OH, FOR THE EMPTY NEST!

OH FOR AN EMPTY NEST!
Kokil has left for Singapore to do her Masters. Bulbul had left home six years ago – first for her MBA in Lucknow, then for her job. Vickram has been out of the house too, off and on, for the last four years.

So that leaves me alone with Raju and Boot, the dog.

“Oh, poor you,” my friends say, “it must be so sad, being all alone, with the children gone.” They talk about the empty nest syndrome and how it leaves parents so despondent.

I am not sad, I tell them. My daughters have grown up. They have sprouted wings and learnt to fly – finally, finally. Isn’t this what we trained them for? One day they would learn to fly and go forth into the wide world. Why then should I feel sad about it? It should be an occasion for celebration. Didn’t I leave my parents home to set up my own world? And my parents left theirs and so it goes back into history. It is the same story repeated from generation to generation.

This is how it is in a happy state of affairs. But what about the children who do not fly the nest, who cannot leave home? The ones who never sprout wings? Those who are destined to linger on in bed forever? They are the ones who do not leave the nest. They remain babies forever.

Give me the empty nest any day. Let all children be strong enough to discover their wings and fly into the boundless skies. Let them say goodbye to their parents and embark on long journeys to distant lands.

And let the parents thank their lucky stars that the children are capable of leaving home. That they have grown up. That they are healthy and strong and have now learnt to fly.

Let the parents with empty nests not weep over their loneliness. Instead let them count their blessings for they have not suffered the pain of bringing up a child who will never fly.

When Dreams Beckon

If only life were that simple!
If solutions were easy to come by.
If dreams were to come true.
We sure would soar high.

O, yes, we would fly!

But dreams are dreams and so
They fade with the fading night.
They transport us to a world beyond but
Desert us in the morning light

They make reality bearable
Color our world for a while
We bask in their aura briefly
Ready to go another mile.

Last night once again I saw Raju in my dreams. Not unusual, this happens quite often. In my dreams he is not the way we know him in real life – unable to sit up, walk, talk, see or hear. Suspended between sleep and waking, I see him as a complete child – much to my surprise – and I wonder why I ever thought him challenged!

I saw him walking last night. I had taught him to walk and he had learnt in a jiffy. Just like that. How? Well, I stood with my back to him, told him to hang on to my waist and pulled him up – half-carried him on my back. Then I instructed – okay, Raju, now one step at a time – one two, left right, left right, follow my steps. I took slow forward steps.

And he followed. He took one tentative step, then another. And then he did not need my support. He was walking on his own. He was. And I called everyone excitedly – see, we thought Raju could not walk but he knew all along how to. And now, see, he is walking.

And then Raju could see, too. His eyes were no longer glazed. The opaque film had vanished and he was clear-eyed. Focused. He looked at me. He looked all around. Confidently.

How silly I was, I exclaimed! I spent all these years thinking he could not see!

Raju gave me hs hand and we walked along. His tiny feet were bare and I remember thinking – I must get him a pair of shoes, now that he can walk. But first a celebration to mark this milestone – Raju’s first tottering step! So what f he has taken it when he is almost 31.

But dreams are dreams and so
They fade with the fading night
They take us to a world beyond but
Disappear in the morning light

I wake with the sound of Boot barking in the lobby. He wants to go out to relieve himself so I let him out into the garden. And then I turn to Raju who is making clucking sounds in his sleep. He has a beatific smile on his face. He clutches Chimpu, the new, cuddly soft toy he has recently been gifted.

The left leg of his pyjamas has climbed up, so I pull it down and look at his little feet. The feet of a baby. Tiny, smooth and pink. They have never walked the ground. And never will.

This is reality.

What has faded was a dream!

AND THEN WE WENT HUNGRY :(

And then we went hungry -- but only for a day. It was all for a good cause -- we were supporting PUTA in the agitation for Central University status.

Chain-fasting has been going on for more than a month now. Everyday there are at least five faculty members / research scholars sitting on hunger-strike. The venue is outside the PU Guest House, braving the heat and the dust, the loo and the occasional rain. Turn by turn, volunteers came forward to sit hungry all day under the makeshift tent in front of the university Guest House. And then Mina, Pratibha, Harpreet and I decided to sit together on fast one day.

It wasn't too bad, really. We decided on a dress code. Ahem! White kurtas would go well with the marigold garlands all chain-fast volunteers need to wear, so white kurtas it was!

And then what followed was a picnic sans edibles. Only water from time to time. It was good bonhomie, there under the Silver Oak trees, with colleagues stopping by to sign the attendance register in support of the cause. News reporters and photographers came by. So did Kokil with her camera to click photos of fasting aunties. The pic above is taken by her. The comment she made was -- "Mummy, you certainly don't look starved. In fact you seem to be having such a good time that no one will take you seriously!"

:(

Anyway, as you can see in the pic above, Mina was not there for the photo-session as she had to attend a court hearing briefly in between -- in connection with the PUTA issue to enhance the retirement age from 60 to 62 years. Here is her pic below. Any resemblance to Maharani Gayatri Devi is purely coincidental!

As they say, when you are in good company even hell becomes bearable. We were all friends there and this wasn't hell. So the day went by chatting and laughing. Kehte hain, na, pyar main rasta toh kya, zindagi kat jaati hai!

Where will our efforts lead? Can't say. One can only hope for the best, keep trying, waiting for the efforts to bear fruit!

"Let us then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait." (Longfellow)

A THANK YOU TO JANE SCHUKOSKE

I wish to dedicate this page to Jane Schukoske whom I met in Delhi yesterday.

A trip to Delhi in the hot summer months is never a welcome prospect. One does not relish the idea of getting up early to catch a jolting train to a hotter region. Moreover, for a die-hard Chandigarhian, Delhi is a nightmare. It has a temperature several centigrade higher. With its heat and dust, its noise and pollution, its chaotic bus-lanes, its nerve-wracking traffic, its tempo, it is just too much for one who is used to the green calm of the City beautiful. It s just too much for me.

But of course, there are times when one is called upon to undertake such a journey to the heartland of the country. So it was that I caught a train yesterday and was at the Fulbright House in the evening.

The occasion was a somber one – a farewell to Jane Schukoske who has served as the Executive Director of the USEFI for the last eight years. I was not obliged to attend the reception; it was just a casual, informal suggestion made to me –Jane is leaving, would you like to attend the farewell? – and I thought, Oh my God, I hate to see her go but, yes, I would like to be around to say bye to her! I have interacted with her closely over the years and have tremendous respect for her not only as the head of a prestigious institution but also as a person, as a human being.

I record here a few basic facts about her tenure as Executive Director, USEFI, and also the little gestures that made Jane such an endearing person.

In the year 2000, while scouting around for funds for our MELUS-India Conferences and also for the survival of the ASRC I met Jane several times in the company of people like Richard Cohen and the late Isaac Sequeira. The Fulbright House was then coming apart. Literally crumbling, or so it seemed. A historic structure, hard to maintain, it seemed antique and uncared for. Look at it today and it is transformed completely. Two months ago I stayed overnight at the USEFI Guest House and it was then that her contribution to the place sank in fully. While the building had the same imposing, historic façade, the insides had been restored and renovated to suit contemporary standards. A brand new cafeteria on the premises, the gardens, the lawns, everything seemed new, and yet the same. The sense of history was not sacrificed as it combined with modernity. Everywhere there was evidence of a woman’s sensitivity and an impeccable aesthetic sense that could only be Jane’s.

Inside the offices, as I waited for the Program Officer to attend to me, I noted the easy conversation and the bonhomie among the staff. It was not hard to see that the positive vibes had percolated from above. There was this palpable feeling of oneness, of belonging to a single family, and of mutual cooperation.

Jane did it all!

I also wish to refer to an incident that told me a lot about Jane’s functional style. It was a stray complaint I made to the USEFI office. In retrospect it seems insignificant but at that point I was rattled so I had shot of a heated email to her. The response I got from her was a gentle note admitting a lapse on the part of her office, offering a handsome apology for the same. My resentment vanished immediately. I realized that I was dealing a magnanimous woman who did not hesitate to look at herself critically. She held a high office and didn’t really need to apologize. And yet, she was willing to admit a mistake and make amends! That was an eye-opener. In my estimation she soared high and I grew to respect her even more. There have never been any ego hassles with her. No holier-than-thou attitude problem. Nothing overbearing

And then, when I was working on my novel (Spots of Time) she offered to be my sounding board. “I like reading at night,” she said, and offered to give it a quick read and make suggestions. For this kind gesture I shall always be grateful. Some of her suggestions went into the revised version of the book which came out last October.

Hers must have been a difficult position – negotiating between two governments, Indian and American, but she has carried it off with aplomb for eight years. As she prepares to depart, Jane becomes a part of USEFI history, along with other Directors who have served the institution in the past. No doubt, many more will follow.

There are leaders. And leaders. Some of them make a difference. Jane has been one such person – who not only did her job but put her life and soul into it. I wonder if the future will match her contribution.

Music, when soft voices die, echoes in the memory, so said the poet.

And so your thoughts, Jane, when you are gone. Your deeds, your work, your soul. The essence of you at the Fulbright house will linger on....

I will not say good-bye, Jane, for you are in my list of permanents. And we will stay in touch.

INCOGNITO IN MONTREAL

The weather has improved somewhat. Apart from occasional snow flurries. The sun actually shines. Brightly. Coldly. Piercingly. Attacking the vision from diverse directions – the direct sunlight, the various reflections from the surrounding glass buildings, and most of all the glare from the snow that still covers much of the ground.

Temperatures are around -3 C but the weather report says “feels like -16 C” whatever that means. I guess it stands for wind-chill. The wind like a knife – Jack the Ripper’s, slicing through your guts, blowing your cap off your head, flapping against the overcoat. Pushing you down the road, if you are in the right direction.

I wrap myself up for the walk to office. Last week it used to take me 40 minutes. Now it takes max 20 because the snow has been removed from the sidewalks and I can walk faster, without the risk of landing on my derriere.

I still have to wrap up. The thermals, the sweater, the overcoat, the scarf, the cap. The hood of the overcoat keeps flying off so I’ve got this tight-fitting woolen cap. And the face freezes, so I’ve wrapped my scarf around much of my face, leaving only my nose for the fresh air. The icy fresh air. Then the goggles, to protect myself from the glare. But the icy wind still bothers my eyes and they sting. They begin to water. Arre bhai, someone will think I am weeping. I dab my eyes. The hands freeze, so I put them quickly back into my overcoat pocket and continue walking.

Four Points Hotel to my right – one of those high-rise 5 star ones. This is the very spot where I have slipped and fallen twice. There is no snow today but I am not taking a chance. I wait for the lights, cross over to the other side and continue walking.

I see my reflection in the show-window. Hey, I look as though I am in disguise! Muffled, coated,hooded, unrecognizable. I feel like a gangster in a Bollywood film. Or a gumshoe, a sleuth in disguise, going down those mean streets (hardly mean, Sherbrooke is wide and busy) in search of hoodlums. But, I wonder, do gumshoes and hoodlums have running noses? My nose, which sticks out above the muffler, is frozen and dripping. That is the only uncovered part of me now. Perhaps they have some kind of a nose-cap that would keep it warm. Accessories for Canadian weather. But I haven’t heard of anything like it.

I am seriously thinking of using a hanky to make myself a nose-bag. I have thread-n-needle in my flat. Will stitch it up, hand it around my nose, suspended on my goggles. That would take care of the drip. A nose-bag. This is urgent because if I neglect it the consequences may be dire.

I have spotted many window awnings with icicles hanging from the edges. Stalactites and stalagmites. No, those are forms of sedimentation. What I see now are drops of water – rain and ice – reluctant to let go of the ledge, hardening into icicles. Like wind-chimes, clear, transparent, they would probably riing a chime if I strike them!

But, let me come back to reality! If my nose continues to drip unchecked I am afraid there will soon be an icicle from my nose-tip, too. So, where’s my hanky. And my sewing kit. Let me make myself a nice, comfortable, ingenious nose-bag!

ON TOP OF THE WORLD

ON TOP OF THE WORLD
My apartment is on the 22nd floor. I would have cribbed had there not been three elevators in the lobby. Elevators for which one need not wait too long.
From my window I get a bird’s-eye view of Montreal. Not so great, really, because what I see is mainly snow-covered roof-tops. Snow, snow and snow everywhere. Only the main street ahead, Rue Sherbrooke, has been cleared. The rest don’t seem to matter for they are still clogged with snow. The pavements are white, too, several feet higher than the streets. Apparently, the snow from the streets has been shoveled on to the sidewalks. (That’s what made me slip and fall yesterday.)
:(

Way ahead, I can see the horizon. The snow merging into the sky – just as the land had merged into the sea yesterday, from the plane. Somewhere down there is a streak of blue. That must be St Laurence River, so Mapquest tells me. One day, when the snow on the sidewalk melts, I will walk down there. One fine day.

This flat is somewhat bigger than the one I first went into – on Rue St. Urbaine. It has a separate kitchen (but nothing in it, other than a few pots and pans). A queen-sized bed, an easy chair, small dining table with two chairs. Some linen in the cupboard. Enough space for luggage. Free internet access. Not bad!
What I like best is being way up here, on top of the world.
“Consider this and in our time
As the hawk sees it or the helmeted airman:
The clouds rift suddenly – look there
At cigarette-end smouldering on a border
At the first garden party of the year...” (Auden)

What I also like is the fact that the building has a gym, a sauna, and a pool. So whenever I feel the need for physical activity I can go down and work out. Great! I can do this so long the snow keeps me house-bound!
I shall have my time to myself here.
“And I shall have some peace [h]ere, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.”
(W.B. Yeats “Lake Isle of Innisfree”)

WELCOME TO CANADA

WELCOME TO CANADA
“You mean to say people actually live there? Down there, under the snow?”
I am aghast. I have heard of the cold, inhospitable conditions but nothing has prepared me for this.
The entire countryside, as far as the eye could see, is one huge sheet of white. Not a uniform, wrinkle-free white but an uneven, lumpy, blanketed white. Like a bed left unmade. Or rather like a bedcover hastily pulled over a huge mess on the bed. The way it is in the children’s room once they hear my car honking round the corner.
So this is Canada. My first glimpse of Canada. It still looks virginal. Unexplored. Untouched. Thou still unravished bride of silence. Foster child of silence and slow time.
The smoother portions of the white sheet below tell me that a lot of it is water. Apart from this distinction it is hard to tell where the land ends and the water begins. It is all white, white, and white.
And yet, under the uneven blanket there are all those millions who breathe, live, work, jostle for space. All those who engage in affairs of the state, engage in the daily rat-race for food-clothing-shelter, aspire towards goals, personal or otherwise. There are some straight black lines below that indicate roads which have been cleared. But these are few. As the plane hovers over the city I note that traffic flows over just a few major streets. The rest, apparently, have not been cleared. What do those prople do? Those whose houses have been effectively sealed by the snow? I wonder.
Once I am outside the airport I pull out my diary to look at the instructions. Take shuttle to Downtown terminus – Beri Uquaam – then cab to Rue St. Famille. Hang on to cab. Pick up apartment keys at the realtors, proceed to Rue St. Urbaine.
There are mounds of snow on the roadside. At least three or four feet on either side. “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow....” I have never seen so much of it.
The cab stops outside the realtors.
“Hang on, young man,” I tell the dark, smiling cabbie as I step out, look up and down for an entry point into the building. He comes out too and says – “From here ma’am.”
His finger points at the three-feet high barricade along the road.
“Huh?” I do not understand. Am I supposed to plough through the barrier?
Or perhaps dive into it with a Shammi Kapoor style “Yahoo” and swim across?
No, I do not feel so adventurous. It is my first day – no, my first few moments – in Canada and I would rather play safe.
“Here, ma’am,” he points to a faint track of footprints in the snow. So someone has walked across before. I feel somewhat reassured and make my way forwards, one cautious step at a time. The snow looks so delicious. I scoop up a handful of the powdery stuff and drop it again. It is dry. Like the grains of sand. Sybil, Sybil, what do you want? A long life, my lord, long years of mortal existence, as many as the grains of sand in my palm. They don’t say grains of snow. What then? Flakes, perhaps. But these in my palm are not flakey. They are more grainy. And yet not like sand. More like... what should I say? Cottony, perhaps.
I see the smile on the cabbie’s face, smile back at him, and move ahead towards the doorbell. A tall – O, my god! How tall she is! – efficient-looking woman called Jacqueline hands me the key and I make my way back to the cab, my shoes sinking deeper into the snow.
I don’t like Rue St. Urbaine. There’s something not nice about the building. It reminds me of the character-less, humdrum buildings meant primarily for refugees or asylum seekers. Come on, I tell myself as I tip the cabbie and take the elevator to the fourth floor, give it a chance. Let me not be prejudiced.
I take the elevator to the fourth floor. An old toothless man rides the elevator with me. He is bent and holds a sick-looking dog on a leash. Actually the dog looks healthier than his master!
Mine is a one-room apartment and the room is small. There is sufficient space for me to navigate to the other end, put down my heavy bags on the floor, laptop on the little table meant for the kitchen, and handbag on the bed. I survey the scene. Not bad, I guess. Small, but tastefully done up. The kitchen is stocked with rice, sugar, tea bags, cereal. The fridge has some eggs and bread.
I make myself some tea. The cup I reach out for is cracked from top to bottom. I don’t like it. Bad omen. Let me put it away, in a far corner.
While the tea brews I head for the loo which is only slightly bigger than an oversized cupboard. As I turn to shut the door, I collide into the shelf jutting out.
The face that stares at me over the washbasin is red-eyed and flabby. The mouth droopy, the skin dry and fatigued after more than twenty hours of flying. I splash some cold water on my face, dab it dry, peer again at the mirror, and try and mend the ravages. Meanwhile the washbasin has overflowed on to my shoe. There’s a puddle on the floor that I now have to avoid.
This will not do. I really don’t like it here, I tell myself as I sip my tea. One month in this hole will be impossible. Must find another way out.
Let me first go and report at the institute. Sure, I will walk. Don’t I have a map?
Map, yes. And it is just 1.6 miles away. It will take me at the most fifteen minutes to get there. Oh yes, it will be a nice walk. Cool and refreshing. With the pure driven snow on either side of the road. Welcome to Canada, it seems to say.
With a spring in my step I start for Concordia. One springy step and then another. And then another.
And then I slam on my breaks for I have felt the ground beneath my feet move a bit. It is the snow, hardened into ice that makes me skid. Oops, I’d better be careful. I walk with measured steps down St. Urbaine, towards Rue Sherbrooke. Once on Sherbrooke, I realize that I am on one of the main streets of Montreal. Wider, busier, more activity. More commercial complexes. I walk along the side-walk, choosing my steps one at a time. It is cold and I do not have gloves. So I thrust my hands into my pockets, button up my coat with the hood up, muffler tight around my throat, and move on.
It all happens in less than the twinkling of an eye. My right foot slips on ice and I find squatting on the snowy pavement. Bewildered, uncomprehending, unsure whether I should get up and dust the snow off my clothes or first take stock of the situations, check that I haven’t broken any bones. The rump hurts and my right elbow has taken the impact of the fall. But I can move my feet, my knees, my arms, so – thank god – no damage!
A passerby helps me up with a smile. I smile back, noting the dimples in his cheeks and rub my back ruefully, complaining: “Your country ain’t all that kind. I’ve just landed here a couple of hours ago!”
“Welcome to Canada,” he says as he picks up my bag and hands it back to me.

Girte hain shah-sawar hi maidan-i-jang main. Who tifl kya gire jo ghutne ke bal chale!

PS:
This is not for me. Give me back my bright sunshine and the hot winds. The dust and the grime. Give me back the heat that slaps me in the face when I walk down the road, the sweat that trickles down my spine. The mosquitoes that sing nightly in my ear. The power-cuts and the shortages. The walks in the Santi Kunj and Nirjhar Vatika where I don’t have to mind each step I take.
I miss my Chandigarh.
I realize that I love my India.

But this is just the first day. Canada might get better, so I guess I shouldn’t lose heart!