Deep Ties

It is so exhilarating to be a journalist, to leap into the nearest creaking auto rickshaw or local train, notes and pen tucked safely away in the innermost recesses of a cavernous handbag, half a dozen pencils sharpened to a nicety, and a camera that snuggles in a pocket that clenches its teeth miraculously! So it is that, when you reach your venue, rush for a hurried brush up in the rest room and emerge mint fresh, you know it is time to look your best and ask all the right questions! My first few interviews find me, at this point, facing a suave interviewee, and delving into the aforesaid cavernous handbag! Which is when chaos takes over, and I discover myself scrabbling within to locate the half dozen pencils, all of which have acquired lives of their own. The interview begins, and I strive heroically to keep a pleasantly interested, intelligent expression on my face, even as my fingers move inside the bag, like ten little mice scurrying around for a single slice of cheese! Another

Yet another shameful chapter has been etched into our bloodstained history. When murderers roam free, adding on to the crimes on their head, people look on ignoring the fact that there is safety in numbers. And why not, since Mumbai has turned into ‘goon-land’, with certain politicians trying to keep these criminals out of jail. It’s these very goons who help them retain their seats of power. Tragic it is that two brave young men were attacked, their only fault being their innate sense of chivalry which made them retaliate when their female friends were molested by an inebriated man. What could have been a trivial incident blew out of proportion when the eve-teaser returned with a gang of 21, armed with knives and sticks, and set upon the youngsters, stabbing two of them mortally, even as the other boys hurried the girls away to safety. There were people, even guards, watching the incident in front of Mumbai’s Amboli Bar and Kitchen, much as though they were watching a movie being shot

It was like out of a scary movie plot. The cream coloured Bolero weaving into the toll plaza, was stopped by the young toll attendant and suddenly a gunshot ended it all. Twenty-two-year-old Umesh Kant Pandey would have never imagined that September 23, would be his last day, as he flagged down the vehicle of an intoxicated Vijay Veer Yadav. The place was Khekri Daula toll plaza, Gurgaon; the time an unearthly 12.30 am. When Umesh asked the Bolero driver to pay the toll tax, a paltry Rs 27, the latter whipped out his driving licence to prove that he was a resident of a nearby village, and hence, exempt from toll charges. Umesh waved him on, and closed the little window, only to find that the vehicle had not moved. When he opened the window to check, there was an altercation and Vijay Veer shot him on his neck. The CCTV cameras caught the whole event, and television viewers watched in shock as the murder was played out again and again, of the hapless young toll attendant clasping his ne

An old adage talks about the saddest sight in life being a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs. And if the said puppy is seen snuffling its way through a giant garbage heap on the street, the sight is sadder still! Amazingly, a perfectly good, empty garbage can stands desolately on the side, hiding its face in sheer neglect. Most of our cities are huge garbage cans, with every honest citizen putting in his pennyworth of rubbish in an act of charity. In this case, charity doesn’t begin at home, but on the road in front of one’s home! Sadly education touches on every aspect in pedagogy, needed and otherwise, but fails in teaching students the basic aspects of hygiene. If every parent pointed their child towards the wastepaper basket, and the larger dustbins, within their homes and beyond, these same children would take care not to throw chewing gum wrappers, biscuit covers and plastic packets on the road. And we would not see the housekeeping staff of major IT companies picking

There is a little creature in most homes who winds herself around your heart, with a winsome smile and makes your knees go wobbly with the power of her charm. She gambols around like a puppy, eyes filled with mischief, and deep secrets yet to be explored. Her hair flies about in wild disarray, her lanky limbs move with coltish grace. She is a piece of your heart; when around, she tries your patience to the maximum, but the moment she goes out anywhere, you miss her desperately. She is as elusive as the pot at the end of the rainbow, and infinitely more precious. She is the girl child. However, the girl child is still looked upon as a burden, a curse, a commodity with a limited guarantee, even in this enlightened age. The delivery date is awaited with great trepidation. The parents-in-law hover over the hapless girl, vultures waiting to swoop in case she commits the grievous sin of delivering a daughter. The husband is all set to prove his manhood, and god save his wife if she proves hi

So what do you feel about the election results?” my husband jocularly asked our cheerful maid, who goes by the romantic name of Vennila, which means moonlight. She often jokes about her name: “My mother gave me this name, little realising that I would be so dark complexioned!” She smiled at my husband’s query, and replied: “What difference does it make to us, sir?” What followed was a revelation to us. “I wish we could pour out our woes before Amma. Nothing trickles down to our level anyway. You go to the government hospital for free treatment, and there you find a huge hundi, where you are expected to put money even before the treatment begins.” Vennila works in a number of houses, and she is a willing worker who puts her heart into her work. My house shines like a new pin, and lights up with her beaming smile, even when she is in the doldrums. She has two daughters, one of whom has just finished her engineering, and the other doing her graduation. She claims no credit for the achieve

After a euphoric trip, I sipped at my cup of tea, reminiscing over the days spent in England, when a thought struck me. Every spot of national interest or tourist importance had an entrance fee that went towards its maintenance. This fee, albeit hefty, was used prudently. While it ensured the place was all prettied up, it also kept casual loungers and the frankly disinterested away! Student concessions were also offered. In many places, we saw artists with their sketchbooks or easels, frowning in concentration. What impressed us most was the fact that everywhere, special ramps had been created for the differently-abled, over which they could roll their wheelchairs. Consequently they could go everywhere on their own, without having to face the embarrassment of being turned away. This is not the case in India. I recall reading an article titled ‘Are Public Places made to Suit the Needs of the Physically Challenged?’. Not really, I would retort. Builders turn a blind eye to making structu

I had heard of a couple of shoppers’ paradises in Purasawalkam. My sisters and I needed to buy some steel plates and so in we trotted into one of the biggest stores which boasts of branches all over Chennai. The crowds were daunting, which only proved that the sales were skyrocketing. What put us off totally was the attitude of the salespeople within, who had most certainly made a habit of getting out of the wrong side of their beds! They wallowed in their misery, not a smile or polite remark cracking their grumpy exteriors. When we asked for the plate section, we were pointed towards an even grumpier soul. Miles and miles of plates littered the area, but not the kind we were looking for, mom being rather particular about her choices. Meanwhile I had bought something small, and I made my way out to call up Mom to ask if we could pick up some other plates. Cell phones have a nasty habit of switching off at inopportune moments, much like the staff within the store, and even as I made my

God created the art of questioning to make people enquire and acquire knowledge, to go ahead in life, all cylinders firing. Today, questions have evolved into tiny pinpricks that fester when constantly touched! Fasten your seat belts, for here are some embarrassing questions people love to ask... At large gatherings, a delicious lime-mint cooler in hand, you turn to hear an omniscient voice, “Do you know me?” You gawk at the large lady/ old uncle, as the words stick to your roof of your mouth. You hem and haw, and finally nod in affirmation. The next question blows you away! “Then tell me who I am!” Man, if you don’t know who you are, how on earth do you expect me to know? Go see a memory analyst! However, that response never comes out at the opportune moment! “You have put on weight, haven’t you?” There is no right answer for that, ever! Your daughter turns eighteen, and the chorus begins. “Aren’t you looking out for a good boy for her?” No, I am waiting for a Martian to come down t

The candles flickered as the whole house wore a festive look. Rose made sure that every one of them was lit as it was considered bad luck to let a candle go out. She bustled around, taking care to see that all the ornaments on the Christmas tree were secure, along with the brightly coloured gifts wrapped with the shiniest paper she could find. After all, didn’t the children love gifts... even if her son Deepak was grown up now! The guests would be arriving shortly. “Ramu, have you kept the snacks out?” “Yes, madam, and I have wiped all the glasses as well!” came the smiling reply. Ramu knew how annoyed she could get at the sight of a cloudy glass. Joseph came in jauntily, as smart as ever in his pin stripes. “Everything in order, dear?” he asked, as his eyes softened at the graceful figure of his wife. She looked lovely as always, except for the finger that twisted the pallu of her sari, betraying her nervousness. “There is no need to be tense. They are all old friends, after all!”

Ask me what it is that I detest most in the world and my answer would probably be, “My glasses!” Myopia was what I was born with, and will die with, one day! These glass barriers appeared over my orbs not because I had blinding blackouts or terrible headaches. One day, I tried on Dad’s spectacles, something which was forbidden and so all the more doable, and found the world a crystal clear one! Gone were those blurred outlines, those hazy figures and ghostly shadows that populated my world. Earlier it was quite natural, when I was watching a movie, to mistake the hero for the heroine [they didn’t have size zero then except in Rwanda!] Of course, things were not as comfortable at school when I was given the honour of reading from the blackboard, and I kept insisting that I could not possibly read off an empty board. And the worst was when I walked home after school, fervently hoping that I would not meet anyone I knew, because I would be unable to recognize them from a distance. May a t

Kids say the funniest things, as parents have realised from time immemorial. On occasion, guests are treated to an earful of uncomplimentary things their hosts have said about them. Amazing how children miss out on the good things said, concentrating on the embarassing bits to create an icy atmosphere in which stalactites form overhead! The doorbell rings and the chirpy offspring rushes like a tornado to open it. What follows can never be imagined. “Papa, it’s the Uncle who is full of hot air!” or “The Aunty who broke the weighing scale!” One can think of better ways to start a conversation, right? Why do children react thus? Do they yearn to be the centre of attraction? Parents are probably to blame. “Come, child! Aunty wants to hear ‘Twinkle, Twinkle...!” The little star stumbles through the rhyme, stopping after every two syllables, till the bitter end. You heave a sigh of relief, and turn to flee, when another bolt from the blue hits you. “How about “Old Mac Donald?” If the earli