sweet gems...thought I would share this with you all:


CONFLICTING MIND.
I stand at a Crossroads,
Perplexed and torn, bewildered and confounded
Tugged and pulled, the paths drawing me in,
I stand there,
Gripped in fear of making an erroneous choice
Yet acknowledging, I must make one,
On the path to my left, I see enlightenment,
A colorful rainbow, bright blue sky, butterflies fluttering through the air,
I am quite tempted to choose this road,
But there is a false sense of security and gaiety,
I realize as I gaze at the butterflies fly idly, and the rainbow, which seems almost bland,
I then have a feeling that this path would lead to sorrow and would end my journey,
I fought the temptation to choose this passage and looked away.
On the road to my right, the clouds are black,
The moon unseeable in the pitch black sky,
Rain pounding hard against the ground,
The trees sagged, their leafless branches almost touching the ground,
The road is fouled and begrimed, covered with cracks,
The grass was dry and eerily glowing in the darkness of the night,
This road looked miserable, and I knew then, that this is not the road to take,
If I did, my journey would come to an unpleasant end.
At last, I set my eyes upon the path in front of me,
There was a slight drizzle, and the clouds were gray,
But the rain was helpful, supporting the greenery underneath,
The Sun poked politely through the clouds, casting a rainbow that looked true and genuine,
I took a deep breath and walked ahead, hoping I chose well.
While making decisions, one must make sacrifices,
Yet keeping in mind that they cannot get out of hand,
Many hate choices and making decisions, but the wise do not,
For they know that our choices control our destiny, and keep our destiny from controlling us.



[Source: https://www.facebook.com/subarnas ... Ronaq is Subarna's son...Ronaq has been chosen for a writers' workshop with author & poet Paul B.Janeczko after being declared First Place winner in a Middle School Poetry Competition. All the very best my dear boy and thank you for letting me share :) ]

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Delhi Yarns!

"Delhi Yarns" by Nabaneeta Dangwal released on Amazon...

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00V4K9MWW

Heartwarming urban short stories based in the enigmatic city of Delhi. A doctor who understands true love's calling, an adolescent who comes face-to-face with the reality of her life, a gay individual reflecting upon his choices in life and death, an interesting encounter with a homeless vagabond, a career woman seeking a place in the city - five stories five lives and their moment of realization!

Watch this space for book promotions and updates!!!

[Pledge - 10 percent of the royalties I receive from the sales of this book will be donated to non-profit organizations who do incredible work for the community]

Safety for School

One of the most remarkable traffic rules in the US refers to School Buses. When a school bus stops to pick up or offload children, it flashes its various lights and pulls out a mechanical arm that has the "STOP" sign on it. Traffic on both sides of the road has to come to a complete stop at least 300 m away from where the bus is. Violations to this rule are not given traffic tickets or fines but carry severe penalties including but not limited to revocation or suspension of the driving license.

I have forever been fascinated with this rule. Rush hour, no rush hour, busy roads or not, there is not one vehicle that does not stop. And I see children run to the bus or alight from it, safe.

And I think of children who do not have this right to safety. I remember my days as a child. And I remember the horrible accident I had once been witness to. Mom was late by a few minutes, the child alighted from the school bus and ran across the road without paying heed to the traffic that had no obligation to stop.

There are no similar rules in India or if there are, I have not seen any vehicle taking note of it. All I hear or read of in this respect, are young lives snubbed out under tires.

Children need protection. Children are the future. Children have rights. And yet, the largest democracy in the world cannot ensure the right to safety of a child in the simple scenario of her getting on and off the school bus.

You can't afford her!!!...

Some years ago, we went to a wedding ceremony and were introduced to pleasant middle-aged guy. A little small-talk later, he asked me what I did...Having quit work with a brand new baby then, I sheepishly replied..."Housewife"

He smiled and turned to my husband and said - "You know, if she billed you for all the work she does, you would not be able to afford her."

That guy, I learned later, ran a reputed multidisciplinary super-specialty hospital in India. No surprises there...only someone who thinks right can do right, right? smile emoticon

Living in Minnesota – Mummy’s the wor(l)d!

Subway’s a favorite with the four-year-old which is where we headed for dinner the other evening. It’s exciting for the tiny tot to see the array of vegetables that are put in the bread and even more exciting are the high stools where they can be consumed with relish. 

A sandwich and salad later, we perched ourselves with our picnic atop those round things which do give me a bit of a vertigo so to speak.

What’s that Mummy? – the little one points to the box of salad. It looks different from the six inch bread that he has his hands and mouth full with, and therefore the curiosity.

It’s salad. You can try it but I don’t think you will like it as much. I say.

A minute later when Papa joins us in our high perch he asks if the sandwich eater would like to try some of the salad.

No, thanks. Mummy says I won’t like it.

You know, there are some perks of motherhood that surpass their worth in gold. And that moment was one - when Mummy knows everything.

I am guessing in about ten years or less that statement would change to – Mummy you don’t know anything. I already have trouble telling one Nicki Minaj from another for crying out loud! (No offense to the pop icon, or is it hip-hop?)

But right now, Mummy’s the world. And I am deliriously happy to be it. J

Happy New Year !!!

The month of December has begun to scare the daylights out of me. It stretches between the year gone by and the new one to come like a black hole ready to devour and spit out all that remains of humanity in one dark breath.

But December gets help, if not from nature by way of tsunamis or earthquakes, then from us when we bring out to the fore that which should reside forever in darkness. I shudder to think of what more we are capable of.

We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children - thus goes a Native American saying. I think we have already borrowed too much of it in every which way and all that we have left to pass on is a legacy of bloodbath.

And yet I cannot give up on hope. It bursts forth like a little sapling from within the depths of a stained soil. I want to nurture it. I need to nurture it.

Now that the calendar has turned its leaves, discarded a year gone by and heralded in the brand new sunshine of January, I can breathe a small sigh of relief and say a little prayer.

Of Hope.

Of Change.

For Children.

For Us.

For Safety.

For Prosperity.

For Peace.

For A Happy New Year...

Living in Minnesota - A Watery Question!

Accents speak louder than words. As the husband and I found out one fine evening in a MacDonald drive-in. It had been a long day out and we had depleted most of our energies and all of our water as we pulled into the drive-in for replenishments.

As the lady handed us our bag of burgers, I asked her for some water.

A what?

Water, please.

I am sorry, what was that again?

WATER

I make sure the T is heard.

Could you spell that for me?

W A T E R

The husband adds his very Indian accent to the confusion. I decide to resort to signs.

You need a drink?

Now, I am afraid to say yes lest she misses what I might be saying.

Waaatttteeeerrrr

I try it in slow motion with brilliant emphasis on the T again.

She looks at us like she would probably look at aliens. Which we were, technically speaking. And as aliens we have a secret language which we use to communicate in silence. We decide to let the matter of water go. The Coke will have to do.

I reach for the empty bottle of water to try to squeeze out a few drops as the husband thanks her politely for nothing. I believe she spotted the odd habit of the aliens and realized what they wanted.

Oh you mean wa..er!

The ‘t’ was almost not there and whatever was in its place sounded like a d…Very pure American H20.

We nod, a bit skeptical, because now we don’t know for sure what she thought we needed. Turns out, she understood alright and soon I was sucking ice cold water wa…er…whatever…through my trunk.

I thought I had left the complications of accents in the drive-in until yesterday when I asked my four-year-old son if he wanted to have some water.

He squinted at me for a long second before he nodded. Yeah.Wa…er!

When Death Stares You In The Face....

Frankly speaking, I never understood this phrase much. Isn’t it always staring at us? I mean, come to think of it, has anyone survived life?

If you ask me, death is always staring you in the face, you just don’t know it. Maybe the phrase refers to the proximity of it. Sometimes it’s close and you know it and sometimes, it’s still close, but you don’t know it.

Alongside Death, there is another entity that is staring us in the face. It’s called Life. But we usually tend to ignore it, mainly due to its agreeable nature. And forget with great enthusiasm that Life just as its nemesis happens only once.

Here’s a question that I find answers much about Life – “When was the last time you did anything for the first time?”

This was never meant to be a long post. I had once asked an old friend about his philosophy of life and I leave you with his words:

"Be Free,

 Get Rich,

 Do  Good,

 Make a Quick Exit,

 And Never Come Back"

*** 

Living in Minnesota - The Almost Lost Shoe!

I had not given much thought to how much attuned I had become to my relaxed suburban life here in the picturesque city of White Bear Lake until today. It has been less than a year, and I seem to have flushed every bit of the traffic of my home country and the din associated with it out of my system – the results of which have borne hilarious outcomes, in the least.

Its tax time of the year, and therefore, a visit to the nearby capital city of St Paul was called for. Even the little one was not spared for the paperwork lest the taxman thinks otherwise and, therefore, was made to tag along with us in the subzero weather. Which he did quite happily, as oblivious as us to the state of our minds.

Those who have kept up with their geography will know that St Paul is the capital of the State of Minnesota and one half of the Twin Cities. Needless to add, the traffic is a lot busier on the narrower streets of St Paul, in stark comparison to the much wider and quieter roads of White Bear Lake. Right from difficult parking places to busy intersections, St Paul threw in enough challenges to its less enlightened evening visitors – namely us.

When we did manage to find a spot right next to where the snow had been plowed to a mountain and climbed out of the comfort of our blessed four wheels to our quickly-getting-miserable two legs, we transformed into our pea-brained alter personas. I would like to blame our jaywalking judgments to the high chilly winds that literally froze large parts of our grey matter, but I know that is not the whole truth.

One intersection, and we would have been saved. Yet it took a mammoth minute to wait for the lights to turn in our favor. For a moment we were tempted to make a run for it amidst the traffic and yet, we knew we could not. At last the lights changed, and we made a beeline for the other side, the cold winds prompting us to make it faster, the little one doing the best he could with all the know-how of his three young years.

Finally we were there – inside the warmth of sanity. And just when I had thought it had all been fun, the little one exclaimed, “Where’s my shoe, Mummy?”

We both reeled at the impact of the question and the sight of one tiny socked foot. The husband recovered his wits faster than I did. “He was holding your hand!” Of course, darling, I agreed.

Therefore, I went back retracing my steps looking for the all important almost lost shoe unsure of where it had gone missing. Before long I spotted it, right in the middle of the road, waiting to fly in the air anytime as several wheels threatened to run over it. I stood there counting the seconds which had never seemed longer hoping against hope to retrieve the piece of leather before it died another premature death.

A shoe in the middle of a busy intersection in St Paul – I am sure it isn’t a common sight, and for the first time I thanked the weather for being harsh enough to not let too many people see it. Too my chagrin, however, there were a couple, and I knew exactly what their thoughts were at that time.

I managed to retrieve the shoe at the first chance and in the same state that it was almost lost, but not without feeling every bit like the jaywalkers that I once found immensely amusing.   

Long Live The Almost Lost Shoe!

The Ugly Monster!

I was all of four years when I heard for the first time about a woman who had been killed by her in-laws for a monster called ‘dowry’. I did not understand most of it then, except that a young woman had been set afire by greedy people.

It’s been a great number of years since then, and nothing has changed, it seems. Akin to a newspaper, my FB news feed brought in bad news in the form of an appeal for justice from a brother for his sister allegedly murdered by her in-laws for dowry less than a month ago. I do not know this brother, or his sister. It’s a FB share and I am certain sooner or later it will end up in your news feed too. For those who are curious, the victim was a young bride from a middle class family, studying for her Masters degree and was married last year.

Dowry deaths in India have become an alarming statistics. I did some research, and if the figures are to be believed, there is one woman who is sacrificed at the altar of this inhuman ritual every hour in India. To tell you the truth, I don’t believe the numbers. I think an hour is too long.

If the laws of the country are anything to go by, the system of dowry has been illegal since 1961. Yet, fifty years later, we are nowhere close to eradicating or even doling out any kind of justice to the victims who, not surprisingly, hail from all ranks of society. The monster is very much alive and kicking.

Why has it been this difficult to go down with a social system that, in effect, pulls it down? Who are the real perpetrators here? Those who kill or those who aide?

If you ask me, and I am going to tell you even if you don’t, both are equally guilty. One for being the active participants and the other passive ones, who at the end of it, get to call it a foul play. Of course, the daughter is now dead, and suddenly it’s time for justice. What about the times when she could have been saved and given a new lease of life? Oh no, that would have been way too difficult, wouldn’t it?

The brother appeals that his complaint has been falling on deaf ears at all administrative levels. They fall on my deaf ears too! It is you I would very much like to hang!

And my dear sisters and daughters, wherever you are, why do you put up with such cruelty at the hands of others. Do you not have your own two feet? Freedom and, life, is just a step away! There is no one you need to protect here except yourself.

A demand for dowry, at any point of time, cannot be conceded with, under any circumstances. It can only be met with strength - of character. If not of a family, then of an individual. Unfortunately, strength has remained and continues to remain an elusive quality where daughters are concerned. Therefore, weaknesses stem up, somewhat conveniently, and spell doom for the ones who least deserve it.

What has kept the monster alive? Greed? Definitely. No faster way to the swanky pair of wheels than one handed down for free, isn’t it? Of course, it’s well deserved, for all the hard work done to be at a place where it can be milked out of someone else.

But wait, it’s more for the comfort of the daughter, right?

Except, the daughter was comfortable without the expensive items at her home, wasn’t she? Yet, she is proud of the high-end microwave oven her father put in among the many other ‘gifts’. It helps her gain a little more ground at the new territory, gives her that little bit of edge in her new home. Really, does it?   

Who, therefore, has fed the monster so well?

Guilty is the verdict, for those who encourage the system – including the daughters themselves. They sign a death sentence for themselves and thousands of others the moment they find and believe in the argument that justifies the dowry system. That microwave oven does not do anything to her worth except reduce it. With it, she relegates herself to a commodity and a very disposable one at that too.

Daughters are the future -of a family, of society and of the nation. Why then, do they choose to die without a fight? Why do we let them? For if they had chosen otherwise, they would have known that it would all have been worth the fight.   

The Argument Goes On...(AAP)

AAP is all over the news again (I don’t think they were ever off the radar) and more importantly, all over my FB news feed. There are friends arguing over right and wrong, AK, Kumar Vishwas, Somnath Bharti, Rakhi Birla.  Every aspect of the AAP including accusations of being equally corrupt as other political parties to being leftist in their philosophy to being agents funded by the western world are being discussed in ridiculous details. At times and in some opinions, Congress and BJP are largely considered to indulge in nothing except rogue politics while AAP is viewed as a beacon of angelic light that will deliver all from evil. The argument just seems to go on and on….

Never has a political party received such critical media attention or its members subjected to scrutiny akin to a biological dissection under the watchful eyes of a people who really want to know if they have done the right thing by voting them to power. Like I have said before, while AAP did change the face of Indian politics, it has yet to show the talent. I sincerely hope that, the people in the news for all the wrong reasons, are not the only talent that AAP has.  

I am not a political expert but I don’t see much wisdom in the methods of the AAP. A chief minister is a chief minister. Can he really double as a protestor? The law minister is a law minister. Can he really raid with “activists” in the middle of the night? It’s time AAP starts taking itself seriously. There is need for governance, not primetime news.

While AAP seems to have screwed up its act a bit, it does not go without saying that they have achieved good work in the few weeks that they have come to power which is more than what can be said about the full term of the previous government. However, it would be best for AAP to stick to its agenda and, more importantly, align its processes around prudent methods.

In my opinion, the question truly is not about Congress, BJP or AAP. Nor is it a question of coalition based politics. It has never been about any political party. It has always been about the people of the country. It is about education and it is about awareness and its lacking thereof.

Unfortunately, there are many Indias in one India.  Unless they unite, at least in the perception of what they are being served, and if and only when that happens, the politics in the country will work for the country. And any and every political party in power will deliver.   

Until then, sadly, it remains a question of who the lesser evil is.

Lesser evil, huh? So, how do we decide on that?

And the argument goes on...

Kudos New Delhi!

The incident depicted in this post is true and has been reported by a very close and reliable source!

I have never had the chance to defend the city of New Delhi, where I spent a considerable number of years as a young single woman. And I still won’t. It is not a city that is known to be kind to the lot of women.

And yet, the New Year has brought in wonderful news from very close quarters. Unexpected, heartwarming news. And I have, therefore, felt the need to let it be known to as many people I can reach.

Someone very close, a woman, was driving back from work after dark through the city. True to her routine, she decided to stop at a market to buy, well, whatever. In certain countries I know about, what happened in the next second has the potential to bring down governments. With a thud, she landed one of the tyres of her SUV in an open manhole while attempting to park. No, it was not her fault. The manhole – a gaping hole without an iota of warning, had been waiting for a tyre right there in the middle of darkness.

Profanity was soon followed by panic. Road side assistance would take hours, and it was already late in the evening. To make matters worse, people (mostly men) had almost immediately begun to take notice of her sorry predicament.

Before she could retrieve her mobile phone, men poured in from around the shopping complex, in all ages and sizes. And before long, there was a small crowd extremely interested in her situation. And they had one single agenda – to help her get the tyre out of the manhole!

In the next few minutes, the manhole ejected the tyre, probably making a hasty retreat against the will of the determined score. A damsel in distress, she was no more.

As she recounted the tale, overwhelmed with the experience, my heart filled with a sense of pride. This is how it should be, this is how it should have been.

Kudos to the citizens who came forth and thank you for ensuring the safety of one woman. 

As for the manhole, well, it is probably waiting for its next victim. NDMC, are you listening? AK, anyone?

A Sad and Happy Day!

My earliest memories of the last day of the year constitute of chicken and Preeti Sagar. While most of you are familiar with the former, I have strong reasons to believe that not many know about the latter. But more of that later.

I remember the cold, the layers of warm clothes on me which I absolutely did not agree with most of the times, the delightful aroma of chicken roasting in the small electric oven and an overall sense of well being. It used to be a normal day for me, just like any other, only happier.

The party used to begin in our living room with our prized B&W EC television at nine in the evening. Tucked inside quilts with a blower working overtime to keep the temperatures in the room from falling, we would settle to watch whatever Doordarshan had decided for us. And they most certainly decided on Preeti Sagar. “My heart is beating, keeps on repeating….” Anyone?

Soon the year changed. Times changed. I changed.

It’s that last day of the year again. There will be chicken, wine, ribbons, music and dancing. There will be joy, excitement, fun, laughter and games. And there will be the one thing that kicked in as I grew older - the sense of time.

So now the last day of the year is not a normal day anymore. There is happiness, but not without a pinch of sadness - of a year gone by, good or bad or both in equal or unequal measures. Of time that passed. Of time that would never come back again. Of weaknesses and strengths. Of the best and worst of things. Of struggles and successes. Of births and deaths. Of loves and losses.

But it is this sense of time that makes me want to look forward - to find out what the New Year holds for me, us, the world. Pretty much like the feeling when you are in a roller coaster and it slows down, even stops, before the final plunge. You want it to start and stop at the same time.

My heart is beating, keeps on repeating….

Happy New Year!

Living in Minnesota - The Case of the Missing Keys!

At 8:15 am on the Thursday morning, I felt I was ready to burst. The car keys were missing, for the umpteenth time again. Meaning, there were not in all the places that they were supposed to be. So the search began in every pocket, every drawer, and nook and corner of the house.

A little background into the situation while the search is still on – car keys are usually the responsibility of hubby dear. Since we have moved to the US only a couple of months ago, there is just one ferry that goes back and forth between stops comprising of work, school, supermarkets and the like. Therefore, our lives revolve around this particular set of keys especially during the morning rush hour.

After about ten minutes of craziness I am beginning to wonder if the keys are at all anywhere in(side) the house. And the thought is scary, because if they are not inside, it means they are outside the house – somewhere deep in the snow! (Friends, its Minnesota, right?)

Now, there are duplicate keys, which are my responsibility, and right in the place that I keep them in. However, at that point in time, it was unarguably necessary to find the missing keys no matter what! As we trudged out into the snow with a prayer in my heart, I saw the most beautiful thing I could ever have hoped for.

While hubby dear had his head down looking for the lost treasure, he walked right past the large cardboard sign.

“Keys Found. Call R… “ (Sorry, had to blacken the real deal for reasons we all understand)

In the next couple of minutes, the case of the missing keys was closed. I could not believe our luck! And R, who not only kept our keys safe but put up a sign for us too! While we resumed the rest of the day, in the silence of the drive, we could hear our thoughts which were completely in tune for a change. What were our chances of finding the keys? Or the car for that matter? What if…

I have no idea. All I can say ... I love you R, I love Minnesota, I love this world...My faith stands restored! Hallelujah!