QUEEN OF ALL I SURVEY 

                                                                                   

 

 

The seed nurtured with maternal warmth

watered by the fountain of joy and mirth

soaked in the sunshine of paternal care

births the woman, who paints the sky

where only eagles dare to fly.

 

I want you to know that I, the woman

-       daughter, sister, mother or wife,

-       who sees only the possible in life

am beginning to understand that the world is inside me,

my perspective, my heart and in my psyche.
 

 

To find peace and strength, I look within;

learn to master my fear

scale mountains, fight wars and wipe many a tear

rewrite history with a new pen

to change the fate of the world and my fellowmen.

 

I, nurturer of all mankind

singing symphonies of joy and love

break barbarous shackles of every kind.

Why await another to berate me

why await another to liberate me?

 

Armed with weapons of truth and dare

loud and clear is my clarion call

come join arms, usher in a new day

as I ride the lion of courage

Head held high, Queen of all I survey !

Copyright@Dr. Sunil Kaushal

12/02/2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             BOOK REVIEW : by Dr Sunil Kaushal

 

                                          Dr Santosh Bakaya’s :

     ‘Flights From My Terrace: The Boy In Yellow Knickers

And Other Essays

 

                                                  

Dr. Santosh Bakaya, based at Jaipur, is an academician, poet and author who
 
started writing limericks while in the sixth standard.

Her father, himself a writer, greatly influenced her love for writing.

Writing mystery novels for young adults, she went on to a book of essays- ‘Flights From My Terrace,’ a book of memoirs and some essays. She has been critically acclaimed for her poetic biography – ‘Ballad Of Bapu.’ She has also won the Reuel  International Award for her long poem, ‘O Hark’ in May,2016. The Pentasi b friendship Poetry group and the Ghana Government conferred her with the Universal Inspirational Award. Many of her poems have made it to the highly commendable category of Destiny Poets, a UK based poetry website, besides having figured in many international anthologies. Her book, 'Where are the Lilacs', a collection of peace poems, is also winning international laurels. Her other books are ‘Under the Apple Boughs,’ besides she has co-edited a compilation of prize winning ghost stories, ‘Darkness there, but Something More,’ and two anthologies- one of contemporary women poets and the other an anthology on parents, ‘Umbilical Chords.’ Her stories in the anthology, ‘Silhouette I &II’ are captivating.   

                                                      

 ‘Flights From My Terrace’ is a delightful collection of 58 essays, mostly memoirs and ‘The Boy in Yellow Knickers’ an endearing experience during her trip to Accra, Ghana. The narrative not only captures the interest of the reader but amuses and excites as well, being full of real life. The bite sized chapters make for great reading for those on the go. It is a book I would recommend for all reasons and all seasons, all ages and all stages.  

First my eleven year old grand- daughter - grabbed the book as soon the courier was delivered in my hands, and had hopped onto Santosh’s chariot (the wings of her imagination), before I could get a chance myself. Off and on I would surreptitiously lay my hands on it, read a chapter or two, when the little scamp did not lock it in her cupboard, before going to school !

With a great sense of loss, I shut the book ‘Flights from my Terrace’ as I finished reading it. It took me much longer than the time I’ve ever spent reading such a readable and compelling book as this one. Halfway through, I deliberately slowed down, taking it in slowly, savoring it like the last piece of my favorite chocolate, not wanting it to finish. But one day it finally did.

The book awakens emotions, sensibilities and ignites a curiosity about the minutest aspects of everyday life. She paints it with a brush of keen observation, an identification and connection with lives of all colours and hues, the rich and poor, the master and worker, parents and children, siblings and friends, students and teachers—in fact there is no aspect of life she does not touch, in the way we think or believe, how we form relationships and what we ask for in life.

That truly sends the reader too on a journey of nostalgia and introspection as she chronicles her mind’s meanderings into nostalgic lanes, replete with memories of her childhood, her parental home, the loss of her grandmother and later her beloved father, including the loss of her homeland. She grieves as deeply for her longtime aged helper Mitthu Khan and Nipper, her pet.  Her own childhood reawakens as she takes trips back and forth into her daughter, Iha’s childhood.  Throughout, her daughter and her husband, Lalit’s tugs and pulls keep bringing her back to the reality of the present or she would perpetually be on flights into time and space like the colourful kites that make a frequent appearance in her writings.

One feels that the world only revolves around me and that there is no room for anything else beyond what is in and around my life. Just extend your vision with Santosh and see the world with eyes meant for a wider canvas. She reminds me of the time I saw the first cinemascope movie in color - was it Mother India or Navrang, I don’t remember, but my view of the cinema world changed forever. That is what she does to her readers.

Her stories make you ask ….what is life?

Everyday what she experiences, sees or hears becomes fuel for her creative          mind. Every interaction, item, and event inspires her into writing, prompts her imagination, and entices the reader into exploring her world as she travels in her chariot from her childhood to her present life as a prolific writer.

She waves her pen like a magic wand, as she describes heady men, headless mannequins, birds that fall to the ground to be healed by a family of compassionate souls, be it her father, her daughter and husband or Santosh herself; the same birds soaring again into the limitless skies having been tended to, by their loving and caring hands; Nipper and Lazy, as much her family as her merry band of siblings and friends, with her as a ring leader and eager participant and prankster in all the escapades they undertook; sunrises vying with sunsets in descriptions of their glorious beauty, the sands and storms of arid Rajasthan juxtaposed against the splendorous  and scintillating beauty of her ‘heart land’ Kashmir where the placid waters of the Dal lake, the lilacs, the cuisines spiced with the heart warming love of her homeland’s people, tug at the heartstrings as she is pulled towards her roots, yet sees no hope of a return, feeling a stranger in her own home.

Her emotions range from the excited screeching and yelling of a youngster, the grief of losing loved ones, the warmth of maternal love as she delights and at times gets exasperated at the different stages and moods as her daughter grows from infancy to adulthood, the struggles of living life as the common man, travelling to and from Bharatpur to Jaipur in ramshackle buses with all sorts of climatic challenges, but all the time writing, writing and writing. I wonder if anything ever escapes her keen eye as it takes in more than is visible to most of us. When she takes us along on her travels, she is not showing us new lands or new experiences – all she does is show us our everyday life with a new pair of eyes.

The words and phrases that slip off her pen, like ‘so much of a muchness’, facebooker prize, to-ing and fro-ing or pighling’ lend a delightful newness to the English language, adding to her already vast and astounding vocabulary be it metaphors, similes or alliteration.

 I cannot sign off without mentioning the comments of my eleven year old grand- daughter, Mishti –‘ Nancy (her endearment for me) this book is awesome. I read many chapters but you know, today I read that story Daughter’s Day.’

 ‘So, did you enjoy it?’

‘I was overwhelmed to realize that every day is Daughter’s Day for a mother !’

Profound observation gleaned by a little child, for Santosh has woven many such philosophical thoughts into her writings which are full of bonhomie, camaraderie and lighthearted humour as well.

 ‘Yes, another request Naani - can I please have this book autographed by Aunty?’

                                      

 

 

                            MAKAR SANKRANTI- LOST AND FOUND

 

                                                

 Like all other festivals, yesterday, Lohri too was celebrated collectively at Magarpatta, Pune, with great fervor and the usual gaiety of ‘dhol dhamaka’ accompanied by ‘boliyan’ and ‘tappe’, to the rhythm of which  the young and old, the shy and bold, the hot and cold, all felt compelled to dance, each to his own rhythm whether it was 'giddha, bhangra, dandiya' or just a hotchpotch of gyrations and twirling around to the clapping that everyone boisterously joined in.  A  large bonfire warmed hearts and hands as people gathered, bonhomie all round, greeting each other, circumbulating the sacred fire symbolic of the sun, offering to it groundnuts, ‘til-gatchak, revari and poha’ before partaking of it as ‘prasad.’

Some families brought dry fruits as well. North Indians blessed with a son, distributed sweets with proud smiles on their well fed faces. Little infants, all bundled up in thick woolens and cuddled up in the arms of proud parents or doting grandparents, either slept unmindful of the ear splitting beats of drums, or if awake, cried in fright at the disturbance in their daily routines. The slightly older ones looked around with their round eyes full of wonder at the lights, noise and hectic activity. Irrespective of how the children felt, grownups continued with their festivities. So I was told by a neighbor who attended the function.

 It is ten years since I left Punjab for other lands. Six years in Chennai, I did not miss the Lohri celebrations much, as Pongal was celebrated with great gusto and zeal. There were games for children from early morning - including kite flying, pottery making, a ‘kolam’ competition for women, which brought out the artist in most of them, who created extremely intricate designs. Many other activities and a sale kept everyone in a celebratory mood and occupied.


In the evening women dressed in resplendent brightly colored Kanjeevaram silk saris, teenagers and children in trendy outfits, gathered in the community area where bullock cart rides for the kids, drew screams of delight and fright, as they all tried to pile into one cart simultaneously. Parents anxious for their young ones to have a great time and yet worried for their safety, as they all jostled and pushed to get on board, ran all the length of the ride along with the bullock. I am certain the bullock must have been glad that he was not the only beast of burden as I saw him shake his head, (with mirth?) jingling the bells and festoons tied to his horns and in his neck !

 
Since shifting to Pune, I lost touch with most North Indian festivals out of sheer disinterestedness.  Yesterday, visitors kept me busy in the evening and although I could hear sounds of the drums and singing from far, I did not think of going there.

Today, when my daughter, Vidisha, told me about the crowds that had gathered for kite flying in Aditi Gardens, a beautifully landscaped park in the heart of Magarpatta, I had just finished reading Santosh Bakaya’s post on Sankranti and kite flying.  Santosh’s description of the sky being painted with all the hues possible with kites of all sizes, shapes and colors made me wonder if I should have gone to Aditi Gardens too. Santosh has a way of doing this to her readers- she carries you into another world, wherever it be !

Something akin to ‘Punjabiyat’ stirred inside me. I have never tried my hand at this sport and have never been too interested either, but today I felt I had missed something that is probably a very exhilarating experience.  All of a sudden I was all nostalgia. I started missing seeing the mounds of groundnuts by roadsides or on carts, along with the ritualistic 'gatchak and revari'.



The smell of freshly popped corn and roasted groundnuts travelled all those miles, assailing my olfactory nerves, reviving subconscious memories and I was back in my homeland where every street and corner was bursting at the seams with revelers, newly married couples, newly become parents and all that is associated with this festival signaling harvesting, abundance and gratitude for all that nature bestows on us. I felt I had missed attending the celebration but consoled myself that it would not have been the same as back home.

I have always resented the fact that Punjabis celebrate Lohri for a son only. To assert my own independent thinking, ingrained in us by a very broadminded and revolutionary father, I have celebrated Lohri for my daughter as well as my two granddaughters, just as my parents did on the birth of my sister and me.

At dusk, the sounds of children playing in the play area opposite our house, their screaming and shouting, the thudding of their ball, carried through my bedroom window. I felt life was passing me by as I just sat around whiling time, and decided to go for a walk to lift my spirits.

 I donned my walking shoes and went down to the ground floor. Walking along the length of our whole block as I turned the corner, I saw an unusual and intriguing sight.


 
 An elderly man  was sitting on a chair under the trees that lined the outer wall. In front of him, the dancing orange flames of a bonfire glowed in the approaching dusk. As I drew closer I saw that he had lit the fire on a corrugated iron sheet and on another chair rested a large ‘thal’ with groundnuts, ‘gatchak- revri’ and popcorn. I stopped out of curiosity and courtesy as he spoke, ‘Bhenji , Lohri Mubarak.’

 
I too wished him and took some of the sweets which he offered, flung some into the fire, bowing my head in reverence to the Sun God. On his insistence I picked up another fistful to eat. Recognizing a fellow Punjabi from his accent, I asked him where he was from. When he said Jalandhar, I felt an empty space which my homeland had previously occupied, getting filled. I started speaking in Punjabi and he was equally delighted to meet someone from his own home town speak his mother tongue.

 
He told me why they could not celebrate or join in the collective celebrations the previous day, as his little new born granddaughter was a little unwell. The party for his son’s and daughter in law’s colleagues had just got over and he was waiting for the fire to burn out completely. It was the time of the evening when many people took a walk around that block and he was offering sweets to everyone asking them to bless his little girl. I too blessed the little angel and continued with my walk, feeling happy that other people too, celebrated Lohri for baby girls ! I specially felt happy that he had taken all the trouble to take permission from the administration to have this little celebration, as it is otherwise not allowed in Magarpatta on an individual level within the precincts.

 I climbed the steps that led to the play area built on a second level and sat down on a stone bench to catch my breath. Just then a rustling sound above my head made me look upwards, as a kite hovered undecidedly in the sky. Some boys were trying their best to get it higher up. The lawn in this park is quite large but since it lies in the centre, hemmed all round by high rise apartments, it is an airless still space, unless a breeze is blowing.


 
A little girl,l whom I recognized as the daughter of one of the maids, came running and offered to help. As she shouted ‘kani dey, kani’, a little boy stretching the thread taut, lifted it as high as possible above his head and gave it a shove upwards. It rose for a short while and then came cruising down, close above my head. Hurriedly jumping up I caught the crashing kite and gave it another push upwards. A sudden gust of wind caught it in its flow and carried it on its wings, the little girl expertly giving it more and more 'dheel' to the 'dor' and at intervals letting the kite just sail around. As it rose higher and higher above in the sky, I watched it silhouetted against the setting sun till it became a tiny speck.


At 73, I was acquiring a new skill. The girl and I were scaling new heights.

Just as I am so fond of saying, ‘One rose shall be my garden,’ that day one kite had made my Makar Sankranti celebrations complete.

 
Reaching home I headed straight towards the kitchen, lit the gas, put a ‘tawa’ on it, roasted some poha and til on it, in place of a bonfire - fire is equally sacred whether it be from wood or gas; opened a packet of salted peanuts, took out the gatchak –revri I had carried back from Chandigarh a few days back .(For which I had paid around Rs 2000  as excess baggage, on the flight back to Pune,for a few hundreds worth of sweets and felt like a fool for it.) But today I had got my money’s worth as it brought along the flavor of Punjab, Lohri and Makar Sankranti, as I sat down to celebrate, understanding the dictum better -
                                HOME IS WHERE THE HEART LIES !!

My takeaway can be expressed in my daughter Vidisha Kaushal's favourite words--

                                             "DON'T LOOK FOR JOY
                                                                  BE THE JOY"

               HOPE YOU ALL HAD A GREAT LOHRI AND MAKAR SANKRANTI !!

                    
                           GREETINGS TO ALL MY FRIENDS IN INDIA AND ABROAD

 

 

 

 

                          

THE DAY SHE TOUCHED MY LIFE

                                                                               

 

Destiny works in mysterious and miraculous ways, silently guiding your footsteps to the path meant for you, to learn the life lessons, you came into this world for.

 In June, 1983 I was working as a Medical Officer at Ruby Nelson Hospital, Jalandhar. It was a Monday and we were up to our ears in work, even as early as 9am. A call for me at the reception, (there were no mobiles then.) had me wondering, as I hurried to take it. I was surprised to hear the voice of a dear friend, Mr.D.P.Sehgal, President of The National Thinkers Forum, of which I was the Vice-President, “Hello, please try to reach the church in Jalandhar Cantt. as soon as possible. Mother Teresa is coming to Jalandhar and will be at the church within an hour.”

As President, Lioness Club, Jalandhar along with the office bearers of The Rotary Club, Progressive Thinkers Forum and Jaycee Club, we had managed to get a suitable plot of land, allotted for 'Shanti Bhavan' through the local authorities. All the formalities were complete, buildings had been constructed to suit the needs of the Home, and only the papers had to  be handed over to Mother.

 We had been requesting her for a suitable date. But this visit was sudden and unplanned. I was both excited and hectic, suddenly having to raise the bar in my administrative abilities. I had always been in awe of this saintly crusader but couldn’t believe that I was actually going to meet her in person. Although caught unaware, we rapidly made phone calls, in a chain service and managed to call around 100 people to welcome her.

After praying at the cantonment, she came to the church attached to St. Joseph's Convent, for girls. As she prayed kneeling by the roadside on the graveled foot track, we all kneeled too. A good fifteen minutes elapsed and in those few minutes I was soaked in sweat with the overhead sun showering embers, as the day had advanced. My knees felt sore and I was tired but was embarrassed to shift my position, as I was kneeling right next to Mother. It seemed like sacrilege to do so, with her kneeling so steadily, lost in prayer.

An old frail woman, short and stooping, hunched over but walked with a determined step, as we stood up and I guided her towards the car, to take us further. We had organized a brief inauguration ceremony at the site of the building. There was tea being served along with light refreshments, but Mother did not drink a glass of water even, during all those hours. She always tried to pack in as much service as possible into her day. People filed by, one by one. She smiled lovingly, blessing them and I stood by, waiting patiently.

After everyone had met her, I stepped close to her and asked her, “Mother, is there anything you would like me to do?”

“Can you do two things for me?” said this humble messenger of God in her soft whispering voice. I would have gone to the end of this earth to fulfill any command of hers.

“Please help the sisters get a gas connection. They have many problems cooking for the children on kerosene stoves.”

I was stunned and overwhelmed.

I had booked for an extra gas connection for my hospital and had received the number just a day earlier, after a wait of almost a year, which was the normal procedure during those times. The connection card was in my purse, at that moment. I was surprised, at the simplicity of her demand and her humility. I promised her I would do it immediately, wondering how she had asked for something literally in my hands. At that time I had no understanding about the synchronicity of events, and how the universe conspires to nudge you towards fulfilling certain actions, meant to propel you forwards on your spiritual journey.

“Now, the second thing I want from you is that, you do not conduct abortions. If there are any unwanted children, please give them to me.”

(Conducting MTP’s( medical termination of pregnancy) was an acceptable legal procedure and was being performed by doctors as a routine. I too was doing this, helping my patients get rid of unwanted pregnancies, as well as controlling the burgeoning population of our country. Of course, the main motive was to earn money and the goodwill of my patients. It never struck me that I was perhaps preventing the birth of certain souls that were meant to be on this earth, at that point in time. My conscience would hesitatingly try to raise its head off and on, but I quickly stamped it down with the heel of denial. What ‘Karma’ I was creating, was something I had no time, inclination or awareness to ponder upon.)

 Mother’s words jolted me.  Once again, she had asked me for something that was literally in my hands. I gasped inwardly, nodding my head.

(Even as I write this I am getting goose bumps, remembering the intensity of my emotional turmoil at that moment.)

While I was still trying to recover, as her words sank in, she stepped towards me, holding both my hands in her small bony, gnarled ones and kissed them. I just froze and  that moment is frozen in my memory forever. She had a sparkling twinkle in her smiling crinkled eyes, lighting up her deeply wrinkled, kindly face as she looked up at me. Something inside me shifted at that moment and I never again was the same person.

                                                                         ***********

Afterword:

I stopped conducting MTP’s after this incidence. Many an unwanted child, born in my hospital, was given to Shanti Bhavan, where I used to look after the children as well as the nuns. These children were quickly adopted by needy couples and my heart fills with joy and peace when I see them leading happy meaningful lives, growing up in a family and blessed with everything.

 A little later I met a severe accident in which I injured my spine and legs and was unable to walk for almost a year. I was forced to give up practicing obstetrics- gynecology, as my back did not allow me the exertion and strain on the back, involved in our work.

Some colleagues asked me to work for them in setting up a new infertility center. It was at this moment I realized, that life had come around full circle.

 Before starting any procedure, I would pray for guidance and thank Mother Teresa for having steered me on to this path. Every patient that conceived was one ‘Karma’ struck off my list; thankfully these hands were blessed with many such happy moments. Some day, some birth, I will have balanced my ‘Karmic’ account sheets hopefully!

 

 

                                   IT DIDN’T RAIN BUT IT POURED

 I had just come home after spending a lovely morning and afternoon with poets, Lily Swarn, Pratima Apte and Smitha, happy and energized.

                                                                

 

Black clouds suddenly came looming over the skyline, threatening to overpower the tall towers of concrete raising their heads, as if to kiss the skies. I stood in my balcony savoring those moments, as I listened to the swishing wind caressing the tall clumps of bamboos growing below. The breeze ruffled my hair, carrying me back to my youth. I thought to myself - ‘my type of a day,’ for I love dark billowing clouds and wintery winds. I go for a walk, get drenched in the rain and so have an excuse to sit down with a large cup of steaming hot aromatic coffee and a book I’ve been dying to read.

                                                                 

 

                                                               

          

 

The strong winds scuttled the clouds away and the sun came out again with a vengeance, shining bright. I was bathed in its glow and warmth. Just then a chariot came winging its way to my balcony, bringing along a treasure trove of stories, meant for just this type of a day and such a mood, as I was in. In the chariot came someone I would like to take the liberty to nickname, ‘Sunshine’ - if you don’t mind, Santosh Bakaya !

                                                                  

 

Earlier she was someone I admired and enjoyed reading on FB, but since meeting her at Hyderabad, I have been touched by her warm and giving nature. She is one of the most helpful and encouraging people, I have been fortunate enough to meet of late. On meeting her for the first time I was greeted so warmly with a tight warm hug- I felt I had always known her.

                                                                       

I was however, not fortunate enough to mount the chariot, for my eleven year old grand-daughter had already occupied the seat next to Santosh; the little scamp was ready to take off with her on the ‘Flights from my Terrace’, as Santosh takes off on her travels, meandering into memory lanes where her childhood still lives.

                                                                       

                                                                          

I shall be enjoying the ‘Flights’ when this young fan of Santosh's is at school and I surreptitiously manage to lay my hands on it.

 

                                                       

 

                         I am Dark, Beautiful and Extraordinary

                                                    

 

In India, especially in Punjab, being dark complexioned and ordinary is often the norm but if one is dark and attractive it seems a peculiarity, even an anomaly to some.

 Everything else on this earth should be of different colours to provide variety but a person is considered beautiful, by many, only if the skin is fair. Nature created us humans like everything else, in different shapes and shades. While acquiring material goods, we even ignore the packing altogether at times if the contents inside are to our liking. But are kinked in our outlook for human beings especially women. Being black, brown, white or yellow skinned often tilts the happiness quotient for a person right from childhood. Children can often be very cruel and hurt the dark complexioned with remarks picked up from elders at home, or because they themselves feel inferior or have been bullied by  someone else.

My elder sister, ten years elder to me, was very fair, robust looking, had hazel eyes and  long thick black hair. In other words she was the ‘ultimate beauty’ by ‘Punjabi standards’.  On the other hand I was dark (wheatish complexioned as most Indians choose to call it, probably to dilute the harshness of the word BLACK), skinny and very frail; being sickly I looked quite the opposite of my almost ‘Pathan’ looking sibling. Relatives and family friends did not refrain from commenting on the difference in our looks, often in my presence. Both our brothers were almost like me but for people they were ‘BOYS’.  At times it would hurt me a little, but I did not get disturbed for long because such matters had no importance for a small child.

Being a quiet one, engrossed in studies and interested in many other activities as well, I would always be engaged in something or the other. Thankfully times were such that children had no concept of beauty/ glitz and glamour or styles and fashion, like most grownups also of those times. Beauty was measured by features, colour of the skin and health. My mother would dress me in pants and shirts to cover me up as much as possible because I was prone to colds and coughs and Dehra-Dun winters were rather harsh. I yearned to wear frocks and skirts, but no, my knobby knees had to be covered.  However, the love showered on me by my parents and siblings, cocooned me in its warmth and only occasionally was I made aware by outsiders that I was not like my sister. She doted on me and the child in me was happy enough to enjoy that and was content to feel proud to have a ‘pretty’ sister. Probably those were the beginnings of living in denial. Somewhere in the subconscious things must have got stored to manifest as sicknesses in later life.

As I grew older I became conscious of the fact that a dark complexion was a deterrent at  some levels. During plays or dance performances in school I would be given a male role because I was ‘tall, dark and handsome’, although I was a much better dancer than the ‘females’. I never put this feeling into words or acknowledged it to myself but the feeling of being lesser to some degree, sunk deeper and deeper into my subconscious.

On joining Isabella Thoburn College, Lucknow, I had some college mates who were  beauty queens of different states or daughters of actors even. They had glamorous looks and impressive backgrounds which nurtured and promoted physical beauty. Of course, there were many others, who like me, were ordinary looking and middle class. But during adolescence one is only focused on oneself, and it was no consolation that there were others like me or lesser even in some ways. I neither had the knowledge nor resources to improve my looks.

My mother often used to say, “Youth in itself is beautiful,” that made me feel beautiful and attractive.  I would look for long in the mirror and try to observe what my best assets  were and  noticed that my eyes and hair were  my best features. I learnt by chance from other’s remarks that I was attractive. A family friend once remarked, “She’s got lovely features, how much better would she have looked if only she’d been fair.” Instead of feeling bad I was thrilled to hear that I had good features. I was a lively, chirpy and vivacious youngster. But it took me a little longer to realize that I was quite popular and endeared myself to most college mates and teachers as a person. It had nothing to do with looks. Some friends from those days are till today, very close to me. The colour of my skin has never been a hurdle in my having great friendships.

Malati, a senior at college when I was a fresher, further inspired me to polish my persona and hone my assets. She was about, 5’7″, had a very dark and  gorgeous smooth textured skin, large almond shaped  black shining eyes  and a figure like the Apsaras carved on the Khajuraho Temples. She wore a bright red kum-kum bindi, lined her eyes thickly as was the trend then, and wore natural lip gloss. Her raven black thick hair fell far below her hips in a thick, sensuous plait. When she walked down the long corridors in a  plain white organdie  sari and a long sleeved blouse she appeared like an angel from heaven , gracefully gliding like a swan with her head held high on her slender neck.  All of us wore sleeveless clothes, being the style then, and hair done according to the fashion of the times. Those who are familiar with Lucknow know that our college was (at least in our times) the nursery for fashion shows and beauty pageants. All the outstandingly good looking ones dressed the same way and looked alike. She alone stood out with her individuality and carried the simple clothes she wore because of the beauty of her inner self. Her style was enhanced and individualized by the colour of her beautiful complexion. Multifaceted and talented she was very popular and became a role model for me.

I was a gawky fifteen year old, fresh out of school. But my abilities on the stage and as a speaker won me many accolades. This boosted my self confidence and along with academic achievements I worked on grooming myself also.

 In our college days, saris were worn for classes also and I learnt to carry my cottons  with flair having a perfect figure for it. Light  coffee coloured lipstick and a long  ‘bindi’ (fashions of the 60’s) with a thick long plait, snaking down my slender neck below my waist, completed my ensemble while my large dreamy eyes lined perfectly, twinkled with mirth as I saw people attracted towards me. I would add a dash of glamour with chunky silver jewelry which offset my dark complexion. A spark inside me had been ignited. I excelled at studies, and was a winner at all extra-curricular activities too. I soon developed a look and style quite individual and was admired by many for it and even felt victorious when some expressed jealousy. The ‘ugly duckling’ had transformed!

Later in Medical College I was considered too fashionable because I frequently wore saris, for medicos then, were dull, drab studious beings only. Being stylish was considered frivolous and a sign of not being serious about studies. Even though every year, I swept all the awards as the best drama artist and speaker, many of my  teachers did not approve of me and even harassed and downgraded me. For me lesson learnt was—looks are not everything—-damned if you don’t have looks and damned, even if you do!!

As an adult I learnt that I was loved and respected for the person I was, giving love and warmth. But also learnt that the first impression on a new person was because of my total personality and the way I conducted myself. Yes, looks did matter but very briefly and superficially for some superficial people.

When a woman is educated, independent and financially secure she commands respect and dignity that empowers her. With inner conviction and strength of character she develops a charm and unsurpassable charisma, not dependent on the colour of her skin but what lies beneath it. I am proud to be dark and beautiful; secure in the knowledge of being an extraordinary human being, having lived it all; savoured and delighted at many glories and achievements and ultimately found that my real beauty lies in the love my heart holds.

 

 

 

                                           
    Episode 6                       
                                           
                                            GYPSY WANDERINGS 

                                         

                                          REACHING CLEMENT TOWN

                                                                          

                
           Sketch of my first glimpse of Summer House by my grand-daughter - SUHANI

                            

The trucks, with a crunching grind underfoot,  probably halted with a jerk and I must have slid to the edge of the cot.  My feet felt cold, so I burrowed further under the quilt. Hearing Didi’s voice, I stirred, "Come on Guddi - wake up- let’s get down- we’ve reached.” She was shaking my shoulder and I whimpered, not understanding what was going on.Thoughts of the journey, were too far recessed in my sleep fogged little brain.  With one eye peeping out of the quilt I tried to look out.

Chains clanged and the truck shuddered as the boards at the back were flung open and shadows, crossing and recrossing in the moonlight moved around, as the drivers and orderlies tumbled out of the trucks.

 Picking me up, she wrapped me in a shawl and carried me to the edge of the truck, where one of the orderlies downloaded me. Knuckling my eyes, I tried to look around. I was dreaming and was in fairyland. Then someone stood me on the ground; as I wobbled, trying to balance on the rough and uneven surface, Bhaji held me, keeping me from falling. Elder brothers can be a blessing, till they grow up and start bossing around!

So, what does a five year old remember? It would be difficult to put all the fragments of memory together, though I know that it would make a pretty picture if I succeed. There is so much of memory, from such a long time ago, mixed with subsequent layers of memories about so many people. Yes, difficult it might be, but I shall still try, because I am tempted by the possible outcome.    

 I blinked my eyes wondering where I was.

A vast expanse of grass, around ten feet high, rose all around us. Topped with silvery, feathered heads, their shimmer enhanced by the moonlight, it swayed with the wind, creating a rustling sound, which was both musical and surreal. Short spells of palpable silence interrupted the rustling.  Was I in Wonderland like Alice?– I wondered, feeling
dwarfed as the grass swamped around us. It was all I could see, from where I stood.

The dogs sniffed and gave low growls, sensing strange surroundings. Suddenly, a loud, eerie, mourning howl tore through the quiet night air followed by a series of many more. I shuddered as Bhaji held me closer still.

“Jackals,” said someone.

 Myriads of tiny lights glimmered in the long grass, as also in the flowery bushes- hundreds and thousands of glow worms, their magic lanterns twinkling, confirmed my belief that I was in fairyland. The rhythmic chirping of a cicada, punctuated by intermittent silences, provided a regular beat to the music played by the wind, as it wove its way through the rustling grass.

In the centre of a rectangular plot stood ‘the bungalow’ - a building of sorts, with bricks and mortar and other construction material scattered all over; bamboo poles and planks shuttered around it. A gravel pathway ran in front of it, running backwards on the sides;  some rose bushes and night jasmines grew on one side, lending a heavenly fragrance, wafting with the wind
                            
 Two yellow lights with two legs each came swinging towards us like two pendulums, from the back of the building. Two ‘maalis’ (gardeners) carrying kerosene lanterns, came trotting, their dhoti clad legs outlined against the glowing yellow lights. They were bundled in heavy coarse blankets with monkey caps covering their heads, all but the eyes.

They touched Mummy’s feet, greeting her with a respectful ‘Namastey, Memsahib.’

' Namastey Bhaiya, kaise ho tum log?' (How are you?)

'Theek hain Beebi ji.' ( We are alright.)

'Kya naam hain tumhare?' ( What are your names?)

'Mera naam Ram Din hai aur iska Damru,' spoke the tall and thin one. Damru who

actually resembled a damru ( a small hand drum) in shape and size, was a short stocky

fellow as  broad as he was tall or rather short ! . 

 The dogs started sniffing and growling slowly at first then barking ferociously, chafing at their leashes but the orderly held them at bay.

From a pile of bricks close to where we stood, came a faint scratching sound, like an insect's wings grating on a rough surface – then a glistening black shadow, slithered out from beneath the pile, with a menacing clicking sound, vanished into the grass, sliding along its edge.

This couldn’t be fairyland!

Frightened by the snake, Didi immediately took charge of us. As we hurriedly stumbled and tumbled over mounds of bricks, sand and other rubble, Bhaji held on tightly to my hand- was he too as scared as I was ?
Damru guided us into one of the rooms, leaving a lantern on a window sill.

We used the makeshift bathroom of which a detailed description I will give elsewhere!

Inside the room was a tad bit better; the cold was less biting than in the open, but it still was freezing cold.

The doors and windows were gaping spaces in four concrete walls- they had no ‘chowkats’(jambs), leave alone glass panes or door panels. The roofs of three rooms were dripping, as they had been laid just that day.

The drivers and the others were stretching their limbs, stiff from the long journey.

Mummy immediately took charge before they lost the tempo, ordering them to start unloading the trucks and take everything inside ‘the bungalow’, placing each item methodically, to avoid double labor. The few items of furniture which amounted to four charpoys(string cots), two cupboards, four chairs and a small study table were quickly unloaded and kept together, whilst all the trunks and boxes containing clothes and other personal stuff went into another space.

The kitchen paraphernalia in wooden crates went into the kitchen, which was a large four walled, square, door-less structure, almost as large as today’s one bedroom flats; it was built apart, about ten feet behind the house.

One room which had a dry roof, was large enough to accommodate four ‘charpoys’ (string cots) on which mattresses were immediately laid, with blankets over them, covered by thick bed clothes called ‘khes’, which are woven with thread spun on a spinning wheel. I hated them as I found them too coarse and would feel itchy at the very mention of them. But all I itched for that night (or was it already morning!), was sleep!

 The men worked fast, breathing heavily out of their mouths, as puffs of warm breath spewed out and froze in the air like small misty clouds; long legged shadows reaching and receding as they carried the remaining pieces of luggage inside. One orderly nailed tarpaulins on the two doors and bedcovers on the two large windows; these Mummy had thoughtfully carried separately, to be available on arrival. Uncle had already informed her of the climatic conditions in the last postcard, received just before we left Meerut.

Winters are harsh in Dehra Dun and the cold still pushed its way in gusts, with the wind flapping the improvised doors and window panes, making mournful whistling sounds. Added to this was the moisture oozing out of the freshly plastered walls, permeating everything with the smell of wet cement. For a floor, there was a layer of gravel mixed with bits of broken brick.

There was no semblance of a home here.

The shadows cast by the kerosene lanterns added to the eeriness and our own monstrous shadows moving on the roof scared me. Expecting more snakes and prowling animals creeping into the room we stood shivering and frightened.

 Didi hastily shoved us under the heavy quilts, telling us to sleep, keeping our shoes under our mattresses; I could not understand this odd order but found it quite funny. She herself crept under one quilt, cradling Kaka in her arms, to warm the bed for him.

Mummy was supervising the unloading of the trucks, her small frame wrapped in a blanket over all the woolens she was already wearing. This diminutive little woman was a powerhouse of energy and had set the men to unload and make a place for themselves to sleep in the kitchen, before she relaxed a hold on things and came inside herself.

The 'maalis' had taken charge of the cattle, taking them to a shed at the back of the land. Soon their wives, Laxmi and Durga, came with a brass bucket of hot milk and some brass tumblers.

I was delighted, for nothing makes me happier than a hot glass of freshly boiled milk, with a thick layer of frothy cream floating on top. The aroma is enough to spike and satiate my need and greed for this, my favorite ‘comfort food’, as it is called today! I gulped the hot sweet milk and as it trickled down my throat, I could feel the warmth spreading in my body, reaching my tiny tippy toes.

Comforted by the warmth, I gripped the metal glass warming my frozen hands. My head nodding and my eyes drooping, I was at last ready for la-la land and some dreaming !

                            
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