B-217

In this household, an alarm clock is not needed to usher in the day. The light streaming in from innumerable windows; the chatter of people out on morning walk; the sweeper ringing door bells, shaking housewives out of sweet dreams; and the stillness of foggy mornings broken by chiming temple bells, all mingle together to welcome you to yet another day.

I pull the blanket a little higher, hoping to block out the distractions. The fragrance of my parents' early morning tea tickles my drowsy mind but fails to rouse my body tired from endless tossing through the night. I take my time to begin my day. And by the time I have woken up, the wheels of my mother’s domestic routine are already turning full steam. It is a pleasure to wake up to a familiar world - the smell of spices, mom’s voice nearing a crescendo as our helper fails to understand the urgency in her voice and dad talking loudly on the cell phone. It means all is well with my world. It means I am safe. It means I am home.

Au revoir!

When you leave, what do you say to the city that embraced you unconditionally and let you have what all you could reach out for and grasp. I am leaving Hong Kong in less than a month. I am going to a better place, so everyone says. But what is better when you have no complaints and no grudges against the place you live in. I miss India, I miss its colours, I miss its ability to be all that I am and want but it is Hong Kong that let me pause, look inward, reach out to my husband, treat three years as one long holiday and rejuvenate, heal , grow and bloom. I am not a new person. I am the same old person but more at peace, more calm, more courageous and stiller.
I have often rued about feeling rootless among the sea of faces that look different and speak a strange language. I am still different than them but as I look out of the cab at the HK skyline, skyscrapers, mountains in the distance, and clouds teasing the sun, I realise that roots I have developed. The bond is definitely there. Love does not need proof to prove itself. The pain you feel is proof enough. The tinge of regret you feel at having to go explains it all. I have had a wonderful time in Hong Kong. When I came, I was a 27-year-old woman, still unsure of her place in the world. I am still unsure of myself but my feet are firmly on the ground and I know that uncertainty is what fuels the journey. The enlightenment would not have happened if I had not been here. I fell in love with myself among all the consumerist pagans that walk around. I did crib about it but in trying to carve a place among them and in defiance to not be like them, I found myself, my likings and my tastes. While overall, everyone I met was and has been good to me, and left me alone, the few who did make me uncomfortable or seemed to be biased against me, helped me to stand against the odds, prove myself and give back in an equal measure. And while I cribbed, felt like having run out of patience, the city never gave up on me. Hong Kong will always hold a special place in my heart and wherever I go, I will carry a bit of it with myself.

A girl or boy?

I don’t know yet and I do not care. Whether a boy or girl, it will be loved and pampered the same; taught the same lessons; and be told to be a good human being before aspiring to be anything else. Because religion, upbringing, values, status, achievement, bank balance, etc, they all pale if one fails to be a good human being. `

A flame is extinguished

When a person is gone you are only left with regrets – about not seeing them often, not doing more for them, doing something to bring a smile on their face and taking away a bit of their loneliness. My maternal grandfather died last night. When I called my mother in the middle of the night, it was impossible to speak to her through her sobbing and pain. My Nanaji’s death does not hurt me the way it hurts mom. She once said she will be truly orphaned once he is gone. I cannot even dare to imagine what life would be without my mom’s comforting voice a phone call away. My mom and Nanaji were not exactly close. It is impossible to be close when you are the seventh of eleven kids. But mom says Nanaji was all that a good father could be in small town India almost 35-40 years ago.

When my Nani was alive, their home was like a refuge; a place where each of their kids and their families fled to round the year to seek love and comfort that only comes from a warm heart and not a big house. After Nani’s death things changed quite a bit. Sadly, Nanaji was around to see it all. I suppose nothing could be more tragic for a man than to see the values he brought up his family on crumble before his eyes. Old age and its infirmities make the experience even more difficult.

I never spent a lot of time with Nanaji but as a kid I spent a lot of time under the same roof with him. My favourite memory of him forever will be watching him take off his false teeth and handing them to one of my cousins for washing. I was fascinated and repelled at the same time. My love for sattu (gram flour) also comes from having watched him have a big glassful of sattu mixed with water and some salt every day. As a teenager, when I spoke to him sometimes, I was astonished to see how well read he was. It has always been my regret of not knowing him better and talking to him more.

Three years ago when I was moving to Hong Kong, I went to visit him. I knew in my heart it was probably the last time I was seeing him. I wanted to visit him when I went to India earlier this year but it could not happen because of lack of planning, limited time and laziness. It will always be my regret that I did not go back to meet him. Wherever you are, be happy Nanaji.

Dear sister, I am 29 today and I miss you...

Two decades ago, in a city in a faraway country, two sisters sat on the edge of a low roof, counting cars. The younger one barely able to keep her Bata chappals from falling off, counted black cars. The elder one slyly counted white Maruti 800s.

In a while, bored of the never ending flow of vehicles and failing to spot more black cars beyond 11, the younger one asked her elder sister: “Didi! When I am 11, how old will you be?” “17” said the elder sister. “And when I am 17?” “23”. “When I am 23?” “29”. “That big?” the younger sister said with wonder in her big round eyes. “What would happen then?” she asked her didi. “We will be big, said the elder one irritated with the volley of questions.....