WHERE WERE YOU, DAD…?

 

Amazon.in

Dear Dad,

I have always looked up to you, smart in your OG uniform, a uniform that had been earned with much effort and dedication. I remember the whiff of Brasso every time I hugged you, even as your medals sparkled in the sunshine.

Do you recall the two years I spent with your parents, my Achachan and Achamma, away from you, Mom and my little sisters? I huffed and puffed and almost brought the roof down because I wanted to stay with you all. You, Dad, asked me why I was reluctant to live with them, and I answered that I hated waking up early in the morning, your father being the headmaster of the school he had founded, a strict and upright person. You had a tete-a-tete with your father, and I spent two years with my grandparents, and never once did I have to wake up at dawn, like the rest of the household did.

Dear Dad, do you even realise how wonderful those two years were?  Achachan painted my room a special shade of pink so that I would feel at home. Achamma would sit by me before every exam, while I burnt the midnight oil. Often, she would yawn and fall asleep, but she would never leave me alone.

Achachan helped me to memorise Mark Antony’s speech, listening to me patiently, correcting my lapses, till I had it word perfect. When I lost my nerve on stage and froze, he did not chide me. “Don’t worry! Everyone gets nervous. You’ll do better next time!” This from a martinet who could blow up his students with a few well-aimed words made me feel warm and forgiven.

Dad, every afternoon, when I would get back from school, there Achamma would be, Scrabble board laid out, waiting for me to finish my tea and delicious snacks. The snacks were from a bakery that served the best tea cakes, savouries and other Kerala ‘bites’. Achamma had a bunch of giant keys, and she would open the wooden larder. Out would drift the most appetising aromas, and I was given the pick of all the snacks I wanted.

Everyday Achamma and I played Scrabble. Maybe that is one reason why I turned into a writer. After all, I had to make use of the huge bag of new words which I picked up, playing with her.

                                                                                                     Facebook

Two years when I felt cherished, as I had when I was with you and Mom! I knew I was the apple of their eye, the eldest born of their eldest born. You made those years happen, Dad. Your trips down would make the big house come alive, and I still remember the Mills and Boons that Mom would always bring me as a gift.

Do you remember, Dad, how excited we would both get when we located the latest stamps to add to our collections? You had yours with you and I had mine here, and you would make it a point to send me an extra stamp which I would use in my letters to you. That way, we both had our special stamps to add to our collections, along with our match label collections as well.

Dad, I still have all your letters, tied up with a ribbon, and kept in a special drawer in which all my most precious possessions nestle. I recall your beautiful handwriting and your nuggets of wisdom which helped me in my daily life. I savour the congratulatory messages you sent me every time I won a prize or did something special.

   

     iStock

One letter that has stayed in my memory is when my best friend’s father passed away after a heart attack. I was shocked and had no idea how to console her. Dad, you wrote to me after, explaining that parents are the mainstay of our lives and when they go, it is one of the most tragic events in life. You urged me to be with my friend, and to make her feel that she had someone to open up to, if required. 

Words that I remembered four years later when…

Dad, where were you when I finished class twelve? Why were you not around when I got married to a dashing Army Captain with whom you would have hit it off perfectly? When my little sisters found their partners, it was still Mom giving them away on her own. Maybe, the Almighty had His own plan in place after taking you away, because Mom acquired three amazing sons-in-love without having to lift a little finger.

Mom’s parents, my Ammamma and Muthassan, also played a crucial role in our lives. Mom had to be the man of the house, running her school single-handedly. Ammamma, along with Parvathy amma, who was like a third grandmother to us, held the home and hearth together, making sure that we wanted for nothing. Muthassan would tell us stories from the Bible and the classics. He could quote from the Gita and recite poetry from English literature. My love for literature blossomed further after reading through his books, in which he wrote comments which were discerning and often humorous as well. I cannot imagine home without the three of them.

                                                                                                        Pinterest

When the grandchildren made their appearance, one by one, we told them stories of their grandfather, bringing you back into all our lives. You would have loved them all, with their disparate personalities, each one adding to the fun and confusion at home. Your eldest grandchild is married, and the others are growing up, each unfolding facets of their personality. All of them, without fail, have something of you in them, maybe the sense of humour, the kind heart, the sociable nature and the love of family.

Today, you also have two great grandchildren, (can you believe it?) one, a long-legged Missy, and the other a little bolt of lightning, both of whom also know of you, because their mother, our daughter who has a wise head on her shoulders, loves and cherishes what she knows of you (as  do all your other grandchildren as well). The little bolt of lightning, I hope, will inherit a few of your traits because he was born just a day after you, a proper little Gemini.

Dad, I wish we had been with you on that day in Mumbai when you felt uneasy and went to the hospital. You were writing a letter to Mom, who was in Kerala with us, a ritual that the two of you followed every single day. Those letters were so precious, but we did not know it then. Your last letter remained incomplete...

                                                                                                          Pixabay

We did not envisage a future without you, especially Mom who had broken tradition and defied convention to marry you, against the wishes of her grandmother. Eighteen years of togetherness, of life within the Indian Army, of little money but much happiness, of friends galore and places visited… the best life we could have ever had. You were planning to retire, and Mumbai was your final posting before you retired.

So many plans, Dad, so many castles in the air – a dairy farm for you, a school for Mom… the latter did happen, as the foundation you laid for her just before you left turned into her entire life. The beginning of a life without you!

                                                                                                          Sendle.ru

Dad, so many things remind us of you… birthdays, anniversaries, rice, sambar and ghee mixed in the perfect proportion, raw eggs, the colour OG, the smell of cigarette smoke, the fragrance of books; sometimes, a raspy laugh in the distance brings a whiff of nostalgia along with tears.

Dad, I knew you best. My sisters were so much younger. They were only seven and ten when you went away, and retain only hazy memories of the person you were, something that they regret till date. At seventeen, I was almost an adult. I had more memories stowed away, more keepsakes that keep you alive in my heart even today.

If we could turn back the clock, how wonderful it would be to have you with us still, to pamper us all and be pampered, in turn. Mom is still delightfully spirited, but of late, she has been missing you more.

Dad, where are you now? In a world where there are no worries, or in a realm that strips you of your memories? Onam has just got over. King Mahabali has visited his land and returned to his kingdom. If only you could also come down to us, even if it were once a year to meet us all. Forty years after you left, there is a whole host of us here. So many faces have disappeared from our lives, and so many more have come into the family. As Tennyson put it so aptly,

The old order changeth, yielding place to new…”

It’s time to stop, Dad! I know that I will not receive a reply to this long letter of mine, but let me tell you a secret. Every year, around the 29^th of January, which is the day you left us, something good happens to our family. We look at one another, and then Mom says, without fail, every year, “That’s Achan (Dad) taking care of us.”

We love you. You are always in our hearts.

If only…

Deepti

 

 Adobe Stock

 This post is a part of 'Scribbled and Sealed Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.

 

AN EYE (LENS) FOR AN EYE!

 

Pinterest

“Time to go in for a cataract surgery!” The doctor’s cheery words sank in and there I was once again, following the self-same routine of eye drops at fixed times during the day. Around eight years back, I had got a cataract removed from my left eye in a tiny hospital in Chennai. Despite all my apprehensions, it had been an almost pleasurable experience with a kaleidoscope of colours and a sensation of water flowing into my eye. I came out of the surgery smiling for all I was worth.

I hoped that my second surgery would be as easy and as pleasurable. Surprisingly, I was more tense this time, even though I did not anticipate any pain or discomfort. My husband and I made our way to the hospital in the morning. After my eye had been dilated, the pressure taken and the usual tests done, I was taken into the inner room where I had to don a pink hospital gown over my clothes. There was an older gentleman who was promptly given a blue gown. Colour-coded according to gender, no doubt.

We waited outside the operation theatre, eyes doused with drops, as scurrying shadows went by. Finally, it was time to walk into the theatre.

Uncle was the first to be operated on. As I lay by, I could hear the doctor asking him to put his chin down and open his good eye… he was obviously a trifle hard of hearing and had to be constantly instructed. Maybe that is what made me a wee bit apprehensive. The nurses had briefed us outside.

“Please let the doctor know if you feel a sneeze or a cough coming on! No sudden movements!”

After ten minutes, as I lay waiting, the clear voice of the doctor still saying, “Chin down, Uncle!” my earlier bravado seemed to have deserted me. In this scenario, “Chin up!” seemed out of place.

The doctor said, “It’s over, Uncle!” There was a hint of relief in her voice, and I have no doubt that Uncle was even more relieved. I could sense the doctor coming towards me.

“All set?” she asked me cheerily, her face masked in green. I smiled nervously and nodded. She turned to the nurses. “Play some music!”

The lights were bright, my left eye covered, and a clamp set on my right eye so that it would not move. “Keep your left eye open,” she instructed me. I was so determined to keep my chin down and my eye open that I froze, hardly breathing, as the surgery got under way. Water trickling into my eye, I felt the bright light that glared at me, a few colours though not as many as my earlier surgery, and a pressure that indicated that the new lens was going in… many sensations and emotions went through my mind, as I lay there like a block of stone.

Finally, it was done, and the music suddenly came on. The old Hindi number – ‘Likhe jo khhat tujhe…”

The doctor smiled down at me. “We’re done!”

Sheer relief engulfed me, and I said the first thing that came into my mind.

“The music came on only now.”

She laughed and admonished her nurses jokingly.

“Girls, I told you to put the music on earlier!”

By then, I was in seventh heaven. My surgery was over, the cataract removed and my vision back to normal. I thanked the doctor and walked out to the recovery room, where I had to stay for an hour’s observation.

When my husband came in, he was expecting me to smile as widely as I had done the first time. My smile may not have been as wide, but my relief was palpable. A final check-up and I was ready to go home.

Back home, we checked out the eyedrops and medicines. A schedule had to be made, and adhered to!

The first five days were the toughest, and, in another sense, the easiest. Though I had been told I could watch TV and read, I desisted. My better half did not allow me to move a limb. No straining, no cooking, no washing dishes, or my face! I sat on the couch and listened to the classic short stories of Somerset Maugham on YouTube Music, a wonderful collection with brilliant narration.

During my earlier cataract surgery, I had got acquainted with ‘Cold Play’. This time, I savoured all the music I loved. It was a period of relaxation and rejuvenation… and thorough pampering!

 When my niece asked me how I was feeling, I replied,

“Well, I have never felt better, and never looked worse!”

For the one thing that I had to forgo was using kajal in my eyes and cream on my face for a month. I was so used to looking like a racoon all the time, and I now looked like a dying duck.

                                                                                                Pinterest

A fortnight has gone by, and I have almost got back to my normal activities, including going to school with my white goggles that shield my eyes from dust and water. Many are the curious glances thrown at me, but most people are aware of the reason I look like a scuba diver, albeit a rather unglamorous one!

I can only applaud the expertise of the doctor who worked on my eye, and that of the courteous hospital staff members who strive every day to ensure that patients get the best treatment. There is a counsellor who explains the whole process of the surgery, the insurance and the healing process. A retina specialist came into the picture, as there seemed a minor issue, but she too was reassuring. Luckily, that issue did not come up at all during the surgery.

My friends and my family have been sending me messages, off and on. Some are in the process of having their own cataract surgeries as well. Like I have often said, “If you do need to have a procedure, the best one to have is a cataract surgery. It is painless and there is no discomfort.” I have been lucky, both times, and I thank God, the surgeons and my husband for that.

To end on a jocular note, I am relieved that I have only two eyes, unlike Ravana, with his ten heads and twenty eyes. Can you imagine the time it would have taken to perform twenty surgeries, and the deluge of eye drops to follow? Gosh, that would have been the height of tedium, and would have left the Lanka ruler with no time to think of abducting Sita. Putting eye drops at regular intervals during a heated battle is no easy task, I imagine.

As I go around seeing a brighter world, it is time to don my rose-coloured spectacles all over again!  

 

Kate Taylor

                                                                                             

                                                                  

QUEER CHRONICLES – STORIES OF PRIDE AND PREJUDICE BY DR. TANUSHREE GHOSH

 

This collection of short stories by Dr. Tanushree Ghosh begins and ends as an exercise in subtlety. The themes begin on a serene note and meander onto issues that are all relatable. India has gradually progressed beyond the taboos that were linked to homosexuality and diversity in the past, beyond the criminalisation of the same, though there is room for more scope. There are still myriad people who have not yet opened their minds to these ideas. 

Misconceptions still prevail, and the author tries to hint at them through her narratives. Sensitive, caring men exist, and they need not be gay. Since when have qualities like kindness and tenderness been associated with being gay?

Likewise, group sports like men's hockey have always been perceived as macho sports. Women hockey players also are aggressive, and it was a chance statement in the movie 'Chak De' that gave birth to the story titled ‘Hamaari Hockey Mein’. A main character opines, "Persecution is terrible. The lives most transgenders have to live is terrible."

Sometimes, a person finds it difficult to fathom his or her sexuality. As Tanu, the protagonist in 'After the Wedding' summed it up; "The end of all the confusion and the incessant chatter within." Did the chatter end or was it just a pause in her present?

Some of the stories leave one with an ache in the heart. Praneeth and Raja live in their bubble in ‘Love in a Limbo’, till the rhythm which made their living together breaks down.

"There was silence, not like one after storms. The silence was the silence inside a storm. The silence in the eye of a storm."

‘The Wedding Night’ is another such story, where the helplessness of a character going through her own storm is palpable. It underlines her dilemma of not being able to exist in her identity, and with no place to belong.

‘Sulekha & Rukshana’ plays like a familiar litany in my mind as the narrative unfolds, the story of a woman possibly owning her sexuality and making her own choices, a story of power, not acceptance. The motif of power continues in ‘The Mother-in-Law’ where the protagonist refuses to conform to the normal definition of how a woman should behave, a woman who does not care to fit in. Not surprisingly, this nonchalance makes others finally accept her as she is.

It is a credit to the author that she has been able to cover diverse topics which she is passionate about in  a manner that brings out the pathos, minus the melodrama. That is exactly why her stories work so effectively.

As Dr. Tanushree Ghosh said in a recent interview, “Stories don’t need to be answers; they just need to be questions.” That is so true, because when questions are asked, they lead to discussions from which answers are born. 

POETRY – THE BEST WORDS IN THE BEST ORDER

In 2021, I took part in the Blogchatter A2Z Challenge and later brought out an eBook titled ‘Poetry – The Best Words in the Best Order’. 

BLURB: The magic of poetry can never be denied, be it in any country or any language. It is the music of the soul. Samuel Taylor Coleridge defined it thus: Poetry: The Best Words in the Best Order." What better title could there be for a volume that eulogizes poetry, and waxes eloquent about classic poems with a wealth of meaning within? 

THE CONTENTS: Have you ever imagined delving into a treasure trove to pick out little gems glittering on the surface of your palm? That is how I felt when I began to sift through the classic poems over the ages. My favourites were all going into the mix.

Unsplash Image 

A.  ABOU BEN ADHEM BY LEIGH HUNT

B.   BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH BY EMILY DICKENSON

C.   CLOUDS AND WAVES BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

D.  DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT BY DYLAN THOMAS

E.   EARTHLY PRIDE BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

F.    FACES BY SARA TEASDALE

G.  GOD’S-ACRE BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

H.  HUMAN NATURE BY EUGENE FIELD

I.     IF BY RUDYARD KIPLING

J.     JOURNEY BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

K.   KRISHNA, YOU KNOW ME NOT BY SUGATHA KUMARI

L.   LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI BY JOHN KEATS

M. MENDING WALL BY ROBERT FROST

N.  NIGHT OF THE SCORPION BY NISSIM EZEKIEL

O.  OZYMANDIAS BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

P.   PALANQUIN BEARERS BY SAROJINI NAIDU

Q.  QUAINT SPRING BY GEORG TRAKL

R.   REMEMBER BY CHRISTINA ROSETTI

S.    STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING BY ROBERT FROST

T.   THE ARROW AND THE SONG BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

U.  ULTIMATUM BY DOROTHY PARKER

V.   VOCATION BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

W.  WE WEAR THE MASK BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

X.   X BY JEAN VALENTINE

Y.   YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM BY LEWIS CARROLL

Z.   ZINNIAS AND TEA BY RANDALL DAVIS BARFIELD

THE BEGINNING:

‘Abou Ben Adhem’ by Leigh Hunt has always been ensconced within my heart. It is my mother’s favourite, a poem she quotes every time she speaks in public. It eulogises the significance of being one who loves his fellow beings, a relevant poem in a world in which the moral fabric seems to have been ripped apart.

My idea in writing this book was to transmit the beauty of the poems in their entirety, speak about their main themes and the poets.

1.      ABOU BEN ADHEM

Leigh Hunt

Public Domain Pictures.net

 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold: —

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

    One night, Abou Ben Adhem awoke from ‘a deep dream of peace’ to see an Angel writing in a book of gold, recording the names of those who loved the Lord. To Abou’s disappointment, his name was not one of them.  

     Abou stayed cheerful and requested the Angel to put down his name as one ‘that loved his fellow men’. The Angel finished writing and disappeared.

    The next night, the Angel reappeared with ‘a great wakening light.’ As Abou looked on, the Angel revealed the names of those blessed by the Lord.

    ‘And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.’

   What a beautiful message the poem conveys! Its central idea shines out as clearly as the Angel’s light in the dim room. When you love your fellow men, you become worthy of being loved by God. The poem embodies the idea ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself.’ If only the whole world could follow this tenet, what a peaceful place it would turn into!

The Poet: Leigh Hunt (1784 – 1859)

James Henry Leigh Hunt, born in 1784, played a significant role in the Romantic Movement in England. He was a prolific poet, essayist and journalist. His poems were lyrical and vividly descriptive and imbued with atmosphere and mood.

THE REPERTOIRE:

Over the entire month, I breathed poetry, choosing poems that would touch the hearts of my reader and writer friends. The challenge was to find a beatific blend of English, Indian and American poets.

ENGLISH POETS:

In school, I was enthralled by a poem by the Romantic poet, John Keats, titled ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’, the saga of the beautiful lady without mercy who entrapped men and then left them high and dry.

‘Ozymandias’ by PB Shelley talks about the ruin of the statue of an erstwhile monarch. Over time, tyranny and boasts come to an empty end, just as the giant statue that now lies in ruins, a travesty of its past glory.

‘Remember’ by Christina Rosetti is a sonnet of grief, dealing with the themes of life, love and death where the poet exhorts her lover to remember her even after she has moved to the realm of death.

Unsplash

Lewis Carroll is best known for his ‘Alice in Wonderland’, but it was his amusing poem ‘You Are Old, Father William’ that fit in perfectly in this repertoire. This poem appears in Chapter Five of Alice in Wonderland. When Alice complains to the caterpillar that she is losing her memory, the latter advises her to recite this poem to test her memory.

‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night’ by Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, is a poem in which a son exhorts his aged father to fight against death and not fade away gently into the night.

 INDIAN POETS:

The magic of Indian poetry in English can not be denied. It was when I began to look that I discovered so many outstanding examples.

‘Clouds and Waves’ by Rabindranath Tagore is evocative. Tagore’s poetry is known for its sensitivity and its tenderness. This poem is especially beautiful as the poet shares his tribute to the vivid imagination of a child.

Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ is one poem loved by many. The poem is replete with sound advice and inspiration on how to live life and face its challenges.

If there is one poem that moved me with its passion and imagery, it is ‘Krishna, You Know Me Not’ by poet Sugatha Kumari, translated from Malayalam by Ministhy S. Nair.

Pexels

It is a classic poem, describing the feelings of an unknown gopika who sings her heart out, but who has kept away from the beautiful, blue-bodied Krishna.  The refrain, 'Krishna, You Know Me Not' comes at the end of every stanza. 

I enjoyed teaching ‘Night of the Scorpion’ by Nissim Ezekial when I was in school. The poet describes a rainy night when his mother was bitten by a scorpion. Couched in simple language, the poem reveals superstitions and attitudes commonly found in villages and small towns.

Another delightful poem is ‘The Palanquin Bearers’ by Sarojini Naidu, the Nightingale of India. In olden days, brides were carried on beautifully decorated palanquins by sturdy palanquin bearers who considered this a privilege. 'Palanquin Bearers' brings this joy alive in the delicate usage of images and the refrain that goes along with the movement of the palanquin bearers.

Tagore’s poem ‘Vocation’ gives voice to a little child who wishes to be free. The child envies people like the bangle seller, the gardener and the watchman, who appear to be free and unfettered. He sees the freedom they enjoy, but not the toil and the hardships that go with their jobs.    

AMERICAN POETS:

 Emily Dickenson (Because I Could Not Stop for Death), Robert Frost (Mending Wall and Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening), and HW Longfellow (The Arrow and the Song) all found their own niches. I was filled with wonder when I came across other works that greatly impacted me.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s 'Earthly Pride', a poem of four lines, conveys the futility of pride on earth.

‘Faces’ by Sara Teasdale talks about how she can pierce through the masks and facades of the people hiding secrets within themselves. Ironically, people were wearing masks to combat the deadly Corona virus.

Eugene Field’s ‘Human Nature’ describes the poet’s disappointment when a beggar, to whom he offers a dime, buys a loaf of bread instead of drinking a toast to him.

A few more poems studded my list, but due to paucity of space, I decided to leave them out in this post.

                                                                                                      Thesaurus.com

 This post is a part of '/Verse Wave Blog Hop' hosted by  Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.

GLORIOUS AFRICAN WINTERS VERSUS AN INDIAN GRANDMUM!

                                                                                                        Pinterest

I have always loved winter - from a distance. Those snow-clad mountains with the sunshine reflecting off in tiny diamond surfaces, the thought of the wind rustling through bare branches (brrrrr!), the freezing water that gradually turns into cracking ice - such beautiful images, but cold as cold can be. I could easily lose myself in a blizzard - in my dreams. Or when I am sitting in a claustrophobic room, with exhausted fans pushing around hot air. Suffocating, sweaty and unbearable! If summer comes, can winter be far behind! Oh yes, especially in a state like Kerala where winter comes in movies, TV serials and in one's dreams.

Of course, for homegrown folks, the monsoons are the nearest they could get to freezing, and an excuse to wear those monkey caps and sweaters which were probably picked up for their honeymoon to Wayanad or Munnar, and then left to hibernate in a dark cupboard, wrapped in linen cloth away from, sunlight, moths and silver fish.

When I get to colder climes, two months in a year, I know that winter is nigh when my nose develops a mind of its own and begins to sniff. Out come the first woollen layers and the hot cups of green tea which turn into an extension of my body. When the rest of the family is in light T-shirts, I walk around huddled in 'light' jackets - wind breakers, as they are called. (I had always assumed that breaking wind had a different connotation altogether!)

                                                                                                    Pinterest

I naturally migrate to the kitchen where the stove, the oven, the microwave and the kettle are switched on at various hours of the diurnal cycle. I push away the two dogs who also love the kitchen for different reasons, and park myself in the warmest spot possible.

As the layers of clothing increase, the hot African sun goes behind the clouds, and I look up at the greyness above and pray that a special little sun beam shine on me.

"This little guiding light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine all the time." If only!

I find myself a seat on the couch with the sun streaming in behind me. My silhouette is too tempting not to click!

 

                                                                                             The sun and me!

My daughter, herself a mother of two adorable brats, takes it upon herself to berate me.

"Mama, will you stop washing dishes, please?"

I try and reason with her, tell her that doing the dishes in scalding hot water is one of the cheapest ways of staying warm in the peak of winter. Yes, I am a fan of Staying Alive by the Bee Gees and yes, I would like to stay alive, and warm.

The other way of staying warm is by offering to cook, which helps one to spend warm moments in the warmest part to the house - the kitchen. However, in this family, everyone wants to rustle up delicious dishes at the drop of a hat. Or is it at the whisk of a spoon! Hence, the answer invariably is, "Don't worry, Mama! I am making spicy chicken curry!" Or "Remember your son in law (read 'son in love') has bought kheema especially for the two of you?"

So, then I potter along, unobtrusively trying to wash a few more dishes!

On the other side, tucked away almost inside the pantry cupboard, sits a small dog, also striving to stay under the radar because he is not allowed in the kitchen. Right behind him, stands a bigger dog the size of a midget cow, who also tries on the invisibility cloak, while trying to sidle into that cosy space where enticing aromas waft out three times a day! Sometimes more! Like I said, this family loves to cook!

                                                                                                 CartoonStock

Going out is always a dilemma. Is it going to be sunny? If so, do I wear two layers or three? My better half, who follows the weather forecast almost as fervently as the news on television, breaking and otherwise, announces that the next three days are going to be warm, followed by a cold front. I decide to put on a light cardigan, stick my nose out of the window, and follow that up by adding a stole and a thick jacket. Better to be safe than sorry, after all! I end up hot, flustered and definitely sorry.

"The moral of the story is that your better half is always right about the weather!" A chuckle accompanies that smug aside!

This week has been sunny so far, with the weather behaving itself. “Don’t forget sunscreen, both of you!” comes the warning. A timely one, because the blazing African sun can be scorching, something we learnt to our detriment on our first visit to Johannesburg and went back to India, practically unrecognisable. Even my mother’s pugs failed to recognise us.

Going out for a meal in winter has its own charm. One tends to look for the warmest spot closest to the giant heaters. One evening, we went to a Spanish restaurant, where we had a choice. Either we could sit at the outer edge where there was no roof above our heads, which was no choice if you look at it, or we could meander inside and sit at a table right next to a boisterous group of revellers whose decibel levels could shatter glass. We managed to eat our meal in silence, with regular assaults to our eardrums, and when we got out, the silence enveloped us like a comforting mantle.

However, we did manage to hit the right note when we went to a cosy little place called ‘Hot Pot’ where broth was boiled at our table and we could add whatever veggies, proteins, condiments and spices to it. To say that it was a burst of flavours in our mouths would be an understatement.

All good things must come to an end! It is time for the Indian grandpa and grandma to head back to India. We have so much to chuckle over, so much to keep in our hearts, especially the feeling of warmth that overrides the harshness of winter and the cold that can freeze the marrow of our bones! Gratitude, above all, that we have our little family with all its foibles and idiosyncrasies, (two of which are definitely canine!), and the feeling that we always have a second home to come back to every year.

After all, if winter comes, can this Indian grandmum and granddad be far behind?

 

Facebook.com

This post is a part of ‘The Chuckle Chronicles Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters”