A Letter to Papa - On Father's Day

Dear Papa,
Today is father’s day and although we may not have celebrated it when I was growing up, I realize the significance of this day now. It is not only about gifts and dinners and spending time with dads, its mainly about thanking fathers…. for being there- silent, supportive and strong.
My earliest memories are of the times when I would wait for you to come back from work every evening. As soon as I would see your scooter at the end of the street, I would run towards it, climb in front and stand at the foot pedestal; and we would come home together. Come rain or sunshine I loved those short rides together. Soon, I would be riding the same way to school. I remember how happy you were when I finally got admission into the best school in our small town. It had been due all your efforts that I can call myself “convent-educated” today . Maybe it sounds silly now, but back then it was the happiest moment of both our lives.
Growing up, I still remember how you used to tell me a story before I went to sleep, how you took us to the club every Sunday, how you used to fall asleep while teaching Physics to me, how you used to come to all the parent-teacher meetings with me and we discovered that we disliked the same teachers, how we watched so many of our favorite movies together. I was not the best student, but you never criticized and never lifted a hand. I wasn’t always the healthiest child either, but you were always there to take me to the best doctor. All the times that I was admitted to the hospital, I remember how tenaciously you took care of all of us… managing work, home and taking care of all of us kids. I still remember how your eyes welled up with tears the day you left me at the hostel and then again on the day you saw me off at the airport when I was coming to the US.
Of all the memories from my childhood, the one that overwhelms me even today is from the days when work took you out of town a lot. I would stay up till late in the night waiting for you to return, and you would never disappoint me… you always brought the prettiest doll for me. Thanks to you, I had the largest collection of dolls any girl could wish for. I can still see myself sitting on the steps of our verandah and humming : “Saat samundar paar se, Gudiyon ke bazaar se, Acchi si gudiya lana; Gudiya chahe na lana, Papa jaldi aa jana”
Papa, I may not have been the ideal daughter I know, but it was not from lack of trying. I always wanted to make you happy and proud. I am not sure that I have succeeded, but if I am any good, it is because of you. I have loved you from the first day that I held your finger and recognized you. Thank you for being the best Papa ever.
Love,
Gudiya

Death of a leader

I was probably up before the alarm sounded, but I leapt out of bed and rushed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready before my friends started making too much noise outside our gate. As I was hurrying to pack my swimming bag, I could hear the phone ringing in my parent’s bedroom. Although we were all used to hearing our dad yelling instructions on the phone to the shift workers in the steel plant at all odd hours, it still felt a little too early, after all it was not yet 6 a.m. Hearing loud clangs on the gate I rushed to the window and shouted at my friends to just wait 2 minutes so that I could get my bike out and join them. It was our summer ritual, early morning bike rides to the club, swimming and playing in the pool for hours and usually spending the entire day with friends. In a rush to leave, I generally used to tell my mom that I was leaving, kind of yelling it from the kitchen doorway.. but that day, strangely since my dad was already up I decided to let him know instead. As I stood by the bedroom door, waiting for him to look up from the phone, so that I could sign and wave good-bye, I noticed a very concerned look on his face. He put a hand on the mouth-piece and told me, “don’t go swimming today, something’s happened”. My face fell, and I couldn’t understand what he meant by “happened”. My friends were causing a racket outside my gate, so I had to go out and tell them that I couldn’t go.. “something had happened”. Obviously everyone was a little disappointed but decided to go on without me when suddenly my dad called us to the verandah and gave the news; Rajiv Gandhi, our former prime minister, had died last night in a bomb blast in Southern India, and it was not safe for us kids to be out and about. He had just received the news and was afraid of possible riots and rallies since no one knew who or what had caused the blast. It was the morning of 22nd May, 1991.
I remember becoming numb with shock, it couldn’t be, and my best friend echoed my thoughts. Those were days of Doordarshan, a pre-CNN world and the 24/7 news networks of today. We still had to wait till 7 in the morning to see or hear any news. As the phone was constantly ringing, my father just repeated his instructions to me and my friends to stay put in the house and went inside. Two of our guy friends decided to take up the challenge and go to the club anyway, however, my best friend and I decided to stay put in my place and wait and watch the news.
As days went by and we watched with the entire country how our beloved leader was assassinated way before his prime, I remember my dismay and shock at such a brutal attack. We hadn’t heard of terrorist suicide bombers, we couldn’t fathom the reasoning behind such an inhuman attack. This was Rajiv Gandhi, a leader we were proud of, recognized with, and were hopeful about. He was the “change” of our generation. So many things are better politically and economically today because of the wheels he set in motion in the few years he was in power. He had envisioned a future full of bright prospects for our India; we all wanted to be a part of that, a part of that future, a part of that dream. To have that snatched away from us so blatantly, so suddenly with such a gruesome attack, took away a piece of our soul. I realized for the first time in my thirteen years that we were not safe, my innocence was gone. LTTE and the war in Sri Lanka had been a distant reality for us, never this cancer which would eat away our future. Why? I kept asking, but I never got an answer.
It has been years since that summer and the impact has ebbed away too due to an onslaught of acts of terror that our country has faced since then, but yesterday when I saw the news about Sri Lanka and the end of the civil war with the death of Prabhakaran, I was suddenly reminded of the immense loss I felt so many years ago. I know that the LTTE and its leader were responsible for the deaths of many innocent lives, but the biggest loss for me was that of Rajiv Gandhi. Nothing can possibly bring him back, but I feel vindicated today. It’s time. Time for healing to begin, both for India and Sri Lanka. Time for new beginnings, new leaders and a future without strife. Hopefully this May 21st will bring better news.

Loving You

Loving you is my burden,
It does not show or overflow;
But simmers in my heart ,
And overcomes me with its glow.

Like a fire in my soul,
It creeps in to warm;
Yet like a storm it rages,
And burns me to harm.

Its my sickness for sure,
Coz loving you is a habit;
Tried again and again,
But couldn’t quite erase it.

I cover of course,
For no one shall see;
The scars of my memories,
And the love you took from me.

Each time a memory hits,
I feel a new tortuous pain;
In a moment I have you,
Then lose you all over again.

Missing you was once new,
Now it’s a familiar ache;
Reminding me I’ll never see you,
Never when I’m awake.

To survive is easy,
But every day I waste away;
For I’m yours forever,
Every minute, every hour, every day.

For My Dear Mom - On Mother's Day

I still remember my first day at school. My mom had come to drop of me off, I was wearing my new school uniform, had a new school bag, a water-bottle and a tiffin box. Although I had been excited about going to school for the past couple of days, the idea of being without my mother even for a few hours was terrifying. As the teacher gathered us to put in a class-room, my mom waved from the window and said that she would be right outside. Although assured of her promise, I started tearing up. How would I survive without her?
Over the years my mom has been my pillar of support, my friend, my critic, my conscience, my mirror. She has scolded me, slapped me, hugged me, kissed me, cried with me, laughed with me, shared secrets with me, shopped with me, cooked with me… she has been with me through all my ups and downs. She literally stayed with me in the hospital for months when I was sick, she made paper-boats with me every time it rained in our old neighborhood so that I could float more boats than anyone else, she always gave me samosas and gulab jamuns for tiffin during my exams because they were my favorite, she made all my clothes, from regular frocks to fashionable outfits picked from magazines, she stayed up with me entire nights when I was heart-broken, she always packed more food than I needed and over-stuffed my bags each time I was going back to the hostel, she cried more than me when our dog died and yet since it was my birthday and there was a party she didn’t let her sadness show, she was my first passenger when I rode my dad’s scooter, she dared to taste the tea that I made for the first time, she was with me every step of the way.
Mom and I have had a long history of arguments and disagreements but through it all I have always loved her. I may not have told her in so many words, but I do. I missed her each time that I was lonely in my hostel and needed her advice, we didn’t have cell phones back then. Every time that I was sick, I missed how she fussed over me and force-fed me. I miss her every time I cook something and it doesn’t taste as good as mom’s, because whenever she tried to teach me, I wasn’t paying attention.
In my eyes, my mom is exceptional. She is resilient, full of love, much stronger than me or anyone in my family for that matter, a perfect mother anyone could hope for. I never thought that I was lucky, till the day I moved away and realized how the little things that my mom did for me were so important. She did all those things and was never thanked and yet she continued..and till date still does. My mom, thousands of miles away.... and yet just a phone call away is older, slower, greyer but still the same.
Years after my first day of school, I felt the same sadness overwhelm me while I stood at the Chicago O’Hare airport waving good-bye to my parents as they were about to take their flight back to India. I felt the same loneliness and abandonment engulf me as I put on my brave face and waved back. I may not have said it that day, or when we met last year when I was in India, or when we spoke yesterday, but I love you Mom.. I always have.. I always will. On this Mother’s Day, I want to wish you a Happy Mother’s Day.

Happy Holi

Living in the US for almost a decade, it’s quite routine for me to forget Holi till a few days before or after when someone sends a “Holi Hai” greeting or an invite to a “holi-themed” party over the weekend. Having hosted a few of these parties myself, I can safely say that they are just an excuse for all desis to dress up in their ethnic best, eat some Indian food and chit-chat with friends where everyone makes sure that there is no possibility of anyone putting any color on their face since by now they have all developed an allergy from gulal. The only sign that remotely suggests that the party is to celebrate holi, is the tiny little pink gulal tikka on everyone’s forehead.

I am sure there are places in the US where desis celebrate holi with fervor and vigor, however its been my misfortune to have never had the holi experience of back home…. India.

Holi for me is so many things all at once, it means green leaves, cool breeze on sunny days, board exams, water balloons, collecting leaves and wood, holika-bonfire, raw mangoes, palash flowers, sweet gujhias, hot malpuas, cold thandai, dahi vadas, thalis with gulal, white kurtas splashed with myriad colors, green ears, pink necks, pichkaris and buckets full of colors, hasya-kavi sammelan on doordarshan, new clothes, singing "rang barse" with friends, yelling “holi hai” everytime we drenched someone with color, trying to recognize friends under the black painted faces…. and I could go on and on. There are so many memories but little or no pictures from those days and yet I remember everything crystal clear. Compare them to all my holi-themed parties from recent years, I have innumerable pictures and yet very few memories. Try as we might, it’s just very hard to recreate the magic of holi without the ambience and the atmosphere.
I wonder if holi is still celebrated like I remember. Do they still play with gulal for weeks in the gullis of Benaras? Do the women still carry umbrellas in Kolkata to protect themselves from water balloons being pelted? Do college-kids still get high on ‘bhang’? Do children still go around in their neighborhoods eating sweets at every aunty’s place? Do boys still soak girls they like with entire buckets of water and then pretend to be sheepish? Do they still have holi geets at functions? Do people still visit all their friends for ‘holi-milan’ or has the cell-phone culture damaged it? Does anyone miss us? Am I in a time bubble or is holi the same? Maybe it’s not just holi, it’s the people associated with it.

To quote from a famous song –
Tere Bin Jab Aayi Holi ;
Pichkaari Se Chhooti Goli…. (Chitthi Aayi Hai)

Wish everyone a very Happy Holi!

Delhi 6 - not exactly a Review

Delhi 6 may not be another Rang De Basanti, nevertheless I think it has been unnecessarily disparaged by critics and audience. It starts off more like a travelogue, but its endearing quality is not in its story, but in the characters themselves. Not a single character from the movie appears concocted, from the miser Lalaji to the idiot Gobar to the sycophantic Mamdu to the idle Jaigopal to the wannabe-star Bittu, to the Jat inspector Ranvijay, we all have met these characters, in our neighbourhoods, in schools, in colleges, in work-places.

Abhishek’s character (Roshan) is the person through whom we are introduced into this world of colorful characters and a chaotic old Delhi. He is just as much of a visitor in this part as we are, and instantly mesmerized by the people and their life-styles. His grandmother, who is surprisingly upbeat regarding her fatal illness, is the sole reason for his being in India, but he slowly becomes attached to the people and the co-dependent lives of his neighbors.
From the lighthearted moments when the traffic halts to make way for a cow giving birth, to the young boys going to Jalebi (the untouchable) requesting a favor they themselves don’t understand, to the local cop slapping Roshan, assuming that he called him a “servant” when he calls him a “public servant”, to Bittu changing her clothes into trendy outfits when she’s going to college and changing back to her Indian attire when she’s in her old neighborhood.. everything about Delhi 6 is relatable.

Meanwhile there is a very real and convenient Kaala Bandar scare going around in Delhi, not unlike a real incident just a few years ago. Everyone in their panic is using the Kaala to justify and camouflage their actions and each story is getting more fantastical than the other. With the media fanning the rumor mills, the Kaala Bandar becomes this huge monster preying in the hearts and minds of people, giving scope for ambitious politicians and religious leaders to make it an issue big enough to start a riot in the peaceful neighborhood. The simmering hatred for each other breaks the delicate bond that was keeping the neighborhood united and suddenly the outsider becomes the only person who understands the intricacies of relationships and the charm of India.

The climax with the backdrop of Ramleela is very inspiring, basically delving into human nature, their egos, their fragile relationships and what Delhi stands for.. its resilience. With a very strong moral, aptly shown mirrored through every character’s face, the movie ends on a positive note. When Roshan says, “India works, its people make it work”, you actually believe it and hope to someday see that India, the one he sees in the future, the India which lives above the influence of religion and politics.

The Ethereal Dream

From the childhood tales that we heard from our grandparents about the “saat samundar par” country and the princess with golden hair to the TV soaps of the 90s ranging from “Beverly Hills 90210” to the “X-Files” we as a generation had been fascinated with the idea of going “abroad”. We were a hardworking generation driven by ambition and will to succeed, but where we failed our parents helped us secure this dream of coming to this ultimate “land of opportunity”. Some came as students, some to work and some married absolute strangers to come here. By hook or crook we landed in the US and started our struggle. Things we had taken for granted, we had to work for, many of us worked at menial jobs to make ends meet; lived in small apartments shared by dozens to save on rent; walked miles in the cold because there was no car; took loans to study in grad school, something that was totally unheard of in India back then. Survival was the key and since everyone was in the same boat, it didn’t matter, we knew that we were in the US for good, once out of school, we would get a good job, buy a car, get married, buy a house…. And everything else would fall in line. After all, living in the US was much better than living in India. The dream was in place.
The first set-back came in 2001, when post 9-11, the economy went south and the expensive war started costing the corporate jobs. Although the market struggled initially, it managed to stand its ground and the technology sector, the sector where most Indians worked, did not lose its importance. In fact there was now a rising breed of Indians working in the finance industry too, especially in Wall Street; IT was no longer the bread and butter of “desi immigrants”. Everyone still talked of “going back”, “giving back” but there were always some excuse or the other.. green card, kid’s school, adjustment problem, pollution, corruption… every vice that is our India, was an excuse. Somehow the illusion that life in US was better stayed with us and we stayed on.
Until recently the dream was still alive, but the Wall Street collapse, hiring freeze and lay-offs galore has been a huge impediment to the desi life in the US. After struggling for the initial years, many of us had bought into the “American Dream” of a big house in the suburbs, fancy cars, private school for kids and lavish vacations every year. No one could have fathomed the repercussions of the economic disaster to befall us. It hit everything, jobs, housing prices, auto market, technology, banks, retail. In fact the resonance of the US collapse is being heard in every part of the world. This recession can and will probably last for the next couple of years, and the choice for many Indians here is to either to ride it out or go back to India.
Riding it out is not an easy option if one has lost his job, has a family to support, mortgage to pay, car payments to make, health insurance and bills to pay. Hourly jobs at stores and restaurants are also no longer available; with a growing number of American citizens out of work, getting a job as an immigrant is highly unlikely. Where there were very few examples of racial prejudice felt by Indian workers in the US, compared to UK or other European countries, nowadays there has been a reported increase in resentment against immigrants both in the job market as well as schools. This is obviously just the beginning and things can only become worse with the new government promising jobs to American citizens first.
India is definitely an option, although hit by hard times due to the rolling effect of the US Economy, India still has a huge consumer market, fairly self-sufficient manufacturing industry, stable state owned banks, growing number of young workers between the ages 20 to 30. India is a growing economy and this might be its chance of surging ahead. However, it is of course a risk which desis in the US are afraid to take. Many are afraid to leave their quiet but desperate existence in the US since they don’t want their counterparts and family in India to know. They feel that it is better to lead such a paycheck to paycheck, homesick life in the US, as long as they are away from public scrutiny. They believe, perhaps rightly so, that they might be considered failures, or be jeered at if they come back to India. A country that they thought inferior and criticized so frequently, suddenly is the back-up plan they never thought they would have to use, so obviously it brings forth apprehension.
Nevertheless, now is the chance to make the move, to cut our losses and “go back” and “give back”. The country which made us, stood by us as we abandoned it for greener pastures, waited for us patiently while we spent all our dollars in the US, is calling and maybe it’s time. Time to go back.
Aa abb laut chalen