Perhaps historical narratives are destined to bear the cross of ambiguity because of the frailty of the human mind and memory. But, as beings who have sprung from the pages of yesterday, it is our duty to make sure that the unvarnished past melds into the present so that the future is brightened. One-sided narrative while not new to these annals have taken a dangerous turn in recent times, giving a whole other meaning to the word ‘white-wash’. And, thus dear readers, it was with the intention of narrating a different version of the story that I began to write “The Slaughtering of Saffron”, hoping to bring a voice to those voices drowned in the cacophony of popular narrative seen in more widespread media. While I entirely believe that we are all equal in the eyes of the law, whether earthly or heavenly, it is also my belief that there should be no ‘first among equals’. Personal beliefs and the law in a country as richly diverse as ours make for a partnership based on mistrust. If any attempt to ensure equality among all citizens as guaranteed by the constitution is to be made, it MUST cut across various castes, creeds and beliefs. An egalitarian society can only exist in the absence of the spurious ‘first’ among equals. It remains the duty of governance to provide for all, and to see that the minorities face no injustice. However, it will never do to turn the proverbial blind eye and ensure that they never face the long arm of justice if necessary. And thus, my attempt to talk about a gentle state once heaven on earth, now scarred beyond recognition. Where the fate of and the blood of thousands will be on our hands if we selectively choose to look the other way and refuse to call out fanaticism for what it is, a blot on all of humanity….
He has heard that the valley used to be a rich tapestry. Greens and pinks, blues and yellows, saffrons and purples all found a place in it. Rich and vibrant. Scintillating and soothing, tempestuous and tantalizing. Warp and weft. Woven into the rich rugs and carpets for which the valley is famous. The luster has faded over the past three decades. Now, only a few colors remain. Spreading unchecked over the entire land and tainting it. They are red and green, red always following where green leads. “Colors are God’s gift to us”, drones the teacher. The children in high school name primary and secondary colors and paint them in their books. “But black and white teach us life”, this teacher is clearly a philosopher. “White is the most selfless, reflecting all, giving everything to the world. That is why it is associated with purity. Black swallows everything. That is why it is the most selfish”, the children listen, most of them half asleep. One student decides to impart this valuable nugget of information to his know-it-all, thinker of a younger brother and score one over him when the chance arises. In the younger class where the thinker studies, another teacher is explaining the importance of the three predominant colors of the national flag. Saffron for sacrifice, white for peace and green for prosperity. Then what does blue stand for? wonders the thinker who sits by the window, eyes on the distant peaks, until the chalk thrown by the exasperated teacher catches him square on the forehead. The thinker thinks he knows better. Pretending to be asleep, huddled under his blanket in the bitter cold of the night, he listens to the family elders talking around the fire whose dull saffron glow brings warmth and comfort, the air redolent with the smoky smell of walnut and deodar. Not that many elders remain, but those who do often talk with a strange wistfulness. He has heard them ascribe the colors of the flag to the people in the village, saffron for the ‘tika’ bearers, green for the skull-cap wearers and white for the strangers who wear a small cross. But he has always fallen asleep before he hears about the blue. Maybe it is the stragglers who live at the edge of the village, embraced by none and shunned by all. Huddled under his blanket, he has heard stories with strange words in them which he does not understand, “Ralive, Tsalive ya Galiv”(convert, leave or perish), “violated”, which is what happened to his grandmother and aunt and “tortured” which happened to his grandfather and uncles. But he knows better than to ask their meaning, for his father’s face will cloud over and his mother will make her displeasure known with that click of her tongue at his impertinence at raking up old memories, like picking on a festering scab. His father who escaped by the skin of his teeth has only recently wended his painful way back to a house in ruins and back-breaking labor. His mother walks twelve miles along the Vitasta every day to work in a silk-mill in the big town. She hums to herself along the way. She is a font of optimism, his mother, just like his older brother who takes life as it comes. They are simple folk. Truth be told, they think of him as rather strange, with his ponderings and musings and asking strange questions. But his father understands. And pats him on the head, telling him that he takes after his uncle. “He was a great one for questions,” he says. “Used to go to college in the big town.” Those days are long past. A hazy memory, like a water color which has been wiped over by a soaking-wet sponge. But, the sponge in this case was wet with blood, not water. The green of the valley now flutters from houses and places of prayer with onion shaped domes. And the olive-green fatigues of the protectors who march past in thick-soled boots, belts of bullets at their waists and guns over their shoulders. The protectors and the protected are wary of each other. And the skull-cap wearing protected take to pelting stones at them, every chance they get. ‘Thud, Thud, Thud’ sounding like the clothes which his mother beats clean on the flat stones on the banks of the Vitasta. Red instead of being comfortingly warm causes him to break out into a cold sweat, because it is the color of blood, which flows from the protectors, from the tika bearers and sometimes from the perpetrators whom his father calls ‘terrorists’ in a hushed tone and who are hailed as the ‘liberators’ by most of the boys in his school. He has asked his father the meaning of this strange new word, drawing a deep frown of concern and a lesson in geography and history about how his land, his slice of heaven on earth was torn asunder because of a weak king, ruthless mercenaries and a political blunder by ‘Uncle’ in a far- off city. A series of such successively weak uncles and strange laws, his father says, have made refugees of them in their own home.
It is the age- old story of industry versus lethargy, the haves versus the have-nots, further tainted with the brush of religion. Some, who have launched a ‘holy war’ against anyone who does not fall in line with their philosophy. “But isn’t killing wrong?” he asks, his innocence and youth peeping through the thin veneer of grown-up sophistication, “I have seen the same red flow from all the bodies”. “Not everyone thinks like you” his father replies with a sad shake of his head. “And they hate us for not believing in the One true God. For being the haves in the old days. In their book, we are the infidels, not worthy of being equals” This makes him ponder more, is he hated for not believing or having? Not that he has anything now. And what is equal? The few colors which make him feel at peace is the purple of the crocuses which grow for miles around from September to November, and the red-gold of their picked stamens which is what his father does, hours of back-breaking labor to pick this precious spice by hand before sorting it for packaging and exporting which is declared with great fanfare as the ‘back-bone of the economy’. “We had a shop here once, dealt in the best saffron”, his father declares one day, voice full of pride at this golden remnant of the past. And so, the thinker learns to take comfort in saffron, the color of the top third of the flag, the color of his father’s pride and toil.
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Today his teacher is talking about the rights guaranteed in ‘The Constitution’. “We are all equal in the eyes of the law”, he declares with a conviction that the thinker does not feel. And he wonders if he should repeat what his father told him a few days ago, but decides against it. Though the adults do not realize, he can read well and tries to understand for himself. He finds it strange that some are treated better than others in this land of equality. And he craves to know the fundamental reason why. But he dares not ask his teacher for fear of being targeted with the chalk or worse. His teacher sneers at him, ridicules him for being a ‘Tika Bearer’ often enough. And this is fodder for most of the boys in his class to abuse him too. Thus, he keeps to himself, unlike his older brother who is better liked for his ability to take the abuse more unquestioningly. Life in the saffron bowl of the country is indeed a difficult place to swear your allegiance to the color which gives it name and fame. He wakes up terrified one night, the heavy front door under assault, the thud of sticks and stones against it making him wonder if he is the next target for a hailstorm of stones. His father leads them out of the back door and hurries them along a small path with the Vitasta, swollen after the rains roaring along the left. The light cast by the half moon is dim and fitful. The wind cold and menacing. He is not allowed respite. Doggedly his father makes them all put one foot in front of the other. Shivering under his pheran, he does his father’s bidding. Their lives depend on it. They make it to a small protector camp on the outskirts of the big town and stay there for a few days. News trickles through. A soft-spoken school teacher’s son has been killed by the protectors. Thousands attend his funeral. The protectors themselves require protection. A young protector whom he befriends looks at him with sad eyes, “Don’t always believe the written word. It could have been scratched out in the mud by vultures”, he says. “This teacher’s son wielded a large gun. He killed many, even some of his own brethren. Never believe all that the vultures say”. He nods. He has seen this school teacher’s son in his village at night sometimes, carrying a large gun over his shoulder, accepting the adulation of some fawning villagers. For days, newspapers carry the picture of this schoolteacher’s son, each eulogy vying with the next for length picturing him as a blameless innocent, innately peaceful, driven to violence by the injustice to the color of his choosing and the ‘system’. He thinks of his older brother, only a couple of years younger than the dead man, toiling with his father in the purple saffron fields and wonders whether the injustice which has been their cross to bear since birth will make a merchant of death of him too. He fears it might and after many sleepless nights, plucks up the courage to ask his father one day. “No”, says his father. “If we wanted to pick up guns and grenades, we would have done it when we were driven from our land many years ago”. He wants to be reassured by his father’s words, but does not know in whom to repose his beliefs anymore. A few years pass. His brother works in the big town now. He has replaced his brother in the saffron fields. He helps pick the swathes of purple flowers before sorting the stamens by hand. It is a strangely calming repetitive exercise. The fields themselves are repetitive to nature’s rhythm, flowering year after year with a soothing regularity. They are the constant in his everchanging world.
**************
The new ‘Uncle’ who has taken over in the distant big city is now trying to keep his promises of bringing changes to the valley. The thudding of the protectors strong soled shoes seems surer now, while that of the stones have lost their regularity and their vigor. Crowds do turn up, but they seem cowed. The old belligerence is gone. He wonders if he should allow himself a hint of an occasional smile. Uncle in the meantime it seems practices wicked yoga moves, drives away poor starving succor seeking refugees in droves, has banned ‘keema everything’ and has sweet-talked carrot goons into killing the skull cap wearing true loves of girls in black bindis for not wearing an orange bandana in place of their skull caps. The skull-cap wearer’s killing makes it to the headlines and stays there for days. He is reminded of his friend from the neighboring village, slaughtered for wearing a saffron bandana. He wonders why nothing is said about this and puts it down to the new definition of equality. A warped world where crimes can be condoned on the whims of those who control narrative and where outrage is selective. He feels sad that even Uncle does little about this. He thinks that the saffron fields appear happier. Their yield certainly seems to have increased. He finds himself humming like his mother on occasion, especially while harvesting the crocuses. An old picture which he has seen hanging in a big shop in the big town often comes to his mind. It shows people at work in the saffron fields and is rather unimaginatively titled ‘The Gathering of Saffron’. He hopes he resembles one of the chubby, fair, happy looking workers in the picture. Uncle in the meantime has many other tricks up his crafty sleeve. He wakes up one morning to find a strange silence abounding everywhere. The radio which warbles continuously till his mother leaves for work is mute. His brother shakes his head because his mobile has suddenly called it a day. The protectors are outnumbering the protected. A hushed conversation between his parents reveals that the special status given to his land has been revoked. The strange laws have been replaced by even stranger ones which ensure that anyone can settle in their valley. More of their kith and kin might return. His parents are hopeful but he is afraid. They forget that he is the thinker. They try to reassure him while he tries to warn them of repercussions. They have not faced the cruelty of boys everyday as he has. They have not been hounded with chalk and pebbles. No one has torn the pages of their precious few books or defaced them as his have been. These everyday disasters loom large in his tiny life. They have faced more, but he bleeds from a thousand cuts every day. For a few months, his fears seem unfounded. The valley is shrouded in secrecy and silence ‘to keep the peace’. On the surface, it appears that the flag is again divided into equal thirds in real life. Celebrations abound among those who live far away, those who have never lived in the menacing shadow of the green in the valley. For them it is a victory which needs raucous celebration.
But he knows that the green is merely biding its time and licking its wounds. It is not the type to concede defeat so easily. It is devious, shape-shifting, subtle, united and will stop at nothing to get what it wants. Most importantly, it has an access to an everlasting source of money. Under the guise of being ‘othered’ it wants as always to be the first among equals, stretching the fabric of society so taut that a rent is bound to appear. Amid the blooming of the saffron that year, there are tales of people slowly picking up the threads of their life and moving on. The big town seems a slightly better place. Life in the school also seems to improve. He meets his brother’s philosopher teacher who tells him about the white and black too, just like his brother before him. Unlike his brother though, he has a question about the black, whether it is selfishness which makes it swallow those who don it, especially women, for they disappear into the black shroud, like light into a black hole, never to be seen again. Prudence makes him decide against it, though. Even if the times are changing, the dust is not fully settled. The ground still remains shaky. A new day dawns, turning the eastern sky saffron as usual. He picks up his basket and girds himself, ready for another day of saffron gathering and sorting. Perhaps, he was right in feeling comforted by saffron he decides. Something good will come of the laws if they manage to return the peace of his parents’ younger days and allow him to follow in his uncle’s footsteps to college in the big town. Walking to the fields through his village, he thinks and ponders and thinks some more. He still finds the peace unsettling. As he passes his school, he is surprised to see the gates open, for today is a holiday. An impish impulse makes him want to make the most of this opportunity. Perhaps he can sneak into the sparse library and sneak out with a book! On stealthy foot-steps he walks towards the low building which is home to the principal’s office as well. Loud expletives suddenly sound in the morning stillness, leaving the air heavy and foul like a blanket sodden with refuse. Instinct makes him duck out of sight beneath the open window. From the voices it is clear that his principal and the philosopher teacher have been cornered. Gentle, scholarly looking men with guns are explaining the need to punish them, in the softest of tones, which makes it all the more menacing. The two teachers continue to stand there, eyes distant, faces resigned in a dignified acceptance of their fate. His legs tremble. He knows the outcome of this. His gut feeling of the green gathering force has been right all along. The philosopher teacher touches the tika on his forehead one last time before the floor is stained red, with an impure stain which will haunt the building for years to come. One of the men casually dips his fingers in the blood, staining them as if he has been working in the saffron fields. All the men then turn towards the blessed city in the west and drop to their knees in a prayer of thanksgiving for their spot in heaven has just been assured. The thinker now tries to stop his pondering. But, his thoughts flap in his mind like crows, black and selfish, choking the very breath in his throat. He finds himself in his beloved saffron fields, not sure how he got there, bereft and alone. His hands twist the crocuses with a fury he has never felt before, seeking redemption. He stares at his fingers, stained red gold by the mangled stamens. Wretchedly thinking that he has the blood of his teachers on his hands. He tosses them into his basket, leaving a stumbling trail over the field. Unheeding of his father’s warning shouts, until his father grabs him by the shoulders and takes his basket away. They stare at each other. The ravaged purple field, the saffron kissed sky and his fingers stained with the red-gold of the stamens, ready to snatch away his dreams. For the first time he feels a stirring of a sleeping hatred within. The saffron sun maybe at its zenith, but their personal eclipse is never ending. He is incongruously reminded of the picture,‘The Gathering of Saffron’. As his glassy eyes take in his beloved field now awash with crushed petals and saffron stamens, his desolate thoughts and impotent rage cannot help renaming the painting ‘The Slaughtering of Saffron’…..
Her rage in thunder echoes long and loud Like dark clouds turning day to night The lightning flash evident of her vigor And her aspirations taking flight
Her initial rage passes with time and calms Her bounty showering in the gentle rain The earth no longer dry and parched All creation does she now sustain
With the mingling of her numerous hues Her sky is now an artist dream A slice of life painted overhead Carried along a joyous stream
Nurturing all that needs to grow She encloses all power divine No one shall ever be kept bereft This is the power feminine!
Nine days and nights are devoted to Her She who animates all living things Her nine hues form the fountainhead From which eternal exultation springs!!
FOOD! We LOVE to live to eat and not the other way round
“Think of the Lord before you start to eat. Food is the complete nurturer, Brahman itself. The act of eating is as holy as performing a Yagnya!” My grandmother assiduously reminded my cousins and me about this important couplet whenever we were about to dig into the piping hot delicacies prepared for special occasions. The one which specially stands out in my memory is my cousins’ ‘Upanayana’ or thread ceremony, because we had been up since the crack of dawn with not much by way of food, thanks to what were ‘millions of rituals’ to our puny minds. We were thus the proverbial starving little mouths and wanted nothing more than to dig into fooooood…..any foooood!
While there is nothing better than a healthy bit of going without food to appreciate it, the world definitely abounds in people who are as finicky, fastidious and fussy as two -year-olds when it comes to food, even though they may be perfectly sane and reasonable at all other times. In a country like India, blessed as it is with a rich diversity of the palate, it is pretty commonplace to see and hear people worrying about what the lunch menu is even before they commence breakfast, and about the dinner menu before the dirty dishes from lunch are cleared away. All our special occasions, right from the time we are born to the time we bid an adieu to the world center around specific types of what else? FOOD! We LOVE to live to eat and not the other way round.
“My little prince only eats the rice and curry I make! (Why is it always prince and not princess I wonder?) He only wants the specific tempering which I have honed to perfection!” declared many a proud Mamma of yore, as if her little bundle of trouble had calculated the exact value of Pi, written the sequel to the Iliad and Odyssey and discovered the answer to the space-time conundrum all within the space of an hour. And this is where the seeds of fussiness over food were not only sown but also well irrigated and fertilized so that the ‘Picky Eater Tree’ not only sprouted but waxed tall and strong to cast its long shadow over all and sundry. For the little boy now basking in the glow of his mother’s approval, being fussy had just proved to be extremely rewarding. These reinforced beliefs did not take very long to turn into traits and habits. What Mamma failed to realize is that she wouldn’t be around to make tempering all the time and fussiness was going to cost not just her little prince, but also the people whose onerous task it was to appease him with delicacy after delicacy in the later stages of life, while she was limited to only watching his antics from the relative safety of the heavenly clouds. And thus, households rang with the stentorian voices of many an authoritative mother-in-law addressing the daughter-in-law “Don’t you know that your Papaji does not eat this unless prepared in this way?”
Women of my generation have thankfully long since shed such notions of culinary invincibility and tried our best to raise children (princes and princesses) who while being connoisseurs while it comes to the good life and good food are not fuss-pots and will happily appreciate what the auntie-next-door cooks in addition to what Mamma makes! However, whether we can claim resounding success in this endeavor remains to be seen. Put the clock back by just twenty years or so and the world suddenly abounds with people who will eat only a specific type of food cooked in a specific way. As I have already mentioned in one of my earlier screeds, there are quite a few middle-aged gentlemen and silver haired eminences at large, who cannot tell the difference between toor and chana dal except when they are eating them!
Now that my family is flourishing, so is the picky eater tree. I have had to pick a lot of fruit off this strange flora which has sprung unbidden in my back-yard. In an idyllic time long ago, I used to dream of food, delicious dreams which left me drooling. Marveling at the succulent dishes which my mom’s kitchen turned out with unerring regularity. Though not very interested in many things culinary, (in my more wayward moments I’d dreamt of a chef for a spouse) I was quite willing to learn, knowing that I would have to tend to one of the most basic of human needs, sooner rather than later.
But now that I helm the kitchen, the dreams have developed a mind of their own, rather in the way of a wayward teen and morphed into nightmares. I find myself waking up drenched in a cold sweat, already sniffing the air for the smell of burning food, which I could have sworn I left on the stove just a moment ago. As far planning the daily menu goes, I am sure Ms. Nirmala Sitharaman our esteemed or reviled (depends on how you look at it) finance minister will agree that planning the annual Indian budget is child’s play compared to the shenanigans which are part of this arduous task. I think the secret behind the snow- white hair she now sports, is having to plan the menu and cook food according to her mother-in -law’s exacting tastes!
Closer to home, I battle on bravely. On a typical day, the offspring refuses to eat what the venerable ones (read parents-in-law) want for breakfast. The spouse in the meantime is in a hurry and wants food produced out of thin air at the drop of a hat, barring which he will depart with a shake of his head which manages to convey sorrow at having to make off on an empty stomach and disdain at my incompetence in producing the required sustenance out of said air, in equal measure, an art which he has perfected by constant practice in the space of two decades. Short of meeting Molly Weasley pronto and taking a couple of comprehensive lessons from her on the art of quick food conjuring, I don’t think I can do much about it. I have instead developed a hide a rhino would be proud of and continue to ignore his lugubrious looks, deciding that he can survive off body fat for a fortnight if he so chooses. Come lunch time, and the drama has slightly increased in intensity, thanks to the fact that the offspring is now terribly hungry, thanks to three rigorous hours of online schooling. A look at the various types of vegetables, mainly beans, leafy greens, eggplant et al on offer and her face grows darker than the proverbial ‘Neelameghashyam’ cloud. Meanwhile, a mere sighting of cauliflower, cabbage or spinach draws a deep frown of disapproval from the venerable-in-chief.
Mushrooms, cheese, pasta (home made with lots and lots of vegetables to assuage guilt) and fried rice is the fare which the offspring seeks, while the looks of horror that these newfangled foods draw from the venerable ones make me wonder if I somehow managed to pull a China and buy unspeakable stuff from the wet market of Wuhan. I no longer have the energy to contend with overly dramatic scenes for teatime and dinner and give everyone the ‘take it or leave it’ short shrift. The running about which all this gathering and cooking has involved in the meantime manages to put me off food altogether, but much to my chagrin this great sacrifice on my part seems to have no effect whatsoever on my ever expanding golden middle. And so, the saga of the Great Indian Kitchen continues, churning out different delicacies to suit every palate, despite several New Year and Birthday resolutions on the part of yours truly to put my foot down on the food (only figuratively, not literally) and to leave it in the capable and capacious hands of a cook which regularly come to naught, thanks to a conspiracy from a higher power!
While I still stick to my stand that we are trying to raise a newer generation who is unbiased as far as different tastes go, the advent of Swiggy and Zomato, those life lines of undomestic goddesses, have managed to supplant grumbling about food by providing one with the option of doing away with the day’s menu altogether if it does not suit one’s tastes. And thus, the prince’s life comes full circle. If you don’t like the tempering which your better half made as it does not taste just like Mamma’s, there’s no need to get shirty. Just call the friendly neighborhood delivery guy who will restore your temper in a jiffy.
And so, I say to all the nitpickers who abound, especially now that the festival season is round the corner, that you will do well to remember that whether or not you are capable of putting cooked food on the table, the right to criticize another’s offering a`la Michelin tasters is certainly forfeit, much in the same way you wouldn’t want them to criticize say for example, your driving or accounting or cleaning skills! And to the kindred souls sailing in the same boat as me, take heart for the food which you put on the table though perhaps far from perfect, definitely offers succor to several souls!
Gopal knew himself to be luckier than most. When he alighted from the Gorakhpur Express which had ferried him from his tiny village in Uttar Pradesh all the way to the city of his dreams, Mumbai, he had been one of the thousands of urchins who found their way to this glittery megapolis like moths drawn to a flame. An impoverished childhood had lit a fire in his belly, a fire which he decided would not be quenched until he had earned a place in the megapolis to call his own.
He remembered his initial days only too well, the constant jostling for survival in a city which was famed for embracing all, high or low, rich or poor, old or young. He had however discovered that the embrace embraced class differences. The haves were embraced by the warm hug of acceptance while the have-nots were engulfed in a bone-crushing vice meant to crush their will-power to powder. But his was a survival story, based on sheer grit and determination. Aided of course by the kind offices of Ramu, a fellow urchin who had befriended him while he was wandering the streets, two days after his arrival, driven half out of his mind by an empty belly and loneliness.
Ramu had made sure that he had a spot on the pavement outside Charni Road station to sleep in, and that he did not starve, even though there was never enough to eat. He sourced some extra pieces of tarpaulin and plastic when it rained and built a makeshift shelter over both their young heads when the skies opened, from a bountiful God for some and a malevolent one for others. But by dint of perseverance and diligence in equal measure, Gopal had made good. Initially joining Ramu in washing cars in the housing societies nearby, he had managed to enroll himself in night school, thanks to the good offices of a kind social worker who occasionally visited Charni Road station. With more than just a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, he proved his worth by working odd jobs during the day, studying at night and on graduating from class 12, enrolled himself in driving school. With a driver’s license tucked under his belt, he had hit pay dirt when he was hired by Seth Chote Lal, a builder in the city, more feared than respected for his alleged connections to the underworld which had fueled his meteoric rise to become a force to contend with in what were the murky waters of the construction business in Mumbai.
Seth Chote Lal was a thick-set, pot-bellied swarthy figure who had a perpetual aura of menace surrounding him, even when he was at his most benevolent. Living in ‘Pawan-Sindhu’, one of the best high-rises on Worli sea face had not done much to refine his slightly boorish air, a vestige of his rags to riches story. For it was said that he had been a dweller of the same pavements which he now trod with the swagger of a man who owned them. That he was quite happy to cross the fine line between legal and illegal was common knowledge, though his vast network of contacts kept him safely out of the reach of the law. Gopal had often ferried him to the seedier underbelly of the city for what probably were nefarious activities, though he had never been privy to what these might be, hoping that his censorious gaze would keep his employer from sinking too low. All that he knew that ‘Dada’ as he called Seth Chote Lal preferred to be driven around in the BMW X5 when he was shuttling between his various projects spread throughout the city and his office in Gwalior House in Fort, while using his Hyundai Alcazar when he wanted to travel in relative anonymity.
Dada preferred to have all of his five cars in tip-top condition and his fleet boasted besides the BMW and Alcazar, a Range Rover, a Porsche and a Merc. They always had to be kept spotlessly clean and woe betide any pigeon who dared to make them fair game for their unsolicited offerings. Even the vendors at various traffic signals in the city preferred to keep a safe distance when he rolled down the window and gave them one of his piercing stares. For he was a man who exuded an awe- inspiring fear which was all pervading. Gopal who had witnessed his rages, felt often enough that though he had hit the mother lode as far as salary went, he was living dangerously, only a step ahead of the law given the criminal nature of the activities his boss often indulged in. Extortion, land grabbing, coercion, grievous hurt, Dada, it was said had been there and done them all. Gopal knew that there was a grain of truth behind all the rumors which abounded. But what Gopal often wondered about the most was the secret behind the fanatic, almost otherworldly drive which Dada possessed. That and the fact that he was ready to go any lengths to build towers not less than eighteen stories high. Right from ‘Grand Galaxy Towers’ his first project in far-away Ghatkopar, each of his projects was taller than the next. He was ready to go to cast all caution to the winds or plunge to any depths and flout all rules if it meant getting permission for a skyscraper more than eighteen stories high.
The other strange ritual which Dada meticulously followed was the ceremony which he held upon the completion of each of his projects. This entailed lots and lots of helium balloons, which were tied to the very top of each skyscraper. Dada would find his way to the top, and set them free, to fly away into the unknown. Gopal had been at the receiving end of his ire on one momentous occasion when an oversight on his part had led to the absence of the balloons. He had come within inches of being hurled from the skyscraper himself, by an incandescent Dada. After this, he had been meticulous in ensuring that the balloons were where and when they were needed, but had never dared ask Dada the reason behind their requirement.
But, today was different. Gopal had behind the wheel of the Merc which was inching its way towards Haji Ali in bumper- to- bumper traffic, when they had to halt at a traffic signal. A small boy dressed in the usual raggedy clothes which were the trade mark of beggars or small-time hawkers at signals approached and began to try to ply a dirty cloth over the spotlessly clean car. No amount of threatening on Gopal’s part seemed to deter him from his task, so that he could beg a couple of rupees from the Seth on the back-seat. Not even a menacing look from Dada had the necessary effect. Dada abruptly opened the door and stepped out, grabbing the boy by the scruff of his neck, motioning to Gopal to halt the car a little way ahead so that the little miscreant could be firmly dealt with. Gopal was fearing the worst, when the rear door abruptly opened and the urchin was shoved inside unceremoniously followed by Dada.
“Ghoorta kya hai be? Gadi chala”, Gopal had no choice but to step on it in response to Dada’s ominous tone. They soon drew up at 1, The Residences, Dad’s latest and best project at Warden Road, the completion ceremony of which was taking place today. Several dignitaries including politicians, eminent businessmen and actors had invested in this project which boasted all amenities which were the privilege of those with deep pockets including membership at the pre-eminent Turf Club, a concierge service from ‘Her Majesty’, the best butler training institute in Britain and even admission in Swiss schools should the kids desire it!
Dada hustled the urchin into the lift with Gopal trailing behind miserably, keen to do his bit to save the child’s life, thinking that in doing so he might have to imperil his own. But, on reaching the top floor, Dada gently led the quaking child to where the balloons were tied and let him set them free. Gopal watched in disbelief as the hardened thug-like builder and the little boy capered together as the balloons lifted off. It seemed that a weight had been lifted from Dada’s soul as he told Gopal to drop the urchin off at the same signal where he had been picked up, with a generous gift of cash and three extra balloons.
When a mystified Gopal left, Seth Chote Lal stared at the sky, in a different time and place, when he was Chotu, just another child trying to scrape a living at a traffic signal, working odd-jobs at the restaurant opposite, trying to save money to buy what he craved the most …a silver helium balloon. He clearly remembered the day of Sonu’s, the restaurant owner’s son’s birthday party, when he had slaved from dawn to dusk in the hope of getting just one of the balloons being distributed as party favors and how all the children had laughed at him, stepped inside their gated complex of buildings eighteen stories high and released the balloons from the terrace, just to spite him.
And thus, had begun his fascination with traffic signals (unbeknownst to Gopal, most of Dada’s help had lived at a signal at some point in their lives), the height of his skyscrapers and helium balloons. But, the joy of releasing them had paled after a couple of times and had only increased his emptiness, until today, when he had again met his childhood self in the zealous boy who was ready to brave his wrath all to earn some money to buy a balloon, not just for himself, but for his brother too.
After years of struggle and getting on the wrong side of the law, Dada was finally content at a job well done, because one of his skyscrapers having woven the thread of hope at different traffic signals across the city had finally managed to snag THE balloon of his childhood, the one which flew away…
I recently had a birthday and true to my female vanity, I refuse to divulge my age. Suffice to say that I can safely be described as a woman of gracious years, serene and collected. It is a polite way of saying that I am looking down the barrel on the wrong side of forty. I have hit the golden middle!
If current trends in life expectancy are anything to go by, the forties are the new twenties. A time when you come into your own a time to ‘rock’ yourself, the time to rock a cradle hopefully, thankfully long past. A time to ‘reverse age’, whatever that may be. But most importantly a time to finally have some time to yourself, be who you want to be, do what you want to do and perhaps discover that you can safely leave a good bit of unnecessary baggage behind. As far as leaving the unnecessary baggage behind goes, you swiftly discover that it is easier said than done. Mental baggage can be shed no sooner you make up your mind. The physical baggage however is another story altogether, possessed as it is with a mind of its own.
Much to your horror you find that the body has spent many of the intervening years developing new ways of metabolism. It has apparently developed its own hitherto unknown short cuts from the lips straight to the hips. Gone are the days when you could subsist on a diet of sinful sweets and savories with nothing to show for it on the waist-line. Now, the rationing of intake for any upcoming festival season (and believe me, in India we have plenty) requires more planning than the general elections, aided and abetted by complicated diet charts, fit-bits, apps, yoga and Zumba gurus and smoothies so enchantingly ghastly that they will put you off food altogether!
If you are lucky, you still retain the title of ‘Bhabhi’ or ‘Vahini’ from your household help, sundry grocers, vegetable vendors and their ilk, but otherwise it’s a swift descent into ‘Auntie’ or even worse, the ‘Auntieji’ hell. Of course, this has been somewhat mitigated thanks to the now popularly ubiquitous ‘Madam’, which cloaks all ages and sizes under its forgiving wings. But the great deference with which you are now treated manages to raise hackles along the way!
If middle age is the golden middle, why, you wonder sadly is it the age when your hair develops a mind of its own and decides to start turning silver? Oh, the irony! The skin decides to cash in its chips too and begins to develop its fine lines rather like an expert artist who has not yet decided how much of pencil shading to put into a particular picture. You tend to thank your stars that you now need ocular prosthesis (glasses or contacts for the uninitiated) so that the finer nuances of age are left undiscovered! It is a world obsessed with youth you discover much to your horror, when the perfectly sane colleague who was the epitome of chic in elegant silks or handloom cottons at formal dos suddenly shows up in a tight ball-gown making you take in first- hand the sight of mutton dressed as lamb. Looking around, the number of ‘lifts’(no, I refuse to mention all of them) and hair transplants which abound make you realize that while plastic pollution may or may not be the undoing of us, plastic surgery definitely may!
A slight creak in the old bones on lifting something which you would have in a jiffy just a few years ago here, a slightly deranged blood report there, a tendency to walk into a room and wonder what you are doing there in the first place and an occasional feeling of being overwhelmed at the thought of boogeying away at yet another round of social dos are among the first few signs of a body trying to take it nice and slow even if you are desperate to up the ante and give it your all. The mind not only wanders but also boggles on occasion when you find that the one snifter too many (or in case you are teetotal like me) the one pakoda too many does not sit as well with a protesting tummy as it used to in the good old days.
The dear old mind is of course charting its own merry course during this time. It worries, it wanders hither, tither and yon, wants to have its say and strangely enough tries to rebel, much in the style of a wayward teen rather than the calm, cool, collected sophisticate that it is supposed to be. So much better for some unfortunates to suffer from a mid-life crisis, my dears! But, by and large, most of us have been down the “been-there-done-that” path by now. Also, having weathered a few quite a few knocks along life’s path, we tend to acquire a new kind of resilience, which keeps us swimming even when sinking seems the only option.
This golden middle is filled with its own golden challenges which often make people burn their candles at both ends. You tend to spend most of your time walking the family tight-rope between aging parents and their needs on the one hand and rebellious teens who are ready to take on the world and us on the other. Being called on constantly to fix this, that and the other creates paragons of patience of the most ratty of us. Many a time all that you long for is a bit of peace, with small mercies like watching a sun-rise or sun-set, drinking a hot cup of coffee while you catch up on your reading or just chatting with a stranger taking on a whole new meaning. While we miraculously learn not to sweat the small stuff, we tend to notice small miracles everywhere and they are what prevents us from turning into cynics.
Of course, for most of us, the children have grown into ‘adultish’ and scarily parent-like versions of their former selves, no longer cute and cuddly, but not completely detached either. They tend to think of us as people who are not to be trusted to take care of things on their own, especially if technology is involved, who might put their foot in things, or God forbid who might embarrass them with their misplaced sense of dressing or humor, especially with their peers or teachers. It is often with a sense of loss that you see your teen zipping out of the car while it is still running and a couple of hundred meters from the school gates and dash away, keen to put as much distance between themselves and you before you corner a couple of their friends and start talking to them! Wails of “Can’t you dress more appropriately for the Parent Teacher meet?” greet the best dressed of us, leaving us wondering on the wonders of parenting.
It was the Greek philosophers Aristotle and later Plato who advocated the concept of the ‘Golden Middle’. The term itself means finding a state of balance between two extremes so that a common view point is achieved. Unsurprisingly therefore, attaining this fine balance is what middle age seeks in human life. The trials and tribulations notwithstanding, it truly denotes an age when you can be at peace with yourself and look back upon some remarkable achievements even as you set your sights firmly ahead on all that remains to be achieved still.
The greatest fear of the human mind is fear of the unknown and when you find yourself floundering in unchartered waters without the familiar yardstick of youthful strength, it is perfectly fine to be thrown by this unknown. For this is what the golden middle truly is, a time of peace between the uphill battles of youth and the downhill ones of old age. It is the time to accept frailties, fallibility and foibles which are part of our make- up and yet walk on undeterred on the journey of life, to cherish and to accept what we have rather than running after the mirage of what might have been.
And thus, it is time to accept rather than fret over that slightly expanded middle. While age maybe just a number and youth just a state of mind, acceptance and wisdom are the true gifts we can give ourselves so that our entire life becomes golden and not just the middle.
I am free again. I float above these grand mountains, looking down from the azure sky at the starkness of my homeland, which has a strange beauty all its own. It is not unlike the ravaged faces of its women, maintaining vestiges of dignity despite it being robbed from them time and time again, in a man`s world, filled with nothing but darkness for the weak and their ilk.
Now that I am mere spirit, I can go where I choose without fear or forfeiture. I can listen to thoughts before they translate into action, I can read the minds of men, I can cast my inhibitions to the strong mountain winds blowing down from the Hindukush and dance uninhibitedly with the poppies swaying in the breeze, sing with the babbling brooks till my throat is hoarse and gambol through the mountains with the grace of the ibex and the markhor. I have now however, left my earthly form behind. I have stood on the grassy knoll, behind the small knot of mourners watching my earthly remains being consigned to the beloved soil of my country, for dust we are and unto dust we shall return. But without my lost form, I can no longer act. I can only watch, unhindered. I can no longer save lives….
I am Reha, in Dari, my mother-tongue, Freedom in the strange language of the Westerners, and Swatantra in the language of the Hindus who live to the far East of us. I spent my last memorable days having fled to what I was deluded into thinking was the safety of my hamlet, before the invading armies of my own people, baying for blood thanks to the deep rift and mistrust which divided my homeland in a way the tall mountains and deep valleys never could. A land as harsh as it is beautiful, as cruel as it is kind, its humane face perhaps surviving only in unforgettable short stories like Tagore`s “Kabuliwallah”.
I remember the distant days of my childhood, lost in the hoary past, in the tiny hamlet of Falak. Situated in the lee of the tall peaks of the Hindukush range, it was a place bordered by clear streams and pebbles. A cluster of tiny huts, clinging to the mountainside, struggling to eke out a meagre existence in an unyielding land. Days came as suddenly with the sun as the nights with a cloak of darkness. The stars twinkled and winked overhead and the wind, it blew and blew and blew, never pausing like the unending whirls of a dervish dance. You could walk lonely miles with none but your horse and thoughts for company. We lived alone, safe in our cocoon of isolation. I was a privileged child, because for my parents it mattered not that I was a girl. My mother was part Tajik and taught me skills which she had learned in her motherland, the healing powers of the herbs which grew in this wild land, navigating by reading the stars and riding bareback along the steepest trails. My mother was also a skilled midwife and I like to think that the Almighty saw to it that I inherited her skill. I often travelled with her to distant villages on her errands of mercy and I still marvel at the tall strapping men whom I had known as mewling babies.
Yes, life in the wilds of Badakhshan was difficult without doubt, but it rewarded one with the beauty of uncomplicated simplicity. We were born, grew, worked, lived, laughed, aged and died in the same way as hundreds, perhaps thousands of our ancestors. It was as close to divinity as we could get.
And then, THEY came. Unexpectedly, insidiously, a mere trickle, in twos and threes, which suddenly grew into a flash flood in the blink of an eye, until the country was torn with strife and life as we knew it changed forever. In our harsh land, there was no room for the softness and beauty that was the privilege of women elsewhere in the world, but we had our freedom, to mingle with our kind, to explore our domain unfettered, in fact we Hazara were not nomads but farmers, musicians, educationists, even soldiers in far-away Kabul. We were the Persian remnants in this land and we were the Ismaili Shia.
Anything at the crossroads is always being torn asunder and my country, at the cross-roads of the ancient fabled Silk-Route a diaspora of different tribes was no exception, whether it was two imperial western powers trying to hold sway or the infighting amongst us which made us fair game. Hordes swept from north to south, reversed direction and set off again. These power-hungry, hatemongers had not a care for us, the common people who paid the ultimate price in this game of thrones.
The turning of the millennium had brought some respite from those who posed as ‘The Students’. Charged with aiding and abetting a major terrorist attack which succeeded in smiting the beating heart of the West, they were unceremoniously ousted from power inadvertently having bitten the hand which fed them. Their fall from grace coincided with my birth and my parents taking it as a sign that I was born into a freer world, decided to call me Reha, the one who is born free and who would lead them to happier times. Societal changes started creeping in insidiously, much like the winter snows melting on the mountain tops and we seemed to be headed to that mystical moment in time when our country was our own, progressive, free and keen on joining the new world order.
On dark winter nights, you could hear plaintive laments about those gloomy times, about lost lives and loves and on bright summer days, the scars on the land and on the people burned red like accusing fingers pointing at a world which had failed them. My mother bore the mark of twenty lashes, which had been her lot when she had ventured out on her midwifery duties without her guardian. When I first realized what they were, I had cried for two days at the thought of my gentle mother being subjected to this inhuman cruelty just by the virtue of her gender. No God could be so cruel, I thought, not my God who was the all merciful.
And so, the years passed with the shadows gradually waning until I was sent to Kunduz, the nearest town to train as an auxiliary health care worker. The day of return was nearing when like a hundred-headed hydra, THEY returned too. Of course, the news of friends-turning-foes-turning-friends, which the Westerners excelled at, leaving the country for good had been rife for the past year, but the avalanche which swamped us was totally unprecedented. The last time the insurgents had been unable to breach the strong-hold of the Badakhshan, but this time, they were better prepared. The capitulation was easy and complete, making me wonder about all those who had been complicit in what was touted as bloodless coup. For wherever The Students went, a trail of blood followed, the blood of the weak and the downtrodden, of the poor and the helpless and of women and children, who were mere chattel to these men of strong arms.
A few days after their return, my parents decided that I would be safest in my village, instead of battling everyday life in a larger town, which was more fraught with danger. And thus, I returned, having left my training incomplete, little realizing that the old way of life was gone, replaced by one of bondage which would ultimately succeed in snuffing out my life, much sooner than expected.
No sooner did I return, than I was expected to accompany my father to the local place of worship and meet the one who led the call to prayer. This was my first encounter with the dreaded lists which were being prepared throughout the land, the freedom of a woman in exchange for the lives of men. For THEY had promised that if THEY could have two lists, one of girls aged from twelve to eighteen and another of women from nineteen to forty so that they could be divided up as the spoils of war, no able- bodied men in the villages would be killed ruthlessly, hung from bridges and trees if the gruesome tales from nearby Galbagh were to be believed. In the era of the smartphone, videos of such heinous acts had already begun making the rounds, bringing home the cold, callous cruelty of The Students like never before. The screams of twelve-year old Afhak, the first casualty of our village as she was dragged away for the tiny transgression of pulling up the face cover of her veil as she negotiated the steep path on her way home have followed me into the hereafter and still resound in my ears. How could the rest of our village feign deafness? Did one not die a thousand deaths upon giving in meekly to such barbarism? Would life ever be the same again knowing that the dead would remember our indifference and silence? But, fear for life it sadly seemed was all consuming. Everything was normalized under the shadow of weapons.
Those two lists were the harbingers of doom. Escape was no longer possible, every familiar place having been overrun, abounding with their own tales of horror. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. My mother being the midwife for quite a few villages had been keeping records of all the infants she had helped deliver and these helped ascertain the age of children in this wilderness where numbers and counting were discounted for. With people trying to hide the true age of their daughters, her records became invaluable. She had been surreptitiously destroying them for a long time, but the task was long and arduous as they were regularly submitted to the headman and she could not pilfer them without arousing suspicion, especially now that they had gained tremendously in importance.
On that fateful day, she managed to get her hands on almost all of what she called her ‘record’, but the gradual mysterious disappearance of these papers had not gone unnoticed. The betrayers were many and in a heartbeat, The Students stood on the threshold of our modest home, keen as bloodhounds on the scent. My mother stood her ground, refusing to hand over her lists in a last stand to protect those innocents whom she had once helped bring into the world. She knew well the price she would have to pay, lashes, stoning or worse. But, God was merciful. Without much ado, the leader of The Students killed her with a single shot, fired point-blank to her head.
As I watched from the doorway, I saw the gun turn towards me in slow motion. As I slumped over when the bullets found me, The Students found that my hands which I had held behind my back had been committing some papers to the fire in the fireplace behind me, which had now curled into black scraps, the smoke from them drifting upwards together with my spirit as it left my body.
Those scraps perhaps gave some girl-children a few more days of freedom. They were all that was left of my mother`s list, the third list…..
Tension nahi lene ka. B(h)ai se poochne ka. Kasa kay, bara hay, I am MUM(BAI)!
It certainly is a fascinating city, ‘Amchi Mumbai’ as the locals call it. Its relentless pace, the never- ending race, umpteen possibilities, never-say-die attitude and indomitable spirit make it one of the if not THE most vibrant city in India. Gathering several satellite towns under its capacious wings, it channels a certain restlessness not felt anywhere else. And this is true for most if not all its denizens. Most people here are outdoing each other in trying to achieve something.
One feature which differentiates Mumbai from many of its other contemporaries is the sheer distance which people travel for work. Commuting two or three hours each way each day is par for the course and leaving home at the crack of dawn only to return exhausted long after the lamps have been lit is no big deal as everyone is doing it. With most households having both spouses working and trying to outdo each other (intentionally or unintentionally that remains to be seen) in the hours they keep, and given the familiar milieu of ‘Taaza Ghar ka Khaana, Teen baar Rozana’, someone has to step into the void left by the lady of the house, who in most cases is worked literally off her feet. As Dr. Seuss, the acclaimed children’s author put it so poetically in his popular book, ‘The Cat in the Hat’, “Somebody, somebody has to, you see” but unlike Sally and Me in the book, here most women say, “My Bai and ME!”.
India is unique in many ways, but perhaps one of the most unique features of all is the ease with which we Indians unblushingly delegate most given tasks to several other people. Given the humongous population, labor tends to be far cheaper than in most other countries and thus hiring household help is the norm rather than the exception. One of the largest unorganized sectors of Indian industry is the service industry which is teeming with help of all shapes, sizes, and capabilities performing most tasks from cooking and gardening to child-care and beyond. Even cinema, our popular form of entertainment is largely incomplete without an unfailingly kind ‘Ramu Kaka’ character, the revered help of the household hovering in the background, ready to ease the life of the protagonists in any which way possible.
Small wonder then that most of us hope for just such a character to materialize out of the wood-work and waltz into our lives smoothening out all the rough corners which abound at every twist and turn. Well, to burst everyone’s bubble, fiction is best relegated to the annals of films or the pages of a book. But, be of stout heart my friends, Mumbai is not totally without hope for in her name itself is enshrined that mainstay of so many households, enter the uncrowned queen who makes everyone dance to her tune (a drumroll here would be great!) “The BAI of Mumbai”.
You find her scurrying busily on her way, especially in the wee hours, a certain spring in her step, hair neatly combed and tied sensibly into a top-knot. Feet shod in sensible chappals, a capacious bag slung from one shoulder and one hand clutching the purchases which ‘Tai’ (as the lady of the house is referred to) had ordered the previous evening. A certain belligerence is often her hall-mark and woe betide any poor shmuck who even dreams of curbing her authority when it comes to almost all things domestic. She is the ‘Bai or Mavshi’ as household help is referred to in Mumbai.
Her arrival is marked by the fanfare of the doorbell and few feelings fill the heart with as much pure, unadulterated joy as the arrival of the Bai on time, especially if she has sought two days of leave and has arrived promptly on the third day as planned instead of sending an application of extension via Whatsapp. It means a slightly more elaborate menu, a slightly cleaner house, well laundered clothes and heaving a sigh of relief for finally getting the boss off your back as you will meet a looming deadline successfully. A few Bais successfully morph into real helps or mainstays of sorts, who warn you which supplies are at a low ebb and need supplementation, the better varieties of brooms, mops scrubbers, dishwash soaps et al, having gleaned wisdom from practical experimentation in several houses in the same apartment building and wanting nothing but to pass on the knowledge out of the goodness of their hearts.
Most are possessed of quirks, some adorable, others which feed a feeling of frenzy and some right down dubious, which of course depends on whether the three Fate sisters were feeling benign or particular vicious when you were negotiating terms with your maid-to-be. Of course, trying to make maximum profit with a minimum amount of effort is a human trait not found only in this maximum city, but the world over and hence the wise turn a blind or benign eye on the smaller cutting-of -corners during the course of the Bai’s job, unless and until it results in a complete meltdown of the household chores.
An extra chore or two may be met with a sigh and a long- suffering air on occasion, but keep up the extra overs at your peril or expect an immediate demand for a raise! However, try cleaning out your closet or linen cupboard or the kitchen and the Bai is ever ready to lend a hand, having ear marked the stuff that she has had dibs on long before you unpacked it from its box. By- and-large, however they are an honest lot who would rather not purloin stuff but ask for it upfront, a trait which is endearing and annoying at the same time,
A simple way to get a management degree without actually studying for the hugely difficult entrance exams for management colleges is to successfully manage a small staff of three or four of these household helps, with a driver thrown in for good measure. I doff my hat to Nita Ambani here. A house with 27 floors? Window panes running into the thousands? And a six hundred and counting staff? And there was I, deluded into thinking I had it hard with my meagre staff of two, who happen to be related to each other! I think it is time someone introduced Mrs. Ambani as the Guru of all management Gurus. Methinks her capabilities would have made a much better plot for the film ‘Guru’(pun intended) rather than those of her redoubtable father-in-law.
A tendency to provide unnecessary intelligence (read gossip), down sugary tea by the liter during the course of the job, remind you constantly of the Diwali bonus, never mind if it is only December and a penchant for seeking several days off (directly proportionate to the number of offs the other maid seeks if you have two) can be the hallmark of this person whom you have now come to regard with the awe you reserve for a ‘Bhai’(don), not a Bai! But many -a -time, theirs can be the only sympathetic ear and enthusiastic voice many a harassed homemaker or even a professional can hear over the course of a long, busy day. And trust me, since I have been there and done that, these exotic sub-types of the homo-sapiens must be related to the feline species, for often it is not just a case of you choosing the Bai, but the unmistakable feeling of the Bai choosing you! The Bai network would give the STASI of old serious run for its money with the information about all households and their quirks which circulates on its grape-vine!
The importance of these maids-in-Mumbai was brought home like never before during the lockdown of the past year when most of us had to do without help. It was a time for EVERYONE to cry HELP when they realized the grit required to run a home all by themselves, especially with all members stuck at home and food flying out of the kitchen like it was going out of style tomorrow. Yes, this largely unacknowledged work-force has a major hand in the success of all professionals, irrespective of gender. We all know it, but dare we say it? The answer is clear as crystal, a resounding yes.
Jokes, puns, quirks and foibles apart, you have to admire the sheer resilience of these individuals and salute their never-say-die attitude. Even their belligerence stems from the fact that they have to weather the knocks which life hands out to them on a regular basis. It can be the uncertain tenancy in a slum, a drunkard husband, wayward kids or the queue for clean water at the common municipal tap. But, by and large, they are a tough and driven lot who try bettering their lives without getting on the wrong side of the law. Being an unregulated sector in the service industry also has its pitfalls in the lack of standardized wages, hours of work, paid holidays and job security, made even worse thanks to the pandemic.
All said and done, we owe these domestic tyrants for making our lives more comfortable, especially when there is a large family to cater to. Reliable staff is a boon granted to a lucky few, whether it is a large corporate house or a small household. Perhaps all that is needed is to be a little understanding of their hopes and aspirations (within reason of course!) so that many a wrinkle in daily life is seamlessly smoothened out.
Hence, let us part with the sight of the Bai beetling along on her way to work, where she has the last word in the popular ditty,
“Tension nahi lene ka. B(h)ai se poochne ka. Kasa kay, bara hay, I am MUM(BAI)!”
Recently, I met an old friend who looked a little pensive. After much pressing on my part, she revealed that she had recently been awarded an advanced diploma in creative writing from the Symbiosis University in Pune, with an A+ grading, no less! Not a mean feat if you consider the fact that she was working part-time while being a full-time mother to a three-year old toddler, with no familial support to speak of and domestic help rather thin on the ground. Upon informing her spouse about her new qualification however, she was greeted with a lukewarm response, which put a comprehensive damper on her justified high spirits, leaving her with the baggage of self- doubt and resentment. “All I wanted was someone to appreciate my achievement. I was not looking for a pull-out-all-the -stops kind of party, a few genuine words of appreciation would have sufficed”, she said sadly. Her story got me thinking. When centuries of study by several scholars have proved that appreciating and being appreciated is a basic human need, right up there with food, clothing and shelter, why do we begrudge it to our fellows, be they colleagues, friends or family? What is it in human nature that makes us not only far quicker to criticize, but to find an unholy glee in it? Do we still carry the atavistic mentality of our hunter-gatherer selves where only the best could win the battle for survival and one hence had to ride rough-shod over all else? And hence, how far have we truly evolved if we cannot appreciate our fellow beings?
WANT AND NEED
Several studies on human behavior have now proved beyond doubt that not just people, but society as a whole, functions much better when individual effort is appreciated. So much so that the art of appreciation now forms an important corner-stone of corporate culture, and is considered to be an important soft-skill. Good leaders may know how to hound a team and get a job done, but great leaders know how to make each member of the team feel appreciated so that everyone revels in the team`s success which instills in them the will to go one better the next time. It is a common experience across cultures that anyone who is appreciated is calmer, more self-assured and positive towards life than one who is not. Merely saying a simple ‘Thank You’ can make one feel happier. Scientifically, it has been proved that that giving and receiving appreciation results in the release of dopamine and serotonin, the ‘feel good’ chemicals of the brain, leading to the much touted ‘positivity’ which exudes from some people. Not only does appreciation have a positive effect on mental health, it succeeds in boosting the immune system too, resulting in less illness in general and infections in particular. A person develops a sense of security on being appreciated and is better adapted to stepping out of his or her comfort zone and trying new things, thus broadening horizons. It instills a sense of confidence in people and when it becomes the habit of society as a whole, results in overall progress. Putting it simply, the world becomes a better and a happier place.
WHY NOT ?
In a world which has grown more fast-paced, competitive and perhaps more insular, everyone is in the race to get ahead and be the alpha who leads. This has led to a catch 22 situation where everyone needs to BE appreciated while REFUSING to appreciate another. Criticizing seems so much easier, the momentary popping of someone’s bubble of pleasure lending a misplaced sense of power to the perpetrator. Adding to this is of course is what can only be described in this case as the curse of social media, where one can safely draw blood through criticism, while safely remaining cloaked in anonymity, lending a whole new meaning to the term ‘cloak-and -dagger game’. For every positive tweet or comment or like, you find an innumerable number of trolls, sprouting like weeds after the monsoons. It will serve us well to remember the truth of the sayeth “blowing out another’s candle will not make yours glow any brighter. A word of caution to the wise however, it is important to be able to know the difference between true appreciation and sycophancy, so rife in today’s world. Perhaps it is because that the feeling of being truly appreciated irrespective of achievements or status is rather thin on the ground that one easily falls a victim to flattery. It has become a way of life of sorts that every whim and fancy of anyone in a position of power be catered to or beware the consequences, leading to peans where none are necessary.
PARTING SHOT
Life is a rich tapestry of experiences and if undershot with the golden thread of appreciation takes on a richness of hue all its own. Gratitude and appreciation are perhaps the only traits which have been proven to benefit both the giver and the receiver. From the smallest child to the oldest adult, we humans are in constant search for the validation of our existence and being appreciated fills this deep void and gives a new meaning to life. The gesture need not be grandiose, a small “thank you” or “I appreciate what you do” will suffice. So, remember to find time to water the plants of all your relationships with a trickle of appreciation and watch them bloom like never before. In the wise words of Voltaire, “Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well” And thus, practicing what I have preached, I would like to thank you, my readers for taking the time out to read this. I truly appreciate it!
Oft it has been repeated, time and time again, Words themselves can do no justice to the power of the pen! Kingdoms to be kept or sundered To the whims and wishes of men But their deeds fair and foul forever Enshrined, by the seemingly tiny pen! All earthly power, all the pelf and might Cannot hold its own against The humble black and white Fiery speeches to rouse brethren Gentle words of care Sweet songs, tradition and justice Would they survive anywhere? If not for the written word Which sees them through storm and strife Their speakers may die a thousand deaths, But the words, they remain alive! Who can imagine the puny pen, Laying waste, the mighty sword But such is the power commanded By the written word!
