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I am Indian. I have grown up in an environment teeming with people and life. And so, I am quite accustomed to the impatience that is characteristic of us Indians, as also our gross inability to queue up patiently for anything. Being from the educated middle class though, my sister and I were trained to wait our turn patiently, make way for the elderly and the disabled and facilitate their needs. Since mum is a teacher, I have unknowingly imbibed her righteous, strict, school teacher-ly way of telling people off.
Often, I found myself in an uncomfortable situation, turning back to glare at a jostling crowd, while I patiently allowed a person to go before me at a queue in a cinema, or at the bank or provident fund office. My self-righteous glares were met with looks of insolence, frustration and impatience.
At the hotel where I worked, we did up complex statistical studies on queuing theory, to ensure that wait times in any queue did not cross the miniscule threshold of patience possessed by the Indian customer. Therefore we had multiple service counters at peak hours, better technology and improved layouts to ensure the best ergo dynamics. Strangely though, it never seemed to help. It was almost as if people’s capacity to wait shrunk to match our improved processing times. How long a minute truly is, depends on which side of the counter you stand.
Interestingly though, I saw a simple resolution to this problem very recently.
A few days back, on a grey, bitterly cold and wet afternoon, I queued up for a bus home. I think all the passengers were unanimously awaiting the warm dry interior of the bus. The bus came along and we stepped forward expectantly. There was a little old lady at the top of the queue. She was hard of hearing, slow and finding it rather difficult to manage her things, find some change and buy a ticket. All around me people were irritable and shifty. I cringed as I heard the gentleman ahead of me mumble to himself in annoyance. I felt the same annoyance and righteousness well up in my blood.
The bus driver was a petite, smiling, blonde-haired lady. As she patiently dealt with her aged passenger, she looked up and beyond at us, assessing the scene in a flash. Finally she dispensed a ticket, and got the lady seated on a seat close to her. Smiling, she beckoned the rest of the queue to step in.
“Thank you so much for your patience and for allowing me to assist my first passenger for longer – that was most understanding”, she announced cheerily, looking pleasantly at the gentleman ahead of me in the eye.
Her words brought on an almost instantaneous transformation in everyone – me included. We boarded the bus – taller and happier – for once, part of the solution and not the problem. It was a wonderful feeling. Mr. Grumbler clambered in ahead of me, tilting his head sideways as he crossed the little old lady. Not surprisingly, he rushed to her aid, to assist her disembark from the bus at her destination.
Righteousness has no place in such situations. We all want to be part of a positive change – we just need to be reminded of it sometimes!
“Are you a religious person?”
I goggled across at the lifestyle counselor when she posed this question of me. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I had decided to try out the counseling services offered by the university to all its students.
“I am Indian”, I said slowly. “So I guess you could say that religion is embedded in every thing I do, even though I am not consciously aware of it”.
“I see. So do you attend prayer meetings, or listen to devotional songs on a regular basis?”
“No. No,” I answered. “I mean, I respect all prayers. But I guess you could say that I am more spiritual than religious”. I was pleased as pat with my answer.
“Hmmm…” She did not appear impressed. “So do you pray at all?”
“Oh yes, all the time”, I said emphatically.
“And how do you pray?”
“Er…how do I pray?” I was stumped. “Well, you know…nothing formal. I just keep having an informal chat with God as I go along my day”.
She shook her head at me.
“You are probably analyzing everything under the guise of talking to God. That is not praying.”
I felt indignant.
“And do you have any hobbies?”
“I write a lot. I even maintain a blog”, I finished proudly.
“That is probably more analysis there. Don’t you do anything restful at all?”
“Oh that’s easy. I love to read…I read incessantly”.
She looked up – pleased for the first time in thirty-five minutes.
“Really?”
“Oh yes. In fact I read at least three books simultaneously”.
She looked more defeated than I felt.
“That is not relaxing. So you work and study – both of which individually would be a full load. Then you read like a maniac, write, analyze and socialize. But you have never learnt to relax or meditate?”
I shook my head – at a loss to explain.
“Well, we did undergo guided meditation frequently when I was training. But I found it really hard. My brain would not shut down. It was like someone wanted to chain down my legs and arms. I felt the need to drum my fingers or wriggle my toes incessantly”, I finished helplessly.
Her look was almost pitying.
“I want you to find a guided meditation class that focuses on breathing exercises. Stay with it for four weeks. If after four weeks you do not find it beneficial, you can come back to me, and we shall try something else.”
I can be almost dogmatic about something, once I get started. And so, even though I had my doubts, I found a convenient weekly meditation class in Brisbane. As was to be expected, I did not experience any great benefits in the first visit.
But it was a pleasing environment in the class, conducted by the Brisbane River on Thursday evenings, with soft music and group chanting of simple Hindu mantras. Besides I have never been one to fail or give up without a battle. So I stayed with it.
And it truly was a battle. Sometimes I think that we make out simple concepts to be harder than they actually are, when we are resistant. And so, I’d experience a ticklish cheek or an aching leg through my deep meditation hour, while all around me people looked flushed, rejuvenated and deeply relaxed.
Last night was my fourth week. Resigning myself to yet another two hours of slow torture, I decided to at least make myself as comfortable as possible. And so, I placed a cushion under my knees, an eye cushion on my eyes and took a blanket, as it often got very cold. Closing my eyes, I chanted the mantra absently, listening to the music and my voice.
I awoke with a start some forty-five minutes later…and I say ‘awoke’ for lack of a better word. I was not asleep, and yet was not truly awake either. It was a most puzzling sensation for one who is so used to being in control all the time. Almost like being lost for an indeterminate period. And then being found.
I lay there in the darkness and tried to evaluate my experience. But it was not to be evaluated. My mind was too busy floating around in the quiet. For once, it was completely stilled. All around me, people were silently listening to their breathing. As the music faded, we turned on our side and rose.
I saw rosy, rejuvenated faces all around me. For once, I felt like a part of them. The yoga teacher smiled a special smile across to me. She understood.
Letting go of everything is a restful feeling. I now saw what the counselor wanted me to experience.
I floated home, the stillness in my head still lasting.
N is a lovely, old client of P’s. She has been seeing him for many years now, and counts him as a very fond friend. A fortnight ago, she stood across the counter from me, making her next time to see P.
“Oh, please can I see him in a fortnight on the Wednesday?” she asked.
“Sure thing. Your usual time?”
“Oh yes,” she responded. “Unless he comes in earlier? It’s April Fools Day on the day and I want to play a prank on him”.
After she left, I smiled to myself and made a mental note to be in office the next time N was to come in. I did not want to miss this.
Two days back, she called me to re-confirm.
“So, I am the very first client he will see on Wednesday, right?” she re-affirmed.
“Oh yes”, I said, absently.
“Good. Because I have thought of how to confuse him.”
Today, I watched N with some amusement, as she waited eagerly in the waiting area. I hoped that her prank would be successful. Soon, an unsuspecting P ushered her into the consult room, closing the door behind him. Some five minutes later, I heard much guffawing and laughter drift through the closed door.
“Her prank must have been successful”, I thought to myself absently.
Fifty minutes later, N walked out wringing her hands. She sought me out almost instantly.
“Do you know what happened?”
I looked from her to P, questioningly.
“As I sat down across him, I told him that he was wearing socks from two different pairs.”
P chuckled.
“I expected him to get flustered and check his socks,” she shook her head sadly.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, he just exclaimed at how perceptive I was.”
I was confused.
As if to explain, P raised his trouser legs to reveal one black and one grey sock each.
Trying to contain my amusement, I consoled her.
“I understand N. Does it not worry you that he is a certified practitioner?”
“Oh well”, she said with some gentle irony. “I guess you have to be a little crazy yourself, to treat the crazy.”
I smiled and looked to P, who by now, was gleefully recounting the episode to someone else in the office and showing off his mismatched socks.
“I really should see someone,” I heard his voice ring out merrily, “But I cannot afford to see myself.”
Laughing helplessly, I went back to my work.
My girlfriend Carrol, had her birthday last week. We decided to celebrate the day with an evening out at one of Brisbane city’s lively riverside clubs.
And so it transpired that I was walking towards a bus stop at a half past two in the morning. It was bitterly cold and I was trying desperately to keep the wind from creeping into my stole and dress. It was going to be a long, circuitous bus drive home. The week had been particularly challenging, what with various financial obligations turning up, and suffice it to say that a taxi was an unnecessary luxury. But God knew that I could do with one. Steeling myself, I crossed the taxi rank and walked on. It was chilly, I was tired, my head hurt and my feet were complaining.
That was when I saw him. He was an Indian taxi driver, sitting at the wheel of his drive and completing a transaction with his last fare. He looked up to scan the scene for his next passenger and our eyes met. In a flash he comprehended my exhaustion. Lifting his eyebrows gently, he signalled me towards his cab.
A year in Australia has shown me that while I do remarkably well among people of varying nationalities, when I am tired or sick, I need the comforting sound of Hindi in my ears. Ignoring the voice of reason in my head, I catapulted and walked towards him. His earlier passenger held the front door open for me, and I got in. The driver looked at me quizzically.
“Hey. I need to go to Morningside please”, I said. He nodded and shifted gears, starting the taxi with a gentle rumbling.
And then I added in Hindi, “Please could you stop at a 7-11 en-route?”
For a second, he threw me a surprised look. Then he nodded once more, and swiftly changed lanes.
“You do understand Hindi?” I verified, in Hindi once more.
He nodded and smiled yet again. Satisfied, I leaned back, closed my eyes and massaged my temples. We drove in silence till he pulled up at a 7-11. I got out and bought some chocolate and a couple of aspirin for my throbbing head. He was waiting outside, the engine running.
I got into the warmth of the cab gratefully. The tinny sound of Brisbane’s only Indian radio channel filled the air. My spirits lifted as I heard an old film song from the yester-years. Relaxing, I issued road directions to my house.
“So are you from India?” he asked me slowly, in Hindi that held faint traces of a gentle Punjabi accent.
“Yes”, I replied, in Hindi. “From Bombay. I have been here for a year. How about yourself?”
“I have been in Australia for three years. Some time in Sydney, a bit in Melbourne and now I am trying my luck at life in Brisbane,” he responded.
“Gee, you have moved around quite a bit. Do you get to go back often?”
“I have not been home since I came three years ago”, he answered, his expression turning wistful.
My heart went out to him.
“Where are you from”, I asked. “Do you have family here?”
He hesitated for a long, audible moment.
“No. I am from Pakistan,” he finally said, with some trepidation.
“Oh ok”, I said. Apparently he expected an explosion of some sort.
“So where in Pakistan are you from?” I pressed on.
“Lahore”
“Really?” I was excited. “Did you know that my family actually originates from Lahore, in the pre-partition period?”
He smiled gently. “My family was from Amritsar before they had to move.”
Suddenly the taxi felt a lot more mellow and friendly. We were both lost in our own thoughts and memories as he pulled up outside the house.
The meter flashed a princely sum of twenty-five dollars at me. Cringing internally at the expense, I drew out the notes from my wallet and held them out to him.
He shrunk away from the money, shaking his head.
I looked at him with questioning eyes.
“No, money is not needed”, he said.
“Take it”, I pressed him, gently. “It was nice to talk to you, but you should complete the transaction.”
“No”, he shook his head. “Just treat it like a family member gave you a lift home.”
With that, he gently but firmly opened the taxi door for me and waited till I rummaged for and located my keys. Smiling, he drove away, without looking back.
I was left feeling an indescribable combination of emotions.
Planting an imaginary geographical line often cannot transcend a shared heritage of so many centuries.
My hairdresser in a modest little corner of China Town was mighty amused. He had only just finished blow-drying my tresses when he spotted the sprinkling of grey hair in the crown of my head.
“You have many grey hair, only on top of head”, he laughed, in his fractured English.
Our eyes met in the mirror and I smiled at him. I had seen the salt and pepper smattering in my looking glass on many occasions.
“You want to dye them?” he queried hopefully.
Silently I shook my head. I loved my greys. He was inexplicably puzzled.
Flashback to a year and a half ago. I had just spotted my very first grey hair in my mirror in Bombay. I felt frightened and shaky, almost let down by my body and health.
A grey hair?!
“You are an old woman now”, the voice in my head shrieked at me.
“Shut up”, I mouthed back firmly. “Its just one grey hair. Nothing to panic over.”
“One grey hair?” it repeated incredulously. “One grey hair?! Ha! You wait and see how quickly this spreads and you turn old!”
I laughed and tried to brush off my fears. But they lingered on, like a headache after a bad hangover. And the solo grey strand remained firmly planted on the top of my head. I watched it in the mirror every chance I got. I fingered it absently, while I contemplated seemingly impossible situations at work. It was neatly tucked into my rather severely neat hair do for the hotel – hidden from the public eye. But I could feel its presence, hovering over me like a spirit.
I tried to disguise it with a swish of mascara. It shone back at me in all its grey glory when I brushed out my hair. Colleagues at work started to notice it, comment and offer their unsolicited advice.
“Hey, you are getting old girl!”
“Cut it off… its just one grey hair.”
“Wash you hair with amla / neem / beer”.
“Don’t cut it, the grey will spread”.
“Its your diet. You are not eating well”.
“Have you examined your lifestyle?”
And so I tried it all. I washed my hair with various herbs, eggs and beer. I nearly lost a few friends to the odour, but nevertheless. I safeguarded the strand from being cut off accidentally. My diet was supplemented with proteins and vitamins. I regularised my sleep patterns. My hair turned glossy black and yet the grey thread remained loyally attached to me.
One morning I awoke to find two grey strands peering back at me. They were symmetrically arranged around the centre of my head. I was close to tears. Visions of me turning into an old hag flashed before my eyes. I too was susceptible to aging. Growing old was a phenomenon I never believed that I could fall prey to.
It was a frenetically busy week. The hotel had been recently launched and it was facing teething troubles. And so restaurant walls sprung unexpected leaks, air conditioning was either too hot or too cold, staff messed up orders and technology remained stubbornly unresponsive. One particularly trying day, I carelessly tucked my grey hair behind my ear, as I took an order from a harried customer. His face softened as he followed my action.
“So you have had your first grey hairs, eh?” he queried gently.
Taken aback at the sudden shift in conversation, I gawked at him.
“They don’t look good on everyone, but they suit you just fine,” he continued.
“Thank you”, I blushed. “But I am not sure I like them, all the same.”
“Why?” he pressed on. “They stand witness to your efforts to date. They speak of your strife and successes.”
“My efforts?” I repeated woodenly.
“Oh yes”, he said. “They speak of all the trouble you have taken on, to get to where you are. I hope it was worth it”.
I smiled as I transcribed his order and left the table. My mind was working furiously. So was it all worth it? Was I happy with all that I had given up to get here? Unsurprisingly, I was not very pleased with the answer.
It would be another year before I was finally able to extract myself from the bruising reality of hoteliering to where I currently am. But that nameless customer started the ball rolling. Sometimes life presents you with a viewing glass. Looking through it encourages remedial measures with astonishing alacrity, crystallizing thought into action.
I have had many more grey hair turn up ever since. I would never part with them for anything. They remind me of my journey till now. They remind me that it was worth it.
Coming back to the present, I looked back at my Chinese hairdresser in the mirror.
“I do not want to conceal them. I love them”.
His eyes helplessly rued the state of the world.
“Freak”, they accused me silently.
Siddharth and I decided to wrap up the day with a contemplative cuppa each. And so, we stepped out of the cold, into the buzzing warmth of the coffee shop. Having made our selections from the pastry counter, we took charge of our cups of tea and latte, and looked around for a place to sit. It was a relatively quiet time of the evening and the café was rather vacant.
We decided against sitting at a conventional table, facing each other. Instead, we perched ourselves side-by-side at a window side counter on high bar stools. As I heard the sound of my teaspoon clink delicately against the ceramic of my cup, I sniffed the wonderful aroma of my orange almond bread and watched the world walk by.
It was one of those days, when we did not feel like talking too much. So after the usual pleasantries were exchanged, sugar sachets were passed around and our desserts were politely offered to and declined by the other, we fell silent and watched the pavement outside – each one surreptitiously engrossed in his or her thoughts.
Suddenly, a scruffy man sitting on the bench outside captured my attention. Wordlessly, I drew Siddharth’s eyes to him as well and we both gazed out at him. He was shabbily dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, boots, a patchy shirt and a hat. With a glowing cigarette propped in a corner of his mouth and his head thrown back, he sat cross-legged and relaxed on the wooden bench.
He was talking to himself.
It was hard to miss. Actually, he was not really so much talking to himself, as he was conversing to an imaginary character that appeared to be standing two feet away in the emptiness. We watched as he shook his head, laughed and shared his thoughts with his fictitious companion. He seemed ill-equipped for the cold, as he sat with his head tilted, as if concentrating deeply on the imaginary voice in his head.
Passers by shuffled past him in the cold, instinctively shrinking away from this aberration on the pavement. He was blissfully unaware as he followed their movements with a pre-occupied air, all the time nodding and smiling at the thin air. Sometimes he threw his hands up and gesticulated passionately as he tried to explain his point of view to his spectral companion.
It was a surreal moment for me. Coffee forgotten, fruit bread abandoned, I looked out at the man, moved almost to tears. I wondered at his lonely, abandoned state; to be sitting at a solitary street corner in the winter chill and talking to his imaginary friend. The image of him sitting there, stirred in me an inherent deep-seated fear of being abandoned and alone. Tearing my eyes away from the solitude figure on the bench, I turned to look at Siddharth.
His eyes mirrored my confusion.
“You know, I feel a pit in my stomach when I see something like this”, he said.
I nodded gently, instinct prompting me to delve further. But there was no need. I understood. We both fell silent once more, as we reached into the recesses of our mind and conjured up faces and sounds. Outside, the man gave a shout of delighted laughter in the emptiness.
Suddenly the fruit bread tasted like sawdust in my mouth. The tea had gone tannic and tepid. It was time to go home. Siddharth touched my shoulder silently and we rose in tandem, making our way out of the café.
I braced myself as we walked out of the glass doors of the café and towards our crazy man on a bench. The sound of static filled my ears as we approached him. He laughed once more and looked over at his side. A radiophone crackled gently on the bench next to him, its display glowing gently in the dark. The voice of the caller on the other side could now be heard lucidly.
I’m not sure why, but it was more than a quarter of an hour later before I could bring myself to laugh at our folly.
(My very first stab at fiction)
They met at a party, and initially seemed to have little to say to one another. He, the reluctant scion of a large and burgeoning business empire operating largely in the shadow economy, whilst she was the star child of an elite family of the city’s intelligentsia. But, bored by the social dynamics of the evening and encouraged by a couple of glasses of wine, they eventually sought each other out and struck up a conversation. Despite the stark contrasts in their background, they soon realised that they were very similar in their reserved, sensitive outlooks to life.
They had been going out for a little over a week, and were still getting acquainted with each other. Everything was charming, quaint and compelling. Patiently they explored each other with ceaseless interest and fascination – spending hours talking, reminiscing and discussing. The little time spent away from each other was endured impatiently, counting the moments till they were together again. In each other they found a mirror image of themselves, and they proceeded to gently unfurl and air their deepest, most intimate thoughts.
On the day, they had only just returned from a long walk together. Hand-in-hand, they walked towards the house in the cold – her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. They had barely said a word to each other, and yet the air around them was crackling with the unspoken connection between them. He was content and fulfilled. He looked across at her and smiled serenely. Warming to his glance, she wondered idly how long it would be, before their relationship also lost this magical quality and became mundane.
“It cannot always stay this wonderful,” she reminded herself silently. “Real life must come knocking some time soon.”
Boisterous sounds filled the air, as they waited for the door to open. His friends were carrying on a lively discussion as they awaited his return.
“… called to say that he cannot make the dead line this month. This is the second time this year. We need to deal with it,” one of them was saying – his beefy face flushed with irritation.
“I say we put up a fight. It will send out a clear message. What do you say?” said the other friend, turning to ask him for his opinion.
He let go of her hand and stroked his chin thoughtfully. With a sense of ease, he seated himself in the centre of his friends. She hung back and watched him awkwardly – unable to identify with the group.
“I agree”, he said. “We need to nip this in the bud. Why don’t we…”
With an almost morbid fascination, she watched him negotiate what could only be the regular business proceedings for the day. He radiated a sense of raw power. It was a far cry from her sophisticated world of books, music and theatre. It was a far cry from the person she thought he was.
A million sorry thoughts flooded her downcast mind. Someone spouted a string of expletives amid jeering laughter. She gradually retreated from the room. He was wrapping up the discussion firmly when his eyes sought her out.
Reaching for her silently, he threaded his fingers through hers. A happy smile broke out on his face as he looked at her.
“So, do you want to take a stroll down to the river and watch the sun dip?” he queried tenderly.
In spite of herself, she warmed up. A swarm of nesting birds kicked up a fuss in the trees outside. It was going to be a mellow sunset
It is nine in the morning, on a crisp, cold winter day in Brisbane. The office is warm, soothing and inviting – complete with its ambient music, perfect temperature and piles of eclectic reading material. I check for the coffee urn, stack up some fresh cups, fill up the earthenware water filter and put out some wiped glasses. The bowl is filled with candy and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air as I make my first cup for the day. I always love being the first one in at work, so I can have the place to myself. In a few short hours it will be milling with psychologists, clients who sit nervous and withdrawn before appointments and sniffling to regain their composure after. But right now, it has the serenity of an oasis.
Soon after, P’s first client walks in. A very pretty, blonde girl, she hardly looks like the mother of three that she is. I gaze at her in astonishment. Her appointment is not for another forty-five minutes.
“Hi there M”, I greeted her. “You’re nice and early.”
“Oh, I just needed some peace and quiet”, she smiled at me wanly. “I know I’m early, but may I just sit here?”
“But of course”, I hastened to reassure her. “It’s lovely to have you here. Can I get you a cup of green tea.”
She just smiled gratefully in return – her face looking tired and worn. I had gleaned from our past interactions that she was in fact two years younger than me, and the stepmother of three. She evidently had her hands full.
“You look very tired. Have you been unwell?” I asked, as I handed her a steaming cup of tisane.
Too my utter horror, her eyes fill up as she answers me.
“There is just too much going on. It’s too hard. I must work from home, my computer does not function and my partner has little consideration….”
I looked at her with rapidly increasing trepidation, as she started to detail her problems. We had very strict instructions, to never engage our clients in any specific personal interaction. Their problems were for discussing with their psychologists. We only had general, safe, friendly conversations. I wondered how to gently maneuver her away from the conversation, while we waited for P to come in.
“You know, you really out to have a coffee then – there’s nothing like a caffeine shot to pep you up”.
She tried to look interested.
“Oh really?” she replied weakly.
To which I answered, “Definitely. P is so hooked on to it, he was practically glued to his cup while he interviewed me.”
“When he interviewed you? When was that?” Her interest was piqued.
“Oh about half a year back. He turned up late, so I was standing outside a locked office. He then proceeded to blame his tardiness on his ‘pussy’ that had planted a scratch on his leather satchel.”
I think she could picture P, hopelessly late. She started to giggle.
“And then he interviewed me in the coffee shop with his sun glasses on the whole time. Mid way through his coffee, it dawned on him that he should be making notes.”
Her face lit up with amusement now. The tears that were threatening to spill onto her cheeks were long gone.
“So he pulled out a note book and tried to write a few words. But it was too hard for him, so he glared at his pen in resignation and put it down.”
“So did he not write anything?” she piped in.
“Oh but he did”, I responded. “He wrote – ‘from India’. Then he ditched the effort.”
She was squealing with laughter now – so hard, that the green tea spilled on her dress. We were giggling and mopping it up when P finally walked into the office. He peered from M to me, like a confused hen, trying to decode the secret behind our merriment. Eventually, he escorted her into his consult room and things quietened down.
Much later after M had paid for her visit and left, P came and sat with me. His silence worried me. I hoped that he was not upset by my regaling M with his silly antics. He had a professional image to live up to. I apologised fearfully.
“Shrooootteee, I am not upset – I trust you implicitly. You did the right thing. M was feeling really vulnerable and raw today. You helped distract her, and uplift her.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Is it not amazing, that we have the potency to improve people’s lives? And its not just our clients, but all the people who come in contact with them, that are impacted by what we do.”
I had never thought about it like that. I have always love working for P – purely because of the supportive and happy environment he has created. But I have never reflected on the wonderful change we were bringing in the lives of our clients. And I was part of that change.
I got back to my weekly reconciliations with a warm fuzzy feeling. It started drizzling gentle rain drops outside.
There was no two ways about it – I was lonely. I was miles away from the crowds, the chatter, the open curiosity, concern and network of family and friends. It was a dull grey day, as I stepped off my Bowen Hills-bound train at the station. Even the beauty of the Brisbane river was unable to shake me out of my latest bout of homesickness and self pity. It was going to be a long, cold day.
I walked to university in the rain – wishing for the warm, torrential down pours of Bombay, longing for the crisp, newspaper wrapped kanda bhajji (savoury crisp onion rings) and a short glass of steaming, fragrant cutting chai. Even the little coffee shop with its aromas of freshly ground coffee could not wipe out the memory of a sip of hot, sweet cardamom scented tea. Heaving a gentle sigh, I prepared myself for a boring class amid strangers.
The ringing phone drew my attention away. I looked at its lit screen and rued about the fact that no one called me in Brisbane, except for the odd, short and snappy conversation. It was Rahul – a fellow Indian classmate, whom I had only just gotten to know, through a group assignment.
“Where have you been, Shruti?” he yelled into the phone – almost as if his volume was trying to compensate for the physical distance between us. His cheerful voice drew an instant smile from me.
“Nowhere. I’m just walking to class. Why?”
“Class? Oh no! And to think that I had made aloo paranthas. I wanted you and Dheeraj to come and try them”. Dheeraj is yet another Indian classmate – being a reserved person, I was yet to interact sufficiently with them.
“I really can’t miss class.” I tried to evade the invitation politely.
“Oh well. Fine. I’ll come and get you after class – You and Dheeraj can come home with me. I have made a whole stack of them. We really can’t be wasting good food.”
“But…But….”, I faltered, trying to counter him.
“No buts – I’ll ask Siddharth, Dimpy and a few more friends. We’ll have fun. You will like them”.
Oh well – I catapulted reasoning that a few minutes back, this was the very Indian quality that I was missing. I sat through class in anticipation of the wonderful home-cooked meal I was about to enjoy. Rahul and Dheeraj were waiting for me when I finished class. Together, we walked to the bus. I was suddenly peppy and enthused.
“Will we have aachar (pickle) and raita (yoghurt salad) as well?” I queried.
“We will have whatever you want”, Rahul replied magnanimously. “But first, tell me, how many potatoes I should boil for paranthas for six people?”
“Maybe about ten. But did you not say that everything was ready?” I queried suspiciously.
“Oh it’s all done”, he injected smoothly. “Its just that we have a few extra guests, and so my housemate is making up some more food and buying some more yoghurt.”
Appeased, I waited eagerly to get to his home. All prior loneliness was forgotten, as we babbled away in a cheerful mix of ‘Hinglish’; comforted by the language. Once we got to his house – a quaint Queenslander, things were suspiciously quiet.
“Right”, said Rahul, rolling up his sleeves. “Time to get to work. I’ll knead the dough, do you mind chopping the onions and the chillies?”
“But….but…. everything was meant to be ready. Now you want me to cook?”
“Only because there are more people coming than I anticipated.”
And so, I was helplessly cajoled into cooking up a storm for ten people. Rahul helped all he could. Different people – boys and girls, wandered in and out of the house – drawn by the news that there were to be aloo paranthas for dinner that night.
I was too busy trying to prevent the boys from scalding themselves, or burning the dinner, to mind. I felt like a schoolteacher with a bunch of impish children. Someone started some music and the atmosphere took on a festive quality.
I was pleased as punch with my cooking. These people would be so delighted with the home cooked meal!
“Did you not say that we would have raita?” someone asked.
“Oh yes I did. Well, where is it?” I responded. “Never mind. Don’t answer that, let me guess. I need to make that as well?”
The boys had the decency to look sheepish.
“No you don’t,” said one of them. “I’ll do it. All on my own. Er, what am I to do?”
Sighing I issued instructions, and watched with barely suppressed laughter as he burnt the jeera being roasted, forgot the seasoning and then added too much water to the yoghurt. Finally we managed to rescue the raita and salvage it to edible levels.
I can honestly say that the evening ended wonderfully – the aloo paranthas were some of the best I have ever tasted. We ended up sitting all night, chatting, singing and laughing.
And so, I was conned, kidnapped, made a bakra of and asked to cook for eight people – but I enjoyed every minute of it. Strange is it not? You can enjoy the quietness, the ease of travel, conveniences and everything abroad, but after some time you cannot help but miss home.
We Indians have a wonderful, inclusive, informal gregarious quality about us. No matter which corner of the world we are in, leaving someone to mope in a corner is not like us – we have to bring them out…even by making them cook!
What can I say… we are like this only!
Mum often laughingly remembers my antics in high school. One of her most frequent recollections is of me at primary school – a little pigtailed, brat of a girl – guileless and brimming with curiosity and enthusiasm. I loved school. Everyone was friendly and approachable. I remember boldly walking into the principal’s office every day, to have my water bottle opened. Mum was horrified when she learnt that the head of my alma mater was responsible for my daily drink of water. When she sat me down for a chat, I explained to her that Sister Sumitra did not mind – she was ‘the most beautiful lady’ at school.
Are you wondering what the point of this story is? Well nothing really – except that most grown ups would describe Sister Sumitra as a plump, dark-skinned nun, with no sign of physical beauty. But she had an aura of serenity and love that enveloped her – and the people she interacted with. I was in love with her beauty, all my school girl life.
When I was in college, I met Prakash. He was my Math tutor at a special Math class I undertook in my spare time. With long, flowing gray hair, bare feet, two pairs of clothes and a simple unassuming air – he was the academic personified. He cared little for worldly pleasures – everything faded before a complex calculation based on the Fibonacci series. He would teach us in the light of a huge candle when power cuts were a common feature in Pune summers. Everyone laughed at his mania, although respecting his commitment as well. I was in love with him. He had a passion, a philosophy, a reason for living – and no care for anyone else. I was in love with his slender long fingers, his gentle grey eyes and warm smile. I could never bring myself to go back and meet him, when I chose to abandon science as a profession.
At ITC, I met Vishrut – my best friend ever. He is the ugliest creature on this side of the milky-way. Short, dark, brutish, with flared nostrils, a truly horrid dressing sense and an absolute love for drab colours – he was scarcely a treat for the eyes. But he had about him, a sense of ease, confidence and understanding that drew people to him like a magnet. An incurable flirt – somehow, Vishrut always managed to have the prettiest girl on his arm at any party. I loved him – for his support, understanding and friendship. Recently, a friend who was going through my old photographs exclaimed at the sheer ugliness of Vishrut – and I could only laugh. If only she met him in person, she would eat her words.
As I have grown older, many of my friends have chased the illusive all-American dream of a perky, slim body, sharp features, crisp clothes and a sense of style. They do help, to enhance the physical self. But somehow, the person you are seems to shine through with great clarity, irrespective. Eye candy is just that – it can never be mistaken for food for the soul!
Maybe that is why, I suddenly receive so many compliments about aesthetic appeal, since I got to Brisbane – spiritual mindfullness has to manifest itself somehow.
Maybe if we all thought like this, we’d have a hoard of irate fashion and beauty specialists – or maybe I say this because I’m just an average, plump Indian girl!
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