Seasons Greetings!!!
I am back (yet again!) and I am confused… This new look and feel to the blog site could well be the terrain of a hitherto undiscovered planet 
I am ‘discovering’ guest book comments which I am sure I have never set eyes on before. I have no idea when they were posted, as there is no date next to them so all those nice people I never responded to - blame the old interface! Damn, am so missing the old blog page - there is such a lot of catching up to do here.
While on the subject of catching up - in the past year (or is it two?) that I have been missing things have been moving fast… am still trying to catch my breath but will surely attempt to fill all of you in bit by bit.
Watch this space for my tryst with matrimony, housekeeping and motherhood… but before that, people, although I know you missed me, please drop in,say “hello” and pump my ego a bit 
And I am back…!
Posted in Hiatus Over on 12/26/2009 02:58 am by sudha lakhera
Seva Ram!
Posted in People on 10/30/2007 02:20 am by sudha lakhera
"I don't want it short; I want to make a ponytail" the little girl declared. I watched with interest as the six something girl explained to her mother and the hair dresser just how long she wanted her hair to be and how much hair she wanted in the front. Reminded me of Seva Ram
Seva Ram, in his loose white pajamas, a dull coloured shirt and a Nehru cap went from home to home offering cheap shaves, haircuts and head massages. In a tin box, which he carried around as proudly as an executive carrying his first laptop case, Seva Raj carried his tools of trade ' Scissors of various sizes, a pair of shears, a cake of soap, alum, some oils, a white cape like cloth and a couple of dangerous looking 'ustras' or shaving blades
Seva Ram used to make regular visits to our house - to 'clean shave' my father with his 'Ustra' and keep the crowning glory of us three kids short and manageable! On the day of the 'hair cutting' event Seva Ram would round up all three of us and seat us on the ground outside our house. Grabbing whoever was closest at hand, he would wrap the white cloth around the child and start snipping. The exercise would be repeated on the remaining two children regardless of gender giving all three of us a hair style quite similar to what Lalu Prasad sports replete with the fringes. For my brother initially, there was an added step in the hair cutting procedure ' Seva Ram would run the shears down his neck. Not wanting to be left out from an interesting experience my sister and I demanded that the shears be run on our neck too and the nice man complied! In our active lives there was no time to bother about something as unimportant as a 'hairstyle' and Seva Ram's output was never questioned.
The turning point however, came when I was around eight which makes my brother seven! I, my sister and two friends were giving a dance recital in honour of my parent's anniversary. We had the 'Gopi's' but the very vital 'Krishna' to our version of the 'Raas' was missing. Of course, none of us girls wanted to forgo our pretty skirts and makeup to play the role of a dark 'Krishna'. Inspiration struck and the help of my brother who had so far been neglected by us girls was enlisted. He agreed albeit a little reluctantly.
On 'D' Day little Krishna was dressed up very imaginatively by five very dedicated little girls. The result was spectacular ' a wooden flute in hand, Krishna wore a borrowed purple satin salwar, gold dust gleamed on his face and bare torso, he had 'kaajal' in his eyes and lipstick on his cheeks. To accommodate the big peacock feather his hair was pinned up in a small little fountain on top of his head ' this revealed Seva Ram's handiwork, my brother's fringe in full glory.
After the initial chaos created by five giggling girls doled up in 'Sarees' and one very resplendent but doubtful looking little boy died down, the dance recital began in earnest. In the midst, a couple of the neighboring boys decided to show up. Intrigued they watched for a while and then in true boy fashion loudly expressed their disgust at my brother's involvement in such a girlie affair. "Look, look he is wearing kaajal", "look his hair looks like a girls" not surprisingly our mortified Krishna fled the makeshift stage leaving us 'Gopis' stranded and very confused. Needless to say the show was 'called off' since our lead actor was in hiding and we Gopi's couldn't remember the remaining steps.
Seva Ram never cut our hair after the incident; my affronted brother passed all blame on to innocent Seva Ram for having given him a girlie cut. Seva Ram was replaced by the young guy who ran the 'Rose' Hair cutting Salon. We girls, not to be left behind shifted loyalty to the same place. I don't think 'Rose Salon' did anything better with our hair but I guess they did get rid of my brothers fringes which haven't shown up since!
I don't remember when we stopped seeing Seva Ram on his daily rounds ' our childish hearts were too full of the changes that were taking place every day to even miss him. He seemed to slip into oblivion as did many others who once plied their daily trade on the road below our house. The man who carried two pots of curd suspended on a wooden stick on his shoulder- two different qualities of curd at two different prices, the washerman with his big bundle of clothes, the man who sold little cakes, buns and biscuits from a box he carried on his head, the door to door cobbler with his amazing toolbox
Just Because…
Posted in People on 08/07/2007 08:19 pm by sudha lakhera
Driving through San Diego, we stopped for a bite to eat at a small breakfast joint. A corner of the eatery was occupied by a group of elderly people whiling away their morning hours, chatting, napping and reading
Amongst the group, all of whom were in their seventies, sat a frail looking woman ' conspicuous, not only because of her loud throaty laugh and animated gestures but also because of the shades she wore. Her glasses were arresting - big and black with oversized round lenses, they were liberally decorated with glittering stone and metal. The shades would have been a spectacular, if not garish sight, on even the most glamorous of faces and yet here was a wrinkled face carrying them off with panache!
The dark glasses, in the cool confines of the busy place were certainly not needed; maybe they were a purposeful effort to hide the emotions that lay behind and could spill over through the eyes. Maybe, they made her feel attractive and captivating, helped her relive a youth long past. Maybe, she saw them as a means to draw attention away from her inexpensive dressing which spoke of her not so well to do living conditions
Whatever be the reason, there she was sitting like a Diva, gracing the little place in her larger than life, glamorous sunglasses. Matching the men word for word, flirting, laughing with abandon, living her moment in time ' daring to be different. As we left, I smiled at her and she smiled back, a smile free of artifice that was no less brilliant, but far more genuine, than the fake stones on her magnificent glasses.
I salute her spirit ' this ode (don't know who the author is) is to her and to each one of us
Just because no one has been fortunate enough to realize what a gold mine you are,
doesn’t mean you shine any less.
Just because no one has been smart enough to figure out that you can’t be topped,
doesn’t stop you from being the best.
Just because no one has come along to share your life,
doesn’t mean that day isn’t coming.
Just because no one has made this race worthwhile,
doesn’t give you permission to stop running.
Just because no one has realized how much of a woman you are,
doesn’t mean they can affect your femininity.
Just because no one has come to take the loneliness away,
doesn’t mean you have to settle for a lower quality.
Just because no one has shown up who can love you on your level,
doesn’t mean you have to sink to theirs.
Just because you deserve the very best there is,
doesn’t mean that life is always fair.
Just because God is still preparing your king,
doesn’t mean that you’re not already a queen.
Just because your situation doesn’t seem to be progressing right now,
doesn’t mean you need to change a thing.
Of love - Old & New
Posted in my musings... on 05/12/2007 08:01 am by sudha lakhera
How easy is it for people in love to come to terms with the 'Exes' in the lives of their partner? "I am still friends with my Ex!" "My Ex and I still share a great friendship minus the passion!" "I loved the food my 'Ex's' mom cooked!". "I was discussing this with 'Ex' and 'the person' doesn't think it's a great idea!" "The 'Ex' asked me when you and I are taking our relationship to the next level!" Careless statements which regardless of the 'open mindedness' of the spouse / current partner involved more often than not cause a twinge in the heart, even if it is for a split second. In theory nice to hear sentences but practically ?
Maybe the approach of the 'Hollywood crowd' is best ' 'Ex husbands' attend as 'best man' their 'Ex wife's' wedding, 'Ex husbands' and 'Ex wives' go on holiday (for benefit of the kids!) leaving slightly 'snuffed out' current flames behind, 'Ex boyfriends' and 'Ex girlfriends' land up in each other's apartments for a little bit of hanging around (what were you thinking?). Ofcourse, Hollywood has its share of 'showdowns' but on an average they are nice 'friendly' people at ease with their multitude of relationships.
Maybe, the 'Bollywood saga' approach is best where loads of tears, some bottles of booze, explanations and chocked assurances ensure a happy ending. The sad part is that the spurned or 'Ex' lover is either of villainous intent or the 'too good to be true all sacrificing' kinds. Hate them or love them true love reigns supreme and the couple get back to 'living happily ever after' with or without the 'ex' of questionable intent
Personally I wouldn't relish my boyfriend running off to an 'ex' for bouts of 'you are my friend' every now and then. Maybe, an introduction to the person in question and being made an integral part of the 'maintaining friendship sessions' I might relent and take things in my stride! But my mindset I am sure would be 'boo'ed' by many forward thinkers ' it might even be considered encroachment of the all important 'space'. Love & lust of yesterday converted into platonic friendship today with just 'we breakup' as a catalyst is a formula I am still trying to understand!
I invite comments from - people who are battling insecurities about their partners friendship with an 'ex', people who have come to terms with it, people who put their foot down and said 'no room for your ex in our present' and the inexperienced who hold an opinion in this matter.
By the way friends, turbulence in the relationship of two very much in love people, because of a 'friendly ex' prompted this post J Just a clarification for the curious!
Dreams - actions and reactions!
Posted in my musings... on 05/06/2007 12:22 pm by sudha lakhera
My roommate tells me she has a groggy memory of me yelling 'snakes' at the top of my voice at some god forsaken hour some nights ago. The snakes, obviously made a speedy disappearance because I didn't utter another word for the remainder of the night and my roomie unconcerned about the reptiles, who could be invading my dreams slept soundly too.
The night before last however, my friend's endurance gave way. She supposedly woke up to me yelling 'I can't see anything! I can't see anything ' its so dark!' I guess my trip to the 'house of horrors' at Universal Studios the same day had some bearing on my hysterical display in the dead of night. Anyways, my friend jolted out of slumber, bolted from her bed, saw a shadowy figure on my bed (which of course was me sitting upright), thought I was being attacked and decided she could save me by yelling louder. A few yells later, she realized it was I, who was sitting on the bed, unmoving and patiently repeating that it was quite dark and that I couldn't see. Taking control of her frayed nerves my roommate, explained it was dark because it was night and that I should shut up and get back to sleep. Surprisingly, I took her advice, lay down and only woke up the next morning to the mutterings of a very annoyed female. A very exasperated room mate tried to tell a very sleepy me about the happenings of the night,however having absolutely no recollection of the night's dramatic events I assumed she was talking about herself and told her to think nothing of it. I added that she often mutters in her sleep and that I had heard nothing the night before so she shouldn't worry about having disturbed me. Ofcourse, the lady jumped at my throat!
My 'sleep talking' is also one of the reasons why my sister is not very enthusiastic to share a bedroom with me. We were both alone at home, some years ago and after watching the movie 'Raaz' (which is a horror flick complete with blood curdling screams) late into the night fell into slightly uneasy slumber, with the lights left on to give us some courage! Well, it seems my sister woke up in the middle of the night to find me sitting up in bed staring at her sleeping figure, all the while muttering something under my breath. The situation, the hour, the silence and my loose, black hair teamed with a pale nightdress, I am sure would have given the staunchest of ghost busters a shiver and incase of my kid sister who has never been known for her bravery it was her worst fears come true. The poor, terrified soul gave a piercing scream (to this day I haven't figured out why the neighbours never turned up) which shattered the thin walls of my dreamland and made me wake up with a start. It took me an hour and my favourite bracelet to pacify her and get her to spend the rest of the night in my room!
Ofcourse, my family is by now used to my infrequent nocturnal ranting which are usually not as loud or energetic as in the case of incidents above. My mother though is yet to come to terms with it ' she insists that I talk in my sleep because I have done something to offend the gods ' like having laughed during a Pooja,, turned my back to an idol in the temple or worse still having eaten beef! At regular intervals she hounds me for a confession on my wrongdoings so that she can appease the God’s involved! My brother on the other hand says he is not surprised that I can't stop talking even when I am asleep considering the fact that I have been barmy ever since he has known me. My father's problem is slightly different' it seems I speak in English during my dreams and that too very fast. His grouse is that due to language constraints he is unable to make head or tale of what I say thereby missing out on chances to know of my darkest secrets!
Thank heaven for an education system which expounds the importance of thinking and conversing in the English tongue - so what if we have a first language that should be given preference?
India Calling!
Posted in Travel on 05/04/2007 05:31 am by sudha lakhera
Getting on to the story, I landed in Los Angeles dazed, hungry and very jet lagged. But being the dutiful daughter I am, instead of a bed, my first thoughts flew to mother dearest - I needed to assure her that my plane had not been hijacked, no one had fed me drug laced food on the flight and that I hadn't been abducted by some fair skinned trophy hunter. With my new cell phone (courtesy office) I tried calling my parents but couldn't get through. Tried my brother's phone with the same results. Many attempted calls later I still couldn't connect so I called my sister. She explained that the phone my parents were using was blocked (Tata Indicom it seems woke up after two and a half years asking for documents. Non provision of the same within 24 hours led to disconnection without intimation. Wow!) My brothers handset was not functioning hence not reachable. Relieved, I called up my brother's office and was told he was at lunch. Left a message with his colleague to give me a missed call from someone's phone (with an ISD line) so I could call back
Here is where the confusion starts, jet lagged I crash into slumber land only to be jolted out of it by a very strange whine. After a lot of groping in the unfamiliar darkness, I found my new cell phone squealing furiously, flashing an India number ' before I could reach it however, the line went dead. Sleepy and irritated but fearing my mothers wrath if I didn't respond I dialed the same number. A complex procedure because first I had to get out of bed, then find a pen, then note down the number, then dial my access code, then hear instructions, then dial the number, then hear my balance, then get connected… Well, I finally got through to someone, who even to the sleep numbed state of my ears didn't sound like anyone from my family. Thinking it could be a neighbor or friend of my brothers I introduced myself and the conversation went something like this
"Hello?!" "Hello!" "Hello?!" "Ya, Hello!" "Hello!, Hello!" finally I realized that one of us namely I, had to take the conversation forward. "Am calling from USA, I got a call from this number?" "kahan se?" "America Se, aap Harish (my brother) ke friend Hain?" "You are calling from USA?" "Yes" I replied cursing my brother for having identified such a dunce as a 'phone provider'
"Oh! Very nice. Myself, Mohan from Mumbai" "Hi Mohan, why did you call?" "No, I did not call, you called -what is your good name please?" I identified myself and once again asked for my brother. It was slowly dawning on me that I had on the other end someone who I was certainly not supposed to call. So saying that I, maybe had the wrong number I disconnected. In two minutes, came another missed call and I called back. My friend Mohan was on the line hoping to talk and to 'make friendship' because of my 'sweet voice'. With a growing rage I politely told him not to disturb me again. I disconnected only to get another missed call, five calls, which I disconnected each time, followed and it was time for some serious action. Not wanting to get into a long distance "lay off dude" conversation, I called up a friend in India, gave him the number from my 'missed calls' list and asked him to call up and yell at the guy.
In a while my friend called back to tell me that I had made him yell at my brother in law for no apparent reason. Surprised, I called up to find that indeed my very annoyed brother-in-law was available on the number I had provided my friend with. He wanted to know why I was disconnecting his calls and why, I was making people threaten him with dire consequences if he did not stop calling?! In all goodness he had come home with his cell phone so that my parents could speak to me. Of course, nobody in my slightly 'dense' family would ever dream of thinking that 2:00 o'clock in the morning is not the very best of times to call a very jet lagged person. While talking to my family, I could hear the beep of another call coming through and knew my friend Mohan was 'in friendship'. The difference between his cell number and my brother-in-laws is a single digit ' no wonder I goofed!
However, the story doesn't end here. The next morning I received an SMS asking me how I was and why I didn't want to talk to my new found friend who wanted 'only pure friendship with you'! This SMS was followed by another one which was composed specially for me, in the honour of everlasting friendship by the same idealistic smss'er. I did not respond but my friend Mohan has not given up. I have saved his number as 'idiot' on my cell phone and every now and then my phones display flashes 'idiot' for a few seconds. Mohan though desperate to 'make friendship' is obviously financially a wise man. He believes in missed ISD calls and an occasional SMS to develop friendships across the sea and I just don't have the heart to tell him that it's not working.
One day, when I run out of 'blogging' material I will call him so watch the space!
A slice - of the American Pie!
Posted in Travel on 04/09/2007 08:23 am by sudha lakhera
So what am I going to write here? Don’t have the faintest idea but for starters let me tell you where I am and why I have been ‘gayab’. Am in U S of A - my first trip here and man is it an experience. Los Angeles or LA as the been there, done that, crowd call it - is beautiful, well ordered and at short distance from the rich and famous Hollywood!
Now that I have my dimes, quarters and cents sorted out shopping has become an enjoyable (albeit expensive) experience! The Onions are huge but don't taste quite like the midgets you can buy back at home from the bhaaji - waalah around the corner. Tomatoes come in an astounding variety of sizes and some of them could pass off for melons except for the colour! The plums are the size of golf balls and quite as tasteless, the chicken legs gigantic the list goes on.
Some alarming price tags on the clothes which look not unlike what I could buy of ‘fashion street’ in Mumbai for a fraction of the price force me to take a closer look and figure out why I should be paying ’so much.’ Not surprisingly, quite a few of the clothes actually bear the label ‘made in India’! So, I end up buying clothes manufactured everywhere else but in India. My, sense of Economics refuses to let me pay ‘more’ dollars for something I can buy in ‘less’ Rupees. Guess, I will never qualify as a ‘Swadeshi’ ambassador after this trip Die hard ‘Swadeshi's’ would surely expect me to buy Indian regardless of location & price). Which reminds me - my first brush with shopping here was an eye opener, every time, I would look at a price tag my mind would automatically go in ‘calculator’ mode and convert it into Rupees. Well, as the Americans say ‘Gee! I nearly passed out!’ But help came in the form of a friend who has been through the grind and gave me sound advice. “In America things are cheaper if you go by the quality and cost; just remember not to compare Dollars to Rupees.” “Compare Apple to Apple - not Apple to Orange”. Well said, but then even though things seem cheaper now, the calculator in my mind refuses to see logic and pops up just about as soon as it sees a price tag
It's a pleasure to have strangers hold doors open for you, give you a friendly smile, stop their vehicle while you cross over. It’s wonderful to go back to a store with your purchase if you are not satisfied and get a full refund. The roads are amazing, the houses beautiful, the stores full of incredible stuff.
Yet, I wouldn’t trade India for here because something is missing. What is missing is - the wildly gesticulating people talking nineteen to the dozen, the appetizing smells from roadside eateries', the incessant barking of dogs, the chaos on the roads, the negotiations with the vegetable vendor, the greetings from the flower seller, the hawker pushing his cart advertising his ware in a high pitched voice… the smell and the sounds that are so incredibly - India
Cleaning House!
Posted in my musings... on 01/08/2007 12:39 pm by sudha lakhera
Last Week I threw out Worrying,
it was getting old and in the way.
It kept me from being me;
I couldn’t do things my way.
I threw out those Inhibitions;
they were just crowding me out.
Made room for my New Growth,
got rid of my old dreams and doubts.
I threw out a book on MY PAST
(didn’t have time to read it anyway).
Replaced it with New Goals,
started reading it today.
I threw out childhood toys
(remember how I treasured them so)?
Got me a NEW PHILOSOPHY too,
threw out the one from long ago.
Bought in some new books too,
called I CAN, I WILL, and I MUST.
Threw out I might, I think and I ought.
WOW, You should’ve seen the dust.
I ran across an OLD FRIEND,
haven’t seen him in a while.
I remember His name is GOD,
Yes, I really like his style.
He helped me to do some cleaning
and added some thing’s Himself.
Like PRAYER, HOPE and FAITH,
Yes I placed them right on the shelf.
I picked up this special thing
and placed it at the front door.
I FOUND IT…its called PEACE.
Nothing gets me down anymore.
Yes, I’ve got my house looking nice.
Looks good around the place.
For things like Worry and Trouble
there just isn’t any place.
It’s good to do a little house cleaning,
get rid of the old things on the shelf.
It sure makes things brighter;
maybe YOU should try it yourself.
Happy New Year friends!
Posted in my musings... on 12/22/2006 01:43 pm by sudha lakhera
Christmas is certainly in the air but all the glimmer and glitter doesn’t seem to bring cheer to weary souls. People look as stressed out, uninterested and lethargic as ever - their gait is stilted and they wear plastic smiles.
By far, the most heart warming Christmas sight I saw in Bangalore was a group of seven or eight hawkers, both men and women, sitting in a circle, late in the night, wearing their unsold red caps, laughing uproariously, chatting excitedly, drinking tea! For that moment in time, sharing a cold winter night, some happiness and cheer they were the spirit of Christmas personified!
So why am I not cheerful - why do I miss Christmas? Maybe, I miss the Holly berries that were an essential to Christmas celebrations in the hills, the real Christmas trees decorated with love and attention, the smell of mince pies and plum cake that wafted out of houses, the strain of carols in the air - yes, I do. But what I really miss is the people attending midnight mass, covered from head to toe, battling the chilly winds, singing lustily to the accompaniment of an old piano! I miss - the coffee and salty biscuits that followed the mass, the animated chatter and banter. I miss - the little stockings of goodies which found their way to our home sent by warm hearted people full of neighborly love.People, who did not discriminate between those who followed their faith and those who did not and shared their festival with delight. I miss - the togetherness celebrated by those happy people bound by cords of faith and the spirit of Yuletide.
In a city, where the commercial value of this season is exploited to the fullest without as much as a thought to the reason for celebrations, a lot seems to be missing!
These are the opening lines from the classic ‘Little Women’
“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
“We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly from her corner.
Call me romantic if you will but Beth makes sense - Christmas is a season to celebrate ‘having each other’
Changing Job!
Posted in Work on 12/20/2006 03:22 pm by sudha lakhera
But, before attending to the expected ‘millions of job offers’ (once ‘they’ discover ‘I’ am out in the job market) am faced with the huge challenge of compiling a resume! Over the years I have edited and scripted many a resume successfully but when it comes to one for myself - I am at sea! In desperation, I share a three page (resumes should be brief but descriptive they say) thesis on myself and ask my friends for their inputs. My masterpiece in the making in trashed and I now have on hand a dozen resumes none of which look like mine Some of these resumes could sure land me a plum job, going by the content, I seem to not only be doing my CEO’s job but also putting the entire management to shame with my dedication, productivity and hard work.
Next to tackle is the covering note. None of the sites, HR professionals or books agree on this one. Whatever, you churn out is either too verbose, too bland, too long, too short…uff!
Now that I am the proud owner of a passable ‘resume’ (still doesn’t do justice to my immense talent and experience ;)) and a covering letter what next? Simple float the resume around, talk to some consultants and wait for the emails and calls to flow… Damn! all this time there was no dearth of opportunity and now, all of a sudden, there seems to be a drought in the job market
So why am I “looking at a job change?” Asks every other cliched interviewer. “Because I need change and also a larger packet to take home” I want to say. However, putting on my best professional tone I talk of having ‘reached the zenith of my career with my current employer’, how much ‘I want to use my skills’ to help xyz company ’scale new heights’, how I wasn’t contemplating change but when I heard of an opportunity with ‘this!’ company I couldn’t resist etc etc… Next comes ‘What do you know about this company?’ ‘Mostly everything that can be found on the net!’ would be a suitable retort but no!. I talk as though, I have been researching the organization with single minded devotion for the past six months and hoping to add a couple of thousand to my package, stress on their excellent human resource practices
Faced with another dilemma - this time an ethical one, of going for interviews on company time - your’s truly makes a clean breast of her intentions to the CEO. He promptly awards her with instruction to serve a months notice with a few additional days thrown in for good measure. After all a replacement has to be found and inducted…!
So here I am, at my old desk trying to document, handover, induct, clean up my system, give explanations, bid farewell and counsel my team who seem to have developed ‘wont let you go’ syndrome
And the interviews? Well, I just don’t seem to have enough time on working days and the recruiters don’t seem very excited about seeing me on a non working one
Do I see my boss smirking?
A Happy Day!
Posted in my musings... on 11/30/2006 09:43 am by sudha lakhera
I remember with pleasure shopping trips with my mother to small shops in our town. The shopkeepers welcomed us with a smile, they spoke endlessly on their wares, provided updates on the latest trends and offered refreshments. Walk into a slightly upmarket store today and more often than not, a plastic smile is thrown in your direction by a snooty looking sales person. This sales person will go on to appraise you from head to toe before deciding if he/she wants to assist you. The trend has changed, yet we shell out more money and still patronize establishments manned by indifferent staff.
At Global Access the other day, a friend and I walked upto a counter wanting to look at cell phones. An immensely cheesed off looking sales person, gave us a cursory glance and then stood still. With no signs of assistance from him I was forced to enquire ‘I’d like to see some phones please’ ‘Which one’ he shot back not moving an inch from his position or bringing any change to his facial ex-pression of total boredom. I told him and he extracted two demo pieces of the phones I had asked for. No explanations, no sales pitch - he gave the shortest possible response to our queries. The fact that we made a purchase of nearly 10 thousand too did not seem to interest him. We left a comment at the cash counter - i wonder if it will be followed up?
Each one of us in our professional or personal capacity touches another human life then why have we become so cold and indifferent. Why is it then that we no longer smile, say a kind word or show small courtesies to one another? Lets make a difference today like the Rickshaw driver did…
SMILE 
The visitor!
Posted in Of Men and Marriage! on 11/29/2006 05:03 pm by sudha lakhera
‘Namaste Maa’ I mumble stifling a yawn. ‘you are still sleeping?’ quizzes my mom. ‘Yes Maa’ I say checking the time with half shut eyes. What time is your flight? ‘ ’seven in the evening Maa, I told you this yesterday also.’ ‘Oh yes! oh yes! how long does the flight take?’ ‘One and Half hours Ma - I told you this too.’ My skeptical mother totally ignoring the fact that I am quite a seasoned traveler, launches off on how not to talk to strangers, accept food from people, take care of my baggage, call whenever possible etc etc - holding the phone to my ear I say ‘Haan’ at regular intervals while my mind is desperately knocking on the gates of slumber land. Sometime later I receive instructions ‘here talk to your Papa.’
‘Good morning’ says a subdued papa, who has obviously received an earful on his filial duties as well as his habit of sleeping late prior to the call. ‘ How are you?’ he asks for lack of anything better to say. ‘Sleepy!’ I said while he snorted with laughter and said ‘Me too.’
‘By the way Papa a friend of mine is coming to Mumbai on Sunday so don’t have anything planned.’ ‘Aah yes’ he says inspiration dawning ‘your sister was mentioning that some friends of yours are coming over to see you on Sunday.’ ‘Not friends Papa, a friend’ I corrected in all innocence. ‘A friend?’ my papa repeated very wide awake now ‘is it a guy?’ ‘Yes’ I said horribly aware of the tactical mistake I had just made.
‘You are bringing a guy home? said Papa who I am sure by now, was sitting up in bed. ‘I am not - he is coming all by himself from ‘..xx.. city’ I defended myself, ‘Why is he coming then?’ was the next question. ‘To meet you’ I said realizing too late, that I had made another mistake in my choice of words. ‘He is coming here all the way from ‘..xx.. city’ just to meet us?’ ‘Yes’ I said realizing that now this was not actually sounding as innocent as it really was. ‘Does he have some work here?’ ‘No’ I answered truthfully. ‘Oh!’ said a very clueless father ‘Is he a South Indian?’ ‘Yes’ I answered, ‘Is he dark?’, ‘well sort of wheatish’ I replied, suddenly very uncomfortable with the direction our talks were taking ‘Lets talk when I get there.’
‘What does he eat’ Papa persisted ‘Food’ I answered tongue in cheek, ‘No silly girl’ said my father warming up ‘what will he eat for lunch here?’ ‘Let me come there and discuss the details Papa’ I pleaded yet again, very much awake and with no idea how to handle the cross examination. ‘Do you like him’ questioned an undaunted Papa ‘Ofcourse, I like him thats why we are friends.’ ‘But no friend of yours has come all the way from ‘..xx.. city’ only to meet us before!’ was Papa’s rebuttal. ‘You know what I have to get to work Papa - I will see you in the night’ I said quickly disconnecting the phone before my mother could come back on line.
The ‘friend’ visited my ‘at their best behavior family’ and left after some delicate probing by my mother and father. My brother declared him a ‘nice guy’, my mother agreed, stressing on the fact that he was ‘eligible’ more so for reasons of him being a Brahmin. My father made no comments but insisted on referring to him as ‘the guy who is only a friend’ throughout my visit. My sister, who is married and so due to location could not be part of the great event called up as soon as the guest departed to gather feedback from all but me.
I am back in Bangalore now and still being quizzed as to ‘how it is going?’ Anyone interested in learning the fine art of creating a mountain from a non existent molehill are welcome to to lessons from my khaandaan.
Think as the saying in Hindi goes ‘I axed my own feet’ this time!
Note: The guy in this blog was easy to identify and had to answer loads of questions… So smart ‘lil’ me has replaced the name of the city with ‘..xx.. city’ He! He! He! Do your own ‘Geography Guys!
A reaction…
Posted in my musings... on 11/15/2006 01:05 pm by sudha lakheraLalitha Krishanan’s post is disturbing http://ilivelife.rediffiland.com/scripts/xanadu_diary_view.php?postId=1163329196 - not only because it is yet another tale of a groping adult but also because even now, she seems to feel a helplessness against what happened to her all those years ago. Lalitha, I can only say thank you for bringing about an awareness by sharing such a personal and painful experience - giving us a first hand account. The past is now behind you but there is a future in the form of other children - if you see something wrong please speak up! The key maybe is ‘caution’ not ‘hatred’.
It was close to two in the morning, a friend and I sat at the coffee shop watching at the opposite table a man in his mid thirties talking animately to two young girls. The girls - not more than 16 hung on to every word of his, wide eyed and adoring . At first glance it seemed as my friend remarked, ‘an uncle baby sitting’ It soon however, became very evident, that the hungry gleam in the guys eyes were certainly not very fatherly. A look around and I realized that there were quite a few young girls spending the wee hours of their morning there. Girls in their teens, expensively dressed and well educated, attempting sophistication with a cigarette between their lips, at ease with men who were not family, indifferent to the hand resting casually on their thigh or draped across their shoulder.
Are parents in a misguided attempt to being ‘cool’ and ‘a good friend’ forgetting that it becomes imperative to put their foot down once in a while? Maybe, they don’t care, they know no better or have no time… How is it that even educated and upwardly mobile parents don’t realize when their child is being exploited?
The scene at the coffee shop was disturbing - maybe I am over reacting…
My Samson!
Posted in Of Men and Marriage! on 11/09/2006 06:03 pm by sudha lakhera
‘Do you think I am overweight?’ he enquired. ‘Not at all’ I replied quite truthfully, with a smile. ‘This’ he said paying no heed my honest response ‘is not fat, it is muscle’ I nodded trying to look suitably impressed. ‘My body is much admired by my friends.’ At a loss as to what response was expected, I suppressed a giggle, nodded my head once again and tried to look even more impressed. This was obviously not enough for my Hunk, ‘feel’ he commanded. ‘What?’ I managed to squeak. ‘Me’ he said loftily. A million, not too pleasant thoughts, flooded my senses but I shook them off giving him a look of what I hoped would pass off as innocence. ‘My biceps’ he added kindly and I breathed easy! ‘Feel’ he commanded again - tentatively I held out a finger and poked the mentioned area. ‘Its hard’ I said, not having the faintest idea how to compliment a man on his muscles and thinking frantically for something sensible to say.
‘Everyday, I work out for four hours, then I swim four laps and play a few games of tennis’ he went on very engrossed in explaining his schedule. Before I realized it, the words came tumbling out ‘So when do you work?’ Wishing the earth would swallow me, I grinned to show I was joking, not very sure what to do or say next. My sense of humour obviously did not appeal to him, he shot me a look of pure disgust and announced ‘I wake up at four.’ Still fumbling for words I managed ‘ I just cant manage to wake up before seven thirty’ My fate was sealed. I bore a ten minute tirade on the benefits of early to bed and early to rise in silence, still not satisfied he turned to me and said ‘you need to shape up’ All 53 kilos of me shuddered in indignation - no one had ever called me anything but perfect! ‘I think I am right just the way I am, thank you’ I said, hoping to change the topic. ‘Thats what you think’ was his cutting retort instead of the compliment I expected. Visions of being pushed out of bed at four, of him standing in front of the mirror and asking ‘honey, do you think I have added some more muscle?’ flashed across my minds eye (forgive me wordsworth!) and I decided to scoot
Samson, later branded me arrogant, rude and with an attitude that sucks! In return I thanked him nicely, deleted his number and blocked him on messenger. I just hope that he found his Delila and I also hope he never reads this post!
Bird Flu
Posted in Pets, Pests & other Peeve on 11/07/2006 05:33 pm by sudha lakhera
The first morning and we found nearly twenty of the chicks dead - victims of a mass stampede! They had obviously been cold in the night and being extremely silly, climbed on to each other for warmth. The little corpses were duly buried and my father set up lots of light bulbs in the enclosure to ensure warmth. It worked for a while till we had a full blown thunderstorm. Think their little hearts must have given way and once again we had quite a few dead chicks on hand. About thirty of the hundred chicks survived a fortnight and proudly, under my fathers watchful eye, we let them out to run around the lettuce and potato patch we had planted. Papa soon bored of his task and went off for a smoke forgetting all about his fluffy charges. When rounding them up we understandably found many missing - the crows and rats had being doing a good job!
By the end of of five months we had a single chicken - who was by now a grown rooster - left. He firmly believed he was a dog and ran round pecking everyone in sight regardless of gender or size. Unlike a dog however, this muscular chicken took great pleasure in pecking close family and so one or the other of us children, running full pelt, chased by a very intent chicken was a fairly common sight. Our dreams of a Poultry farm and fresh eggs however, ended the day he decided to take a peck out of my mother…
It seems he made an excellent curry for the family to whom he was given trussed up in a cloth bag!
Gabbar Singh
Posted in People on 11/07/2006 04:18 pm by sudha lakhera
He had married four times he said - the first one died, the second eloped with his brother, the third he gave up on because of her vicious tongue and the fourth one was supposedly somewhere back in the village tending livestock. The much married Gabbar Singh became an immediate hit with my father and his friends most of whom were suffering from their first marriage and couldn’t even think of another! When quizzed on how he managed four women he would wink and burst into loud laughter. He was easily humoured and laughed with with gay abandon, his body shaking, his eyes watering. Watching him laugh could bring a smile to the most sullen faces
We children thronged to him - he always had wonderful stories to tell. Wide eyed we would hang on to every word of his while he brought alive ghosts, witches, fairies and talking animals. While telling his tales Gabbar Singh would knit, creating intricate, colourful patterns without any books to guide him. He knitted socks, sweaters and caps - some of these he sold to the shops dealing in hand knitted woolens and the remaining he packed off to various relatives in his village
We never asked if he had any children - not even my father knows. My sister and me he treated with a reverence which was surprising considering he belonged to an age and place in which girls were nothing but a burden - ‘Devi’ he called us. For us, he would cook lip smacking omelets on the stove in his little room (something my mother never knew of - she still doesn’t!) and serve us on tin plates. The omelets were as big an inducement as the stories he told and under the pretext of ‘playing’ we would spend hours with him. My brother he treated with slight disdain - saying that boys were no good and would grow up only to be ruled by their wives - a bitterness born maybe out of experience.
Gabbar Singh, was a chronic Drinker - he drank bottles of smelly liquor brewed in his village called ‘Soor’ and when that ran out, local country liquor. Yet, he was never intoxicated - I never saw his step falter or his speech slur. Watching him drink was something we kids never tired of. After his rice and Dal breakfast - he would place a steel glass, a brass vessel of water, his bottle of liquor, a plate of green chillies and some salt in a bowl on the sack that served as his table. Seated cross legged on the floor he would with precision pour alcohol in the tumbler, top it with water, gaze at it for a minute and then at one go, gulp the whole glassful down. He would emerge from behind his glass, wag his head, lick some salt and chew a chilli. Three or four glasses and an equal amount of chillies later Gabbar Singh was ready to take on the world. At night before after his dinner the same routine was carried out
One day Gabbar Singh received a letter from home and left. We never heard from him again but he remains in my memory - a grandfather figure with a wonderful story of his own life - a story he never shared and one which I will never hear. No one ever occupied his little room again
I went to see Gabbar Singh’s abode this time when I visited my hometown. The bungalow is now owned by some prosperous family from Delhi, the spinster sisters having died lonely deaths years ago, and used as a holiday home. The garden in which Gabbar Singh used to so lovingly tend Roses, Dahlia, Gladioli, Geranium and Oleander lies barren. I stopped for a minute in front of the little room of the run down servant quarters, the door had rotted away and the room was full of weeds - the owner is hoping to pull down the quarters and build another house there. I peeped in - was it Gabbar Singh I saw sitting there frying an omelet or was it just memories of childhood playing pranks on my mind?!
The Perfect Man!
Posted in Of Men and Marriage! on 10/13/2006 02:43 pm by sudha lakhera
He has a beautiful smile And keeps his face so clean.
The perfect man likes children And will raise them by your side
He will be a good father As well as a good husband to his bride.
The perfect man loves cooking Cleaning and vaccuming too
He’ll do anything in his power To convey his feelings of love for you.
The perfect man is sweet Writing poetry from your name
He’s a best friend to your mother And kisses away your pain.
He has never made you cry Or hurt you In any way
Oh, screw this stupid poem The perfect man is gay
Don’t know who composed this ditty but would sure like to know if it was a man or a woman. This poem is ambiguous - it could be the frustrated outpouring of a woman who found all the wrong men or it could be the heartache of a lover trying his best to live up to the expectations of a woman he loves! Either ways the bottom line is what do we women want?
So this poem makes me think what would I seek in the perfect man… I draw a blank! As a lanky, gawking teenager my perfect man (who I never found!) had a bike, he was handsome,rich, charming and the envy of my circle - the show off to friends Guy.
Early twenties the changed a bit - the bike was replaced by a car, the guy became less of a stud and more of a ‘all your’s’ person. He was a passionate and exciting Mill’s and Boon’s Hero reincarnate - the lets go steady with Guy!
Mid twenties and many contemplations later looks could be compromised on, money could be replaced with a good job, romantic and charming he had to be. He also needs to be supportive and always available - the lets get married Guy!
Late Twenties and the perfect guy could be a little less mushy than he was supposed to be a few years ago, he ofcourse now had to be easy to talk to, witty, principled, decisive and a family man - the take home to Mummy Guy!
Hit thirty and the mind is either blank or throws up an assortment of images from Robert Redford to Rahul Bose… Reminds me of an anecdote recounted by Laurie Lee in his book ‘Cider with Rosie’. There was an old spinster who eked out a living boiling and selling toffee - she was desperate to get a husband but too proud to go about finding one. In the same village lived a blacksmith who was desperately in love with the spinster - had been so for years but could never muster enough courage to propose.
In despair one day the spinster threw herself at Gods feet and wailed ‘Find me a man Lord!’ By chance the blacksmith, who was in the Belfry of the church making some repairs, overheard. Gathering his wits he boomed ‘Will a blacksmith do?’ The spinster taken aback said ‘is that you Lord?’ ‘Yes’ replied the blacksmith ’so tell me will a blacksmith do?’ ‘A man is better than none Lord’ said the delighted spinster. The blacksmith went home, changed into his best suit, accosted the spinster on her way from church and proposed. They lived in marital bliss thereafter with the spinster using the blacksmiths forge to boil toffee
So the perfect man is…?
Pets, Pests & other Peeves - The Dogs!
Posted in Pets, Pests & other Peeve on 10/11/2006 05:09 pm by sudha lakhera
Inspite, of a prefect process to get rid of dogs we were never without a dog for long - of course none of the dogs we have ever owned had a pedigree or breed - come to think of it other than a bath with good old lux they never had any anti rabies shots, special dog food, check ups by the vet or tender brushings….
The first dog I recall was called Peter - my family has never been at their imaginative best when naming pets! He was a black and white mongrel with a long hairy tail, a lopsided grin and drooping ears who followed my father home one day and refused to leave. He was a playful pup but grew up to be spiteful, bad tempered and existed for himself - I guess he grew up the way humans do! Most of his time was spent sleeping, chasing cats and eating. Occasionally, he would half heartedly try to take a bite out of one of the many visitors to our little home and so whenever we could we had to keep him tied up. My mother was the only one who had his whole hearted approval and love, she could get away with smacking him, cursing him and chasing him around. We youngsters respected his temper and kept a safe distance most of the time. However, his tail proved to be too much of an attraction for my brother who was just four when he pulled it - Peter did what he was best at and bit him! Hell broke loose in the house but since both my brother and the dog survived life went on with Peter still part of our family. One day Peter escaped his chains, paid a visit to the market, swallowed a couple of biscuits (we assumed) thrown around by the municipal corporation (stray dogs were becoming a menace) came home and died. Despite his wicked ways Peter had been a family member for six years and we buried him with a heavy heart in the jungle below our house!
With Peter gone the house survived a few moths in a dog less state. Then one day, with a piece of string around his neck, (which he had obviously freed himself from), a dog who defied all imagination turned up literally at the doorstep. He had the ears of a spaniel, the body and legs of a dachshund, the tail of a Labrador, the face of a hound and was black, white and Grey in colour. His tail between his legs he stood outside our door maybe attracted by the smell of chicken. My mother who despite her ranting and ravings has a soft corner for anyone homeless gave him a bowl of leftovers which he polished off at record speed. He adopted us - what could we do with a dog nearly five years old who refused to go home and responded to any name? We named him Bobby, built him a cozy kennel (which he never used) in a discarded wooden cupboard and introduced him to the neighborhood. In the meantime ‘Bobby’s’ irate owners turned up one day demanding their dog back - his original name it seems was ‘Brownie’ I still haven’t discovered why since he had no traces of brown. They took a protesting Brownie away tied to a rope. He was back the next day and his owners I guess gave up on him.
He got into scrapes with bigger dogs, he chased monkeys, cats and rats with equal fervor - the size of his opponent hardly mattered as long as someone from the family was close at hand to rescue him incase things got sticky. He refused to live in his made to order kennel and insisted in sleeping on the rug in my parents bedroom, reintroducing the trials of parenthood into their lives. He would get up atleast five times in the night and scrape the door till one of my very irritated parent let him out, after finishing his business he would scrape the door again till he was let in and this went on for seven years. If the whole family went out he was fed and pampered by the neighbors who adored him - even our crusty old milkman would never leave our premises without pouring a small offering of milk in his bowl. His best friend was was a devout Muslim who said his prayers five times a day and was by religion forbidden to let a dog in the house. A queer friendship existed between the two, Bobby never entered uncles house yet he was fed by the family regularly. Every morning at 07:30, Bobby would accompany uncle to the canteen he ran and return - this routine was only broken by heavy rain or snow.
Bobby lived with us for seven wonderful years and drew his last breath, surrounded by all those he loved. We buried him in his favorite haunt - the forest below my house and I like to think he still roams around checking if everything is ok in the neighbourhood. A Dog with a difference I am sure there can never be another like him
Rocky my brothers gift to the house came next. Though disabled - one leg shorter than the other - he was an adorable, naughty ball of black fur with glittering eyes. My mother allowed him in the house on sympathetic grounds but grew very attached to him over the days. Rocky, was a wonderful dog - loving, good tempered and friendly. He was a constant companion and guardian of sorts to us three kids, who had a habit of wandering off every now and then often without our parent knowledge. As he grew older Rocky started throwing fits, he would foam from the mouth and lie writhing in spasms. The fits came once in 45 days or so and would last about ten minutes - once over the fit he would rise exhausted and go in search of the grass which he regularly ate and which no doubt helped replenish his energy.
His fixation with cow dung was something we couldn’t get him out of - he would roll in the cherished matter, covering himself from tail to mouth and come home proudly to display his well decorated self. We would capture him before my mother could set eyes on him, turn on the hose, cover our hands with polythene bags and bathe him clean - Rocky hated baths but he loved dung more so despite various punishments dung continued being a favoured beauty product. Firecrackers and thunder storms saw him hiding under the bed or cowering behind my mother in the kitchen - he obviously thought my mother, could scare away even thunder and firecrackers!
A true Casanova - bitches in any size and of any colour would have Rocky going into ruptures. Quite a few pups in the neighborhood I suspect were related to him by birth. He was I guess also responsible for the carefully guarded spaniel ‘Mandy’s’ black coated, very un-spaniel like offsprings. Ofcourse, Mandy’s owner a very upright and snooty Punjabi Lady was very upset and would glare at poor Rocky whenever he crossed her path. Rocky being the perfect ‘gentle dog’ would respond by wagging his tail harder than usual - proving that he was well behaved enough to respect his mother in law under all circumstances. Rocky would ‘disappear’ from home for as long as two to three days - these days I am sure were solely devoted to the chase of bitches who were outside his regular circle of conquests. He would often return from his sojourns filthy dirty and often with a torn ear, a mauled coat or a drooping eye - obviously beaten but with his spirit undamped. Nearly five years after coming into our lives - Rocky didn’t return home for three days and we were worried. We searched all over but he had disappeared without a trace - we waited for many days hoping against hope that he would return or we would get some news of him…
He is today a cherished memory, a regular figure in our collection of black and white photos - wherever he is I am sure he is enjoying every moment surrounded by the prettiest of his kind!
Tommy, entered our lives shortly after Rocky departed. He was the suspected progeny of a liason between Rocky and a semi sheep Dog twice his size Lucy. Unlike his illustrious father Tommy was not a very bright dog he was, however well built like his Mother. Although he grew in size unfortunately his brain decided not to and we soon realized that Tommy was ’soft in the head’. I think he also suffered a complex from our ginger Tom Cat and over the years forgot that he was a dog and not a cat. In true cat fashion Tommy responded only if he wanted to or at meal times. Most of his days were spent dreaming in a world of his own - even if his bowl of food was taken away by a complete stranger he wouldn’t as much as bare his teeth. It was taken for granted that the bowl would be magically replaced by my mother who watched over him like a baby. His ferocious appearance initially made people take a step back but once they knew him he was feared as much as the rabbit that was also a pet in those days. Every now and then Tommy would wander off happily, get tired, settle down where ever he was and wait patiently for someone to fetch him or find him - he had infact become a sort of a celebrity with half the town recognizing him! A gentle giant, with poor eyesight he was at peace with all human kind and animal kind. One day he decided to take a walk and walked right off the terrace around which a railing was being built. He crashed into the stones below and was thoroughly bruised - he happily accepted bed rest and only moved to answer natures call. He grew fat and bulky and no amount of coaxing would induce him to take a walk.
He had no great urge to live and in just about five years he started loosing clumps of hair and gangrene set in around his paw. The vet advised putting him to sleep and we did - something we had never done to any of our pets. He felt no pain and drifted off into eternal sleep with a calm acceptance - we buried him in the jungle next to Bobby hoping he would be treated well by the inmates of Doggie heaven where we were assured he would find a place based on his good behaviour
For the past three years we have been dog - less. With us children settled in different cities and my parents shuttling around no one has the time for a pet. One day I am going to find myself a dog, pamper it and look after it - there could never be a better companion
Pets, Pests and other Peeves - an introduction
Posted in Pets, Pests & other Peeve on 10/11/2006 04:55 pm by sudha lakheraI’ve a cobra that does calculus
And an anaconda that loves algebra
I’ve a grass snake that does geometry
And a python that adores pythagoras
So it’s just my luck to waste 10 bucks
On a puff adder that’s masthmatic
My parents have suffered a lot - they had on hand a daughter whose aim in life was to fill the house with living creatures of the non human variety. My long suffering mother has had to put up with a variety of creatures (me included) - squirrels, rabbits, rats, chicken, sheep, pigeons, parrots, a monkey, and innumerable dogs and cats. Of all my acquisitions the notable ones will get a mention in this blog space.
My Father - the fisherman!
Posted in Days of bliss - childhood on 10/06/2006 10:07 am by sudha lakhera
Living in a then uncluttered hill station 20 years ago ‘dynamite’ was something everyone knew of. It would be used in the lime quarries, the blasts threatening to bring the hill side tumbling down, causing landslides and a few casualties every now and then. Dynamite was also commonly used by people building a home on the rocky terrain. It would take months even years for a team of Kashmiri and Nepali labourers to hack through hard rock but a stick of dynamite, placed in a deep hole and ignited in the dead of the night could do the needful in a few minutes. Not surprisingly, it was used regularly albeit clandestinely (atleast for appearance sake) in the ‘construction’ business.
Coming back to my tale - my father was an avid fisherman. He and his bunch of cronies would regularly go on fishing trips, get drunk and come home with maybe a kilo of fish as their combined effort. Their fishing spot was a small river fed by the Yamuna and a glacier somewhere up in the hills - flowing through uninhabited mountains at a distance from the town. Never having been very successful as fishermen my father and his friends often put their heads to devise a strategy which would ensure more fish. And then one day an idea struck…
I being my fathers constant companion and a sort of a lucky mascot for his friends was allowed to tag along for ‘mission many fish’ The 25 km walk to the river was a pleasurable one for me as I traveled from one shoulder to the other. After eating and drinking everyone excluding me (was busy stringing daises) embarked on more serious business - catching fish! A Dam of boulders was constructed in the shallow waters close to the banks of the angry river. In this dam the weapon - a stick of ‘dynamite’ was introduced and ignited. The silence of the mountains was shattered by a ‘boom’ that reverberated for a minute and then once again by an agonized shriek from the dynamite specialist. The bomb had gone off too early taking three of his fingers along as an offering maybe to appease the mountain Gods!
While everyone rushed towards the unfortunate soul, offered him half a bottle of alcohol as ‘first aid’ and discussed suitable action - the deserted mountain area started buzzing with activity. Men women children from neighboring hamlets who, attracted by the noise had come to investigate, made a beeline for the water. It was then, that everyone saw the thousands of dish - some dead, some stunned floating on the water. The villagers grabbed the fish stuffing them into unimaginable places while my father, his slightly tipsy friends and the now back to his senses ‘dynamite specialist’ could do nothing much but gape! The crowd thinned out and our group gathering their wits attempted to collect what was left - it was still quite a bit even though the prize fish were already gone. We went home, a happy bunch despite the three missing fingers with a variety of fish…even an eel
We got home close to midnight, on the way having gathered the tangy ‘kaafal’ berries on the way to appease Goddess mother. The Kaafal didn’t help much and my poor father very nearly had his bag of fish and himself thrown out while I slept dreaming of fish floating on water…
I have no recollection of how the fish tasted or if it was even cooked… I do recollect an uncle with three fingers missing who recounted the whole incident as a heroic act of valour - his valour!