It was 5° C in the morning today. I didn’t believe Appa when he told me, but then at 10:00 am the thermometer outside said 8°C and there was no denying it.
Yahin itni thand ho rahi hai toh Jammu hi na chale jaayen?
The transfer order was long due. We moved to Lucknow in 1996. The first posting that made Appa move away, and made us a “split establishment” (which is what Amma says when she’s talking about buying home-supplies, groceries) was a transfer to Ranikhet. Baba’s board exams that year. I was in Class 8, so close enough to my own first boards for the folks to not want the kids to change schools. That was in 2000.
Since then Appa has had a series of postings in Inspection and Management Audit, which made his travelling light even more spartan than usual. These were postings of a few months each, sometimes even a few weeks only, taking him upto Trivandrum and back as far north as Kufri; from Calcutta to Surat and everywhere in between.
Last Sunday, he had nothing to do. Rare, since when he’d come home between assignments there’d usually be some repairs or the other to be done, some pending doctor’s appointment of my grandfather to attend to, car insurance payments; the list is long. Last Sunday, he made lunch early, called the car, and took out one of the older model airplanes, a Cessna, to go flying.
Chalo, chalte hain.
He and I drove to Butchery Ground which is on the way to the airport; in between he says, pithily,
Hum yahaan ’82 se aa rahe hain. Yeh sab chhod ke kahin aur chale jaayen?
I was walking around in the mall yesterday, desperately looking for a familiar face. What does Lucknow still have that holds me, like a promise cracked already, about to be broken? There are no reasons, perhaps; at least none stronger than the irrational love that one can have for the smell of the fog.
Kohre ki khushbu, if you can call it that, I’m told.
The other day V came over. We started counting the years; with V now so much of the leap that my heart makes every time I see him (even days when I want to see no one, least of all someone like him, whom I can no longer talk to) is the sheer childish joy that comes from seeing a memory, alive. He counted up to 12, and we were suitably impressed with ourselves. I cannot talk to him like I can talk to my friends in the hostel, but this is of course stating the obvious. Even if our meetings are now a mixture of excavations into a shared past (which sentiment is turning apocryphal) and a floundering attempt to understand the divergent, alien present, my heart still leaps.
The long overdue transfer order has come;
Chandigarh Circle, it says.
Where in the circle? we ask.
Jammu.
Showing posts with label Appa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Appa. Show all posts
Standard Issue
[I would hesitate to call this verse. Khair,]
The drawing room is clean now
Little dolls' sofas
the mandatory glass-top coffee table
piles of scattered books have become
rows in a shelf
I know this house inside out
My mother phones me to find things
even with bifocals.
The first grating sound in the morning
is my grandfather's bathroom door.
Appa honks once, very softly , politely.
The doodhwaala and presswaala
are usually late
When Amma needs to leave
for work,
teaching at the school
where I spent nine years
searching for an identity,
learning stereotypes.
I can hear the squeal of the TV
before the sound comes on,
the yell of the Aquaguard.
I think I can hear dog-whistles too.
I could always hear better than most.
I conduct a choir,
is it a wonder?
But then there are places in the city
I have never seen
Places I have even heard of.
Places not too far either.
I know this house
(which belongs to our landlord)
inside out
But I managed to speak to
the boy next door
only this summer.
I have been
to the corner to buy bread, eggs, butter
to the chemist to buy an emergency dose
of sanitary napkins
to the shop to buy the supplies
that ran out,
noted on our tab; no cash required here.
I can count these times on my fingers.
One hand, mind you.
There was a boy in school
Whom I was not allowed to meet
My father was not posted here,
My mother ran the house,
In fear.
I still don't know why it was not allowed.
Last year
(which was my second in college)
I went out on Diwali
to meet face to face
a man from Hyderabad,
a Muslim I had met online.
On Orkut.
It was allowed,
a faute de mieux
(This is a fancy term I came across
while researching for a compulsory essay
on Jane Austen-
it means "a decision for want of a better choice").
That time, I informed my father,
I did not ask for permission.
That boy from school-
Now that the burden of years
is on our shoulders
he has been crushed enough to be permitted,
I suppose.
He has an off day on Thursday.
Ten years of confinement,
not solitary confinement,
maybe that would have been worse;
Now I can recognise stereotype
like a font size too small or too big
in which my sentence was written.
In India
(and perhaps elsewhere in the world as well,
I wouldn't know)
it is not when a girl starts
menstruating
masturbating
becomes sexually active
gets married
has children
runs a household
goes to college
goes to work
rebels
acquiesces
that she grows up
It's much earlier-
The day she begins to fear
is the day she becomes Woman.
The drawing room is clean now
Little dolls' sofas
the mandatory glass-top coffee table
piles of scattered books have become
rows in a shelf
I know this house inside out
My mother phones me to find things
even with bifocals.
The first grating sound in the morning
is my grandfather's bathroom door.
Appa honks once, very softly , politely.
The doodhwaala and presswaala
are usually late
When Amma needs to leave
for work,
teaching at the school
where I spent nine years
searching for an identity,
learning stereotypes.
I can hear the squeal of the TV
before the sound comes on,
the yell of the Aquaguard.
I think I can hear dog-whistles too.
I could always hear better than most.
I conduct a choir,
is it a wonder?
But then there are places in the city
I have never seen
Places I have even heard of.
Places not too far either.
I know this house
(which belongs to our landlord)
inside out
But I managed to speak to
the boy next door
only this summer.
I have been
to the corner to buy bread, eggs, butter
to the chemist to buy an emergency dose
of sanitary napkins
to the shop to buy the supplies
that ran out,
noted on our tab; no cash required here.
I can count these times on my fingers.
One hand, mind you.
There was a boy in school
Whom I was not allowed to meet
My father was not posted here,
My mother ran the house,
In fear.
I still don't know why it was not allowed.
Last year
(which was my second in college)
I went out on Diwali
to meet face to face
a man from Hyderabad,
a Muslim I had met online.
On Orkut.
It was allowed,
a faute de mieux
(This is a fancy term I came across
while researching for a compulsory essay
on Jane Austen-
it means "a decision for want of a better choice").
That time, I informed my father,
I did not ask for permission.
That boy from school-
Now that the burden of years
is on our shoulders
he has been crushed enough to be permitted,
I suppose.
He has an off day on Thursday.
Ten years of confinement,
not solitary confinement,
maybe that would have been worse;
Now I can recognise stereotype
like a font size too small or too big
in which my sentence was written.
In India
(and perhaps elsewhere in the world as well,
I wouldn't know)
it is not when a girl starts
menstruating
masturbating
becomes sexually active
gets married
has children
runs a household
goes to college
goes to work
rebels
acquiesces
that she grows up
It's much earlier-
The day she begins to fear
is the day she becomes Woman.
Intermediate Technology
There ain't no such thing as Basic Infrastructure.
Infrastucture, by definition, is complicated!
Over twenty years ago, around 1981-2, in Kanpur, a decrepit town in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, when my dad still held a pilot's license, he and my mother met a couple of slightly older, much more worldly folks called David Drury and Asifa Kanji, who had been married a few years, while my parents were fresh out of honeymoonland. I believe the story goes that Appa was giving joyrides down at IIT-K and they met there, victims, I guess, of mutual curiosity, and one thing led to another and my folks invited home two extraordinary people who were to my dad, I can only imagine, one suspiciously well-read Yankee and one terribly intelligent and lovely young woman of unascertainable extraction.
One of the more memorable things Uncle Dave (yes, he's UncaDave to me) did during that stint in Kanpur was write some wonderful songs (well he finished his Ph.D. on the side, but who cares!). One of these, one of my favourites, was called (or has been called in retrospect) Talkin' Memsahib Blues.
As Arlo Guthrie would say,
and so forth.
[I finally transcribed the lyrics from the CD that was made from the original tape recording from the 80s and found its way to us because we met David and Asifa last year (I met them for the first time, and finally heard live so many songs I had growin up listening to) after so many.]
Infrastucture, by definition, is complicated!
Over twenty years ago, around 1981-2, in Kanpur, a decrepit town in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, when my dad still held a pilot's license, he and my mother met a couple of slightly older, much more worldly folks called David Drury and Asifa Kanji, who had been married a few years, while my parents were fresh out of honeymoonland. I believe the story goes that Appa was giving joyrides down at IIT-K and they met there, victims, I guess, of mutual curiosity, and one thing led to another and my folks invited home two extraordinary people who were to my dad, I can only imagine, one suspiciously well-read Yankee and one terribly intelligent and lovely young woman of unascertainable extraction.
One of the more memorable things Uncle Dave (yes, he's UncaDave to me) did during that stint in Kanpur was write some wonderful songs (well he finished his Ph.D. on the side, but who cares!). One of these, one of my favourites, was called (or has been called in retrospect) Talkin' Memsahib Blues.
As Arlo Guthrie would say,
"It's called, ya know, Talkin', 'cos it's a talking kinda song, ya know. And it's about this memsahib, ya know, so it's called the Talkin' Memsahib Blues. That's why it is that it goes by that name"
and so forth.
[I finally transcribed the lyrics from the CD that was made from the original tape recording from the 80s and found its way to us because we met David and Asifa last year (I met them for the first time, and finally heard live so many songs I had growin up listening to) after so many.]
Talkin’ Memsahib Blues
[D.D.: I'll try, we'll see what happens, it's the first time I've done the whole thing.
Ok, this is written from Asifa's point of view alright, this is her talking through the song.]
Ah yes, those happy hours I spent
When we heard about our research grant.
Six hundred a month is chickenfeed
But in India that means Memsahib,
Servants - cringing, crawling minions,
Gin and tonic on the veranda.
Well we made our home in Kanpore town,
The very finest place around
If you like dacoits, filth and thieves,
Flies and small-scale industries.
You mean you dragged me half way 'round the world to live in Cleveland?
Wouldn't you really rather study tourism in Goa?
Well I suppose if you have gone crazy m'boy
You'll need someone to take care of you.
Well we soon moved out from IIT
To the Bima Vihar Colony.
New red brick but just next door
Was the engulfed village of Lakhanpore,
The super-boonies:
Calling a goatherd to get your grass cut;
The milkman: the milkman brings the milk right to your doorstep
In the buffalo!
But life was never dull, you see
We had no lack of company
Toads and mice and fleas and slugs,
Lizards and birds and Kamikazi bugs-
Mega zillions of them
Dying gloriously in your food, your tea, your shoes, and your toilet-paper.
And like all fanatics, it's impossible to reason with 'em
To clean house, wash clothes and get to the station
You have to be a Master of Industrial Relations.
Bring your laundry in on Tuesday,
Pick it up again on Doomsday.
"Oh, you mean you wanted it this week?
I'll absolutely, certainly and pukka positively bring your clothes tomorrow.
Or the next day."
When the washerman quit and we fired the maid
My own two hands were all I had.
In my fondest memories I clearly see
The joys of Intermediate Technology
Like cooking dinner for fifteen people on a one-burner kerosene stove
Or whipping clothes off the line during a Monsoon downpour
Or turning on the tank so you can wash the pot to boil the water to put in the cooling jar to brush your teeth with.
I was choked to the gills with fear and trepidation
When the old man went out and bought his own transportation,
The old Lambretta he could barely get to run ,
And the author of the traffic code: Atilla the Hun!
Roads that look like they were recovering from recent mortar attacks.
We share the street with hand-carts, elephants, tempos, buffalos, camels and bicycles.
Kanpur has a zoo,
But the road is closer.
I'll give you a very useful driving tip if you're out that way, by the way:
Don't ever pull up too close behind an elephant at a long stop light.
Like life I could go on and on,
But what's the use?
And still I wouldn't trade that year for most I've had,
For a first time 'round, weren't too bad.
But you aren't about to hear me ask for a second round!
All in all, one good thing you've got to say about living in Kanpur:
It feels so good when you stop!
Richard P. Feynmanspeak
"There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison.
Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now
For whom, for what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the sun
poured into space
A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity
living things masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the universe."
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison.
Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now
For whom, for what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the sun
poured into space
A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity
living things masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the universe."
The Cow Paradigm
"Cow [sic.] is a useful animal. It has four legs, one tail. It gives us milk..."
Sound familiar? This is the beginning of the standard essay entitled "Cow [sic.]", which every school student, I think, in India has written at some point in English, Hindi or some other language.
The archetypal Cow was a saviour of sorts for me when I was a child. Of course, the whole theory was never really tested, but then we were taught to think first, then act. Thought experiments are important in my home.
The Cow Paradigm is a fanciful name given to this theory of Appa's that everything can be boiled down to this one Cow Essay.
Pick a word, any word. [Here's what my roommate came up with; this is a real-time experiment] Say the word "lamp":
Allora,
The lamp in our room has not been turned on because it has a 50 Watt bulb which can light up a 10 and a half foot by 9 foot room up like an oven on a cold day, and like a blast furnace on a day which averaged 40 degrees C in the shade (of the room!). What I wouldn't give to have no clothes on when I am outside in the sun; like the cows that sit in puddles all day, naked, listless. The Cow is a useful animal...[ad nauseum]And this, mon ami, is pure poetry compared to the crass ones we made up as kids! You don't believe me? Don't think it's a Universal? It's just the kind of thing the Diabolicals would love! But do try it, I'm just too bored to type one more now; I've done this with too many people too many times!
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