pilgrim’s blog

He was immensely happy when his wife to be (which he did not know till a second ago) said till death did them part she would follow his foot steps. Was he hearing it right? It was hard to believe that even in today's world such girls existed. And to be blessed with one for life was something he had never in his wildest dreams thought possible. He looked at her closely to see if there was any thing out of place with her mannerisms. Not that he could detect any. She was very pretty with a positive attitude. He felt like he had hit the jackpot. Basking under the smile of lady luck herself, he agreed for the alliance. To prove that she would never have to repent on having followed his footsteps, he rejected the car and the fat sum of money the girl's father had kept aside willingly for the boy who would marry the apple of his eyes. His argument was that what better dowry he needed other than the high ideologies that they had inculcated in their daughter. What were material goods when pitted against them?

So saying he got married to her amidst great celebration which the girl's folks begged they should be allowed to do as he had refused to accept any dowry. Thus the girl 'who would follow in his footsteps till death did them part' became his wife. Honey moon days passed in euphoria. Settling down to their new life, she gave him no chance to complain as did he who proved to be the best husband a girl could get.

To this blissful life came an invitation to him from his friends to join them for a drink in the pub next to their office. When he told her about it she smiled prettily and nodded in affirmation. Once again patting himself for having chosen such a perfect girl for wife he moved to change into appropriate clothes for the occasion. Most of his friends had complained of their spouses bad temper. Now he would proudly flaunt his freedom.

Stepping out of the room what met his eyes made him stop in his track out of shock. His wife too had dressed up for the occasion to accompany him to the pub. Only then did the true meaning of the profound words "will follow in your footsteps till death did us part" dawn on him. That day saw the beginning of a new chapter in his life. He was resurrected one may say. Vices like an occasional drink, an occasional ogling at a pretty face were all stories of the past. "Will follow in your footsteps till death did us part" loomed large in his life thence forth. No tantrums, no raised voices just a pretty smile from his wife was all that was needed to bring about this tsunami like change in him.

When in one of his contemplative moods which were very frequent these days he would wonder should not he have atleast accepted the car and the fat bundle that his father in law was forcing on him????? And he would fall asleep with a long sigh on his sleep. And his wife next to him with a lasting smile on hers

Unknown to her the black sky diluted to a pleasant grey, unhurriedly blooming into the much loved and awaited Sunday morning. Half way over the bridge across the river dividing the zones of sleep and wakefulness from each other, she stood, bending over to catch the last glimpses of the twirls in the water below, like the dimples adorning a chubby cheek, before a few steps ahead would take her off it to the realm of wakefulness. It was on this bridge she loved to prolong her stay. The twilight zone that it was, the home of the real and surreal existing as one entity and yet separate like the lovers who profess of their oneness but are in fact in love with each other for their distinctness.

The hazy apparitions crystallize for a moment here to fume into the oblivion before one can lock them in the cell called memory. The eyes still carry the vestiges of the sight but the mind fails to recollect it. In this twilight zone the heart rules and the mind is a mere serf . Here the mind having lost all its faculties seems to stagger under the power of intoxication. It is allowed to follow only that which the heart dictates and is permitted to see and hear what the heart abides it to. The heart is the concubine here that controls the mind, a weak king. Even as the day progresses the remnants of fancies one sees in this twilight zone remains in the psyche playing truant with reason, who is the master of daylight, refusing to be caught by it.

 As fancy and reason ebbed and flowed in her, the fluttering wings of wakefulness failed to cause any tremor in her lashes as they lay languorous on her cheeks. Then came a crow like the harbinger of death to her moment in this twilight zone to hide among the canopy of trees like a coward and caw away to glory. That, which sounded from a far away place grew louder and louder refusing to be ignored forcing open her eyes to wakefulness. Once its purpose served the crow ceased to caw. Thus she was ushered into Sunday morning. Though a little irritated initially, her eyes lit up on being able to catch the last shade of grey turn golden  

She was meeting her friends after ten long years. All had evolved into strong independent, women. Some where in the banking sector while others in the IT. She was the only one who was the same playful and bubbly girl of yesteryears living in the shelter of her husband.

Her friends teased her calling her his shadow. While some of them tried to drill into her hard skull as they called it,the importance of exerting oneself and being independent. These are the days when women all over the world are forging ahead aggressively and shattering glass ceilings at work places, they said. She listened to their stories wide eyed and was full of praise for them. Some said they took care of the kids, managed the house and even met dead lines at work places, all simultaneously. Every thing was taken care of well under their control. When asked wouldn't they be dead tired by the end of the day they said they only remembered seeing their beds before they fell asleep.

On being asked how was life for her, she took some time to answer to their query. She said she allowed her husband to control every thing and paused to see the reaction of her answer on the faces of her friends.Some frowned ,some grunted and still others expressed extreme shock. Amidst all the frowns and grunts they failed to hear the rest of the sentence when she said meekly with a mischief in her eye that in turn she controlled him J

Summer holidays were heaven for me and my cousins and hell for our parents. So they got together and hit upon a plan. Each set of parents would take turns to take care of us during which time the rest of them would chill. By the time they finished their turns the summer vacation would have ended .The arrangement was good in many ways. We children got a chance to stay at different places and the parents also had the time to take a break from the routine.

When we girls got to stay in our place it was all chaos because most of us were in our teens and learning to be beauty conscious. Of the lot I was the most lazy one and did nothing to take care of my skin or looks. The rest of my cousins would be seen with different coloured face packs on their faces as the days progressed. During those times the market was not as infested with cosmetics as it is now. The only beauty ingredients that we could lay our hands on were the vegetables that mom purchased in bulk to feed us during the vacations.

But to take care of a bunch of teenagers was not an easy task. The vegetables that mom bought to feed us would on most days be found on our faces rather than in our tummies in the form of vegetable face packs. The tomatoes would find their way on the face of the one with dry skin where as the potatoes would go to sit on the face of the one with a problem of oily skin. The one with combination skin would attack some other vegetable to enhance the glow and yet some other would target the T zone with the paste of yet another vegetable. Even lady's fingers and onion were not spared.

At last my mother was at her wits end because what ever vegetable she bought intending to feed us would disappear to appear later on in a different form and in a different place. But my mother being my mother was not going to easily lay her arms down in front of a bunch of teenagers who did not understand the importance of eating vegetables. On her return from the next trip to the vegetable market we found her bag containing only Yam and a look on her face which was an open challenge to us to dare to apply a paste of it if we could on our faces. The remaining days of that week, as mom went to shop for the vegetables on every monday in the weekly market,we had to survive on yam curry ,yam dry fry, yam pakodas for tea and if we had not begged  for her mercy she would even have fed us yam pudding and what not. So to this day when I see huge yams sitting on the vegetable vendors basket and she trying to sell it to me by saying that they are fresh from the fields I tell her may be a few months later when my daughter steps into her teens

Am sitting in the office starving myself to death.As long as the client is here I have  no hope of grabbing a bite.A mind storming session is in progress and all of us are racking our brains trying to come up with a new name for the product that the client is planning to launch next month.And my mind is blown to pieces thinking of the curd rice prepared by my mother so lovingly, a real gastronomic treat in this oppressive heat.The modest curd rice has always played a pivotal role in my life.When the whole world is drooling over Mexican,Italian and Lebanese dishes I have always felt our very own humble curd rice standing by me stead fast in times of need.Curd rice is at its best when the rice is slightly over cooked.A pinch of salt ,curd that is sour to the right extent and most important,all the three mashed with bare hands(the whole palm should be used and not just the finger will do) to the right consistency( neither less nor more) does the magic.Sophistication is one thing that would never go with curd rice.As you mash it with your hands never be conscious of it seeping from between your fingers. To get the desired effect you have to give up your lady like habit of only half opening your mouth to eat the morsel.Take a fist full roll it into a ball lovingly in your palm,open your mouth wide and throw it into your mouth,feel it melt in your mouth and showing no hurry swallow it slowly enjoying the taste and the texture.There is no other way of enjoying curd rice .If you can’t do without your lady like mannerisms it would be better not to attempt indulging in savouring curd rice.Because eating it any other way will deprive you of the true thrill of having it.For the curd rice to reveal to you the beauty of its being to the fullest it would require you to let go of yourself, unconditionally.If you suceed to do that, what awaits you is something pertaining not to this world, defenitely.

Life in the hostel was not a bed of roses. But it did teach me how to tide over some of the difficult situations in later life. For instance supper in the hostel was at sharp seven in the evening. The chief cook was an expert in mixing the curries from the lunch time in some funny proportion, adding a dash of masala and giving it a new avatar to go with the rice served for supper .another form of austerity.

As freshers we used to wonder why the curry for supper carried the same vegetables as for lunch till a senior enlightened us. Since then we could predict what would be for supper. Being a bunch of creative heads we would name these curries according to our fancy. On Thursdays at tea time we were served a yellow coloured snack made out of leftover Dosa batter beautifully disguised by adding a little maida flour and a pinch of saffron to it to give it a different hue with filling of grated coconut and sugar. We used to lovingly call it 'The love Letter' as it had a typical way of being folded.

This experience in the hostel proved very helpful to me in the initial days of my married life. My husband was yet to learn the art of complaining. Some evenings would find me very lazy to cook dinner. Even what ever little was made for the two of us for lunch would be left over. So paying due respect to the chief cook of our hostel, I would convert the curry from lunch time to something new with proper alterations made that even an intelligence officer would fail to recognize as the one from lunch time. Always being a dreamer I would also come up with a sweet name for my special curries. For example the

Aloo ki sabzi of lunch time would find itself swimming in a gravy of corn flour with a pinch of roasted and powdered cumin seeds and a sprig of coriander leaves for company with the aroma of garam masala wafting from it. It would find its way to the dining table at supper time in the name of 'kashmir ki kali'. I used to escape being caught red handed by my husband as he never watched old Hindi movies. But once he did mention that he never came across these names in the regular hotel menus. I f my memory is right I think I pretended not to hear him. Even a regular dish like the humble daal fry made by me would not have the remotest resemblance in appearance or taste to the ones served in hotels of repute but they could undoubtedly vie with the food meant for Gods as my husband would put it "then".           

There is no lie as white lie or otherwise. A lie is a lie and should be shunned said some enlightened soul. I do not agree. There is white lie. Harmless, entertaining, in the least misleading as the listener too knows how much to believe it. It adds spice to the otherwise dull life. But it is an art and only a few blessed souls can take it to the end without faltering. One should listen to it, enjoy it and forget it. Never store the facts in your memory because even the creator of it may not remember and if you ask to recheck you may have to meet a blank ex-pression or worse may encounter diametrically opposite narration of the whole episode to that which was said earlier. Do not judge the poor soul on his lack of consistency because they are not intentional. Judging by their characters they themselves would have forgotten what they had said the previous day. But I can assure you what they say the next day would in no way be less entertaining or mirthful.

My friend of college days was a master in the art of ladling white lies generously. Free time would find all of us flocking around him as he would go on and on. Not one percent of what he said would be true but still all my memories of the free times of those days carry his unfailing presence. I envied him for being able to entertain the group thus.

There is a distinct reason for my remembering him now. My introduction to blogging is only a few moths old. Till then internet was only a tool for sending official e-mails. All my friends till then were people I knew in person since ages. So communication with them was either through phone calls or at the weekly get together.

As I began to blog actively a good friend of mine warned me to be wary of the internet as it was a virtual world and hence not real always. So keeping this advice in mind I began my journey. Let me confess here that unlike my college friend I am horrible at lying. Any one with an average IQ would know instantly that am lying when I make an attempt at one. Of the lies I have told and have been caught red handed, the one that takes away the prize is when I told an island friend that I was lame. In the next half an hour, forgetting what I had told earlier, I find myself telling the same person that am on my way to the gym and I intend to walk as it would double up for some cardio exercise also. Another time was when I was traveling by train and a co-passenger wanted to know my complete bio 'data. Though I was contemplating whether I should tell him am from the intelligence or the police department I end up conveying through sign language that am deaf and dumb. The latter he would whole heartedly agree because a few stations away am calling out to the tea vendor at the highest pitch which even I till then did not know I possessed and at the same time from the corner of my eyes watching him give me a weird look. The rest of the journey I pretended to be asleep at the end of which I emerge with a stiff neck. Once an acquaintance while going through my old photos comes across one in which I am seen wearing a sari holding the hands of my three year old relative. Just for fun at the spur of the moment I tell her it is my twin sister's picture who was married off at an early age and the child is her kid. Now my knowledge of numbers being what it is at the end of the story my twin sister's marriage is two years old and her kid is three years of age. Before my acquaintance could come to her own conclusion I confessed before her and begged her to forgive me. These days I forcibly stay away from such indulgences but with a heavy heart

It was a Saturday. We were in Coimbatore. After a grueling meeting as I and my husband stepped out into the evening to chill, I saw a joint selling authentic Bhel puris and other chaat items. Not able to resist the temptation I dragged my husband along. It was not just the taste of the authentic chaat that was alluring. As certain smells and sounds take us back in time so does the taste of authentic chaat transport me to the green grounds of Victoria Memorial in Kolkata , where as a child I used to accompany my parents every weekend to have them. Then it was the golgappas alias panipuris alias puchka as it is called in Kolkata that were my favorite. My little mouth had to stretch itself to its maximum capacity to accommodate the puchkas that were handed down by the chaat wala at jet speed. A running nose or overflowing eyes would not deter me from consuming the five or six numbers that consisted of a plate. As I stepped into the unassuming place that evening holding my husband's hands I was transported into the little girl of long time ago. As we sat savoring the delicious bhelpuri I saw a young mother in her twenties walk in holding a baby of almost one year of age.From her attire it appeared as if she belonged to Bengal as her wrist adorned the white, red and iron bangles married women of Bengali origin wear. As the place was full she stood in a corner after giving her order of a plate of puchkas. When the delicious puchkas made an appearance she was not in a position to eat them with the baby in her arms. But the sight of the puchkas were too much for her to bear. Running a quick glance to see if she could place the baby some where safe till she could finish them and finding none she at the spur of the moment handed over the baby to the boy standing at the counter to serve badam milk and started gobbling the puchkas one by one blissfully oblivious of her surroundings.

The ex-pression on her face made it very obvious that it was not just the taste that overtook her ..she was reliving her days in her home town and compensating for her stay away from home through this act.

What if a woman has to play multi faceted roles the child in her always remains hidden in some corner to appear at rare occasions. That day I saw a child woman and fully empathized with her.     

His mother had come to stay with him for a few days. She was a wonderful cook especially of the traditional Kerala cuisine. No one would forget the taste of the tea made by her. Any amount of praise would fail to do justice to her culinary skills.

Now his wife who had a mischevious trait in her hardly missed a chance to test his crisis management skills. One fine morning armed with a cup of tea made lovingly with her own hands she stood in front of him. Adorning her face with the sweetest smile possible, to the unsuspecting soul who sat buried in the morning newspapers, she asked, no sooner had he drawn in the first sip of the tea in his classic slurping style, for he believed a tea tasted like one only if one had the freedom to have it thus which was possible only in the privacy of ones' home and hence he did not miss a chance to indulge in it when one came his way, that whose tea did he find tastier the one prepared by her or by his mother.

A little wary of the extra sweetness in the tea he looked at her quizzically with an eyebrow shot up.Reflecting for a fraction of a second on the seriousness of the query and the serious consequence he would have to face if he made the slightest mistake in replying, clearing his throat he said in a sage like manner the tea made by his mother was unbeatable in its good taste but   

for the big thing which is again very, very, very important and which sets the tone of the day to happen nothing could be more effective than her tea.

Now allowing her the benefit to choose between the importance of the taste and the purpose of consuming tea he escaped with the news paper to the obvious hideout only to emerge after an hour or so hoping by then his sweet wife would have come to a satisfying conclusion of the whole episode. 

This happened some time back.Iwas in the temple waiting for the sanctum sanctorum to open so that Iwould get a glimpse of Lord krishna who is the main deity there.Inorder to kill time I started humming the only bhajan that I knew.Even after it got over there was still time left for the door to be opened as the pujas had not got over yet.So as I was wondering what to sing next I suddenly hit upon an idea. I started singing the song “thode badmaash ho tum”of Sawariya fame followed by “agar tum mil jao zamana chod denge hum” dedicating them to Him as both went so well when you had His face in mind and at the same time,musing wouldn’t god be getting bored listening to “om jai jagdeesh hare” all the time. As I was chuckling at the thought,what do I hear!!!!!!!!!a voice standing next to me singing “jhalak dikhla ja….ek baar aaja aaja aaja aaja.”Only then did I realise that I had been singing a little too loud for the person standing next to me had heard every bit of it.To tell the truth I was dying to have a glimpse of the person with such terrific sense of humor but did’nt have the guts.Thankfully the door opened soon and I slipped out of the temple offering a quick prayer…not daring to look back.