For Dony, on Raksha Bandhan

He was exactly 361 days younger than me. He was the apple of my mother’s eye. He was the SON in our typically Punjabi family, the heir, the prince. He was the person on whom I practiced my skills of bossing over hapless males. When we were little kids, he was the one who would follow me around, and get blamed for most of the breakages in the house. I being a girl would not be suspected. He would pull the dog’s tail, but would also share his meal with the pet. He would sit for long hours on the steps of our home, telling fantastically wild tales to the dog, and the dog would look at him adoringly and swallow each one of them hook line and sinker. He also blinded my dolls and pulled out their eyelashes. Oh no, I did not mind it, I hated dolls and loved books. Once he threw my Enid Blyton into the pond, and I knocked him over and sat on him beating him up.

When we grew up, he hated all the boys who would befriend me, and would mimic them mercilessly. He grew stronger and larger, and it became harder to beat the hell out of him. He was the only one in my family who could carry a tune. He had an awesome sense of humour and a ready answer for anything. He was also someone who attracted trouble and accidents. That never seemed to quench his spirit. When he met with an accident and we weren’t sure that his eye would be okay, he put a patch over the eye, picked up a bottle of Old Monk and limped on his fractured foot and said he was the Pirate from Treasure Island. He would encourage us to make jokes about his being accident prone. He was my very handsome younger brother.

When he was 23 years old, the joke turned sour. That accident was his last one. They brought his body back, lifeless. My elder son kept nudging him and asking him to wake up. It was the first time I was faced with death, and was devastated. There would be more in the coming years – but this was the first, and it was something I took personally. I was angry with Death and with God. It took me a long time to recover. I think my mother never did. My father went from being a participant in the game of life to a spectator.

I have never talked about this, never written about it … but there is something about blogging – it makes one open up. So this Raksha Bandhan, I hope and pray for you, my sweet younger brother because I am sure that you are reincarnated somewhere. Where-ever you are – may you have the happy and long life that you were cheated of in the time you lived with us.

Growing up in the seventies

I’ve taken up Itchy’s tag and am taking a totally self indulgent trip down memory lane. The seventies were a special decade in terms of world events and things happening in India …. but there are way too many things, so I cant keep it down to just 7 things …

1 The outer world : War in Bangladesh … can clearly remember the blackouts and the sirens; The nuclear blast at Pokhran – we felt so proud and powerful!! The assasination of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and the frantic pleas that preceeded that ghastly event, I can also remember our school taking us to another school to watch the “Man Landing on the Moon” film clip and showing us a glass jar in which moon-dust was displayed … I was such a small kid then. The assasination of Mujibur Rehman, the first President of Bangladesh …. so many memories

2. Music & Movies : Beatles of course …. and more Beatles with a bit of Don Mclean and Neil Diamond thrown in. If you really wanted to impress people that you were hip, then you listened to Leonard Cohen. By the late seventies we got introduced to Simon-Garfunkel, Clapton, Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd and the likes – and have still got the taste for that. Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar were the music in those times, Rajesh Khanna was on the wane and Amitabh Bacchan was on the rise …, Mumtaz and Sharmila Tagore were okay … but Praveen Babi and Zeenat Aman were the babes. Could not watch a lot of English movies – I was allowed to go watch them only with my brother – and only got to see the Trinity movies or Westerns sigh!!!

3. Inner Life We were bullshitters par excellence in those days and pondered a lot on the meaning of life. “Get out of the rat race, expand your conciousness and tune in to the universe” was the mantra. The world was full of young people seeking alternatives to simple material gain … and a lot of those alternatives being marijuana and hash !!! It was really the time of rebellion and rejection of establishment and money was such a dirty word heh! Ahhh never mind, the parents insisted that we get a good education and a whole lot of us are gainfully employed and responsible citizens now. The hippie in me really surfaces when I listen to this song “While my guitar gently weeps”

4. Clothes Outasize kurtas clinched on the waist with huge belts, jeans, kohlapuri chappals and a jhola was the uniform of the era, shoulder length hair that was combed under pressure of elders and then carefully mussed up, preferably under a fan to achieve the proper look!! Lipstick was not acceptable … and if used, it had to be brown.

5. Phoren meant phoren …. there it was – perfumes, creams, shimmery fabrics, good chocolates and even chicklets were impossible to get for any amount of money, which made the clear social distinction between the phoren-returned and other desis. Those that had gone abroad or had close relatives coming in from abroad looked down upon the others …..

6. T.V. While we were doing our thing and rebelling, the world around us kept taking quiet conventional revolutions. That is until TV became a big thing – from the yesteryears 3 hours in the evening and Krishi Darshan types, more entertainment was telecast like HUM LOG and then gasp Lalitaji hit the TV screen without any warning … I wonder if any one remembers her and the hugely popular serial Rajni? I was fascinated – being the hippie no longer held any appeal – I wanted to be Rajni or Lalitaji taking the world by its collar and demanding that I be given quality service.

That marked for me the end of youth and the beginning of adult life ……..

Bruce Willis’ THE KID revisited

Bruce Willis as Rusty Duritz in THE KID (after learning how his life’s gonna be in the next 32 years) : So, I’m forty, I’m not married, I don’t fly jets, and I don’t have a dog? I grow up to be a loser!

Wonder what I wanted to be as a 8 year old girl??? If I accidentally met the eight year old me, wonder what she would think of me ????? Let me take a trip down memory lane.

1. As a 3 year old girl I wanted to be a doctor ….. just so that I could even the score with countless medicos who jabbed needles into me and/or gave me lousy medicines to swallow.

2. As a 5 year old I did not want to be a Bharat Natyam dancer . I remember that pretty clearly. Dancing was for sissy girls, I wanted to be a trapeze artist. LOL, that is funny to remember now as I suffer from vertigo!!!

3. As an 8 year old, I wanted to be a swordsman/woman and a Lath expert. I thought fighting with sticks and swords was a pretty cool thing. To my eternal regret my parents thought otherwise and spanked me for enlisting the entire kiddie brigade into experimenting with that. Can still remember their horror and concern that we may lose an eye or a nose/ear trying to beat each other with bamboos and wooden and cardboard swords.

4. As a 10-12 year old I wanted to be a movie star (pretty standard for any pre-teen I guess), but again I did not want to be heroine – they were so goody-two-shoes in our youth!!! No I wanted to be like Helen or Bindu and make an impact. So what if the last shot would be of the vamp dying or weeping. At least they made an impact!!!

5. At 16 (my movie and modelling ambitions having been seriously curtailed by parents) I did not want to be a doctor. I wanted to chill and have fun!!

So what would I say if I met the 8 year old me ? I would tell her, “Life is tough and you will have to struggle and fight to get what you want and deserve. It will never get easy. Life will be lonely too, but hang in there. I know how stubborn we are. Just hang in there and fight. You’ll get what you want if you work at it. Yes Life is Totally Worth the Pain, the Frustrations.

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL

I dont wanna go to school

Me: Mom, I feel sick.
Her: (feeling my forehead) you don’t feel warm.
Me: Cough! Cough! Hack!!!!!! But, I’m sick! My Tummy Hurts!

Her : You don’t cough when your tummy hurts. Get dressed, you’re late

Okay agreed that was lame, it was actually lamer than lame!!!! Besides my mother was The Big Army Chief, and us mere underlings were the poor soldiers

Jawaan, seedhe khade ho ATEEEENSHUN!!!

Ab basta pakadkar quick march karenge, left right left

And off to school we went. But I was persistent and tried again and again. I heard somewhere that putting a raw onion under your armpit works in raising your temperature. So I tried that. Verdict : Middling success. Make up works sometimes, u know kaajal under the eyes with foundation on the face. Warning!!!! Don’t rob mother’s pancake too often – you will get busted. Strategy can work, apply to Dad. Moms of this world cant be fooled easily. KETCHUP WITH HAMMING THAT YOU ARE DYING JUST DOES NOT WORK, NOT EVEN WITH DAD!!!!

My mother was simply not fooled easily. Unless you had over 101 temperature, 16 chicken pox on the body, a fracture or green snot oozing out of your nose, it did not work. My kids had it easy. When they came whining, trying their darnedest to look cute and sick at the same time, I’d look them in the eye and say “Negative marking for over-acting. Make me suffer more of that and it will come off your pocket money”, check if they had some test or something important at school and if not, they could stay home. Anyhow I was never obsessed with having over achievers.

I hate what schools are becoming now-a-days. “That place” has literally become a disturbing mediocre piece of crap that teaches to the tests and worries more about teaching our kids how to make friends and why it isn’t ok to be a bully. They rifle through the kids snacks to make sure they are healthy before they allow them to eat it, they even try to make us sign contracts every year promising to restrict tv viewing in our home to 1/2 hour a day, among other things. I always refused to sign, much to my boys’ embarrassment. Damn them for telling me how to raise my kids. They preach about why its not okay to bully and mug up, and then bully us and the kids to mug up.

Sibling Rivalry

Aaaah, it really brings back memories. My brother, a year younger to me, would blackmail me into doing his home work and then bash the shit out of me for coming first in class. I was no sissy either. Being female, there used to be a plot in the revenge I would extract. The funniest thing I ever did to him was waiting for the rain to cover this enormous pot hole (which he didn’t know about of course). One day my dream came true before the road repair dudes found it. Then I dared him to ride his bike as fast as he could through the puddle. He looked at me in distrust (I really don’t know why! ). So I called him a sissy and that did the trick. He hit that puddle full force, then found the pothole….his cycle stopped and he kept going with his arms splayed out!!! It was comical. I laughed so hard. He ran home before I could intercept him, and snitched. Got a good old fashioned butt whippin for that one!!!!! Ooooh the memories

Honestly he was such a sneaky pesky brat. He once found me in a not so nice situation (which he wouldn’t have if he weren’t snooping on me) and threatened to tell our parents. I totally lost it and the fight started in the back lawn ….. continued into the house and spilled into the front yard. The servants and the neighbour hosed us down with a pipe. He was like totally cowed down, covered with scratches, bite marks ….. I had a black eye, a bloody nose, my T Shirt was torn, and I was still bashing the shit out of him in jeans and a bra!!!!! To paraphrase one of my uncles who would routinely refree the fights we cousins had with each other —- he must’ve been a Conan and Ben Hur fan

“Attack the opponent, crush the enemy, kill them, make them flee, and hear the lamentations of their women A A A A K R A M A NNNNNNN!”

Sibling Rivalry ……… I spaced my own two sons – there is an 8 year gap between the two of them. I thought it would make the going easier. But it does kick in early. I really don’t know who has the advantage on whom. Kid #1 is fitter and stronger physically but simpler – Kid # 2 is larger, sly, and a snitch. So I guess it is evenly matched. Who needs TV when you have live entertainment like that to enjoy?

Kids now a days watch a whole lot of wrestling, know things like choke holds, arm locks and such like stuff, but good old fashioned dangal is beyond them after a certain point. I never had to rush them to the emergency ward. My two brats broke the bed, covered it up with the mattress, and “forgot” all about it. When I sat on it with my cup of tea in the evening after work, I sank into it and scalded myself with the tea. I yelped in pain and the Ba@#$!ds ran in, looked at me and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Of course now they are adults and content themselves by passing sarcastic comments on each other, or walling themselves up in stony silence. What do you know, soon they will end up respecting each other and actually calling each other Bhai Sahib instead of unprintable names.

Siblings

Let me just put here, as a safety measure this statement ……….. I believe it was Mark Twain who said “All generalizations are false including this one”. Of course I do not think my kids will ever read this.

Kids born to the same set of parents and being brought up in the same environment tend to be so different. It is something that gave me (an over anxious single parent) lots of anxious moments and made me feel like I was the suckiest mother ever!!! Then I started looking at other kids. Here are certain gems of wisdom – that one can learn from or discard. Feel free to do either …..

Kid No. 1 : Like the first meal you cook, absolutely memorable, perhaps the most difficult and most probably inedible. I am a first born. I think my parents should have put me on a train with a one way ticket to a land far far away !!!!! New parents get on to the job with more enthusiasm than necessary, I know of a mother who even disinfected the furniture in her child’s room. She must have been a first born too Every moment of #1’s life has been photographed, his/her world is dominated by parents hovering, agonising over every move, being over-protective and over disciplining or under disciplining the child. No wonder they tend to be most neurotic, most cautious, most succesful and most pleasing to the adults.

Kid No. 2 : By this time the parents have kind of got tired of the novelty of being parents. They tend to be more easy so they dont feature big in this kid’s world. The world of Kid No. 2 is dominated by this other being who is bigger, stronger, has all the toys, all the attention and privileges and hence must be brought down a peg or two. No. 2 is independent, manipulative, impulsive, rather indifferent to parents and other grown ups. No. 1 is passively aggressive. No. 2 is not!!!! Every thing (specially the favorite toys of No. 1) is MINE. If challenged, the water works start!!! Not easy for Kid No. 1, first being displaced from the throne of being the only baby of the family, and then having to give away your treasured possessions.

Kid No. 3 : This one is seen infrequently, what with the cost of living being so high. I encountered Kid No. 3 in close quarters in my daughter in law. Kid No. 3 is a charmer. This child’s universe is full of excitement and love from a family that’s survived the learning curve. They are bubbling with excitement, amazingly grounded (by product of being constantly bullied by siblings may be) and unique individuals. They have lot of individuality and do not conform to any stereotype. What is noticeable is their sense of balance and the ability to take everything in their stride.

I have not experienced larger families than 3 kids so I dont know much about kid nos. 4, 5, 6 and beyond. Big families are common in farming communities and labourers have large families, as each child adds to their income. I think big famillies must be fun to grow up in, though hell on the pocket of the parent. The kids must be very well adjusted.

And hey kids, if you ever read this …… specially my #1, i was joking okay

Of Embroidery and MA

Once in a while I miss my childhood …… essentially that presupposes that I have grown up. Well, once in a while I guess I have. What I have got nostalgic for is the afternoon sessions when I was finishing my home work on the living room floor, under the eagle eye of my mother, who would be knitting endlessly. The various Punjabi auntyjees would drop in for a casual round of gup-shup. All of them would be fully loaded with needlework, knitting, mending. They would settle down for chai, samosas, bread pakoras and gossip. I guess I miss those auntyjees – loud, boisterous and interfering. I really must get my head examined evil grin. They were overweight, dressed in colourful salwar suits and had the most wonderful laughs …… you have to hear a punjaban laugh to understand what I mean – the laugh starts somewhere in the paunch … oops sorry … belly and works its way up to the throat – loud, full throated and earthy. No one who hears it can remain straight faced.

After a suitable interval in which tea would served and the various embroideries and knittings admired, they would settle down to the real agenda of the meeting i.e. gossip. Everything under the sun was discussed. At times when something particularly juicy was to be discussed, my mother would turn to me and say …. Go get a glass of water, or go check what your brother is doing. Of course I would get up and walk out, hang around behind the door and eavesdrop!!! I learnt a lot about life in the small community we lived that way. There certainly was a lot happening ….. and lots of it was juicy.

Then came the ritual I hated the most. My embroidery or art work was brought out to be admired. I hated embroidery with a passion, and I can draw, but only cartoons. But cooking, sewing and crochet were mandatory for girls born in my generation. We had to spend dreary hours crouched over stuff we had to cross-stitch, tapestries we had to make all for our trousseau. It ranked a close second to getting good marks in school. Good Punjabi girls had to know phulkaari, crochet, make good paranthas and get good grades. Phew, no wonder most of us are cranky!!!!!

I escaped this when got into college. My world changed, but my roots definitely did not. When I decided I wanted to do M.A., and told my mother …….. One of the auntyjees looked at me totally confused and asked

Nee kee karna chahndi hai too (What do you want to do?)

Jee M.A. karna hai mainu (I want to do M.A.)

Kyun, roti zyada gol villegi pher (Why, will your roti be rounder then?)

Oh wow!!!! That left me speechless.

Endearments and food

This is the time of political correctness. Words are supposed to be used with great caution. For a person coming from Punjab the concept is totally alien. Just consider this – Fat is uncool and we have Punjabi endearments like Gur vakkan mithi, and my all time favorite Sohneyo, Makhan de doneyo. One of my uncles was a typical Punjabi and would always call me his rabri malai!!! What calorific love!!! It got me thinking, do all regional languages have such terms? I don’t know. What I do know is that in America in the south terms like sugar, honey bun, sweet cake etc are used, much to the disgust of the rest of America which is bland and politically correct.

I remember squirming when my Uncle called me rabri malai and protesting – Chachu either you’ll give me diabetes or make me a fat auntyji. But a few endearments thrown in express love, and also make this world a pleasanter place. Of course the other form of endearments like Harbhajan’s “Teri Maa Ki” also add colour to the world and become subject for hot discussion in the front pages of leading dailies . I am not getting into that here. It has been discussed threadbare in other blogs!!!!

I had gone recently to visit some people who are very propah and upper-crust. Now I am very uncomfortable around the “cultured” sort of people as I am quite the opposite. An hour spent in such rarified atmosphere is a bit too much thank you. Over a cup of tea with a twist of lemon, the lady was complaining about the rustic terms used by the common people. It is not acceptable or politically correct – she said. I wonder ….. is political correctness another word for intolerance? The world is growing smaller … and then there is the internet which connects us to people of various cultures. A few “honeys” and “sweetness” thrown in will definitely make the going smoother and sweeter……. and may be chubbier