Lovely Shovely/ Niti- shitu Part 2

No one ever told his story. It was always what the girl wanted or what she had in mind and they said it was scary and difficult for the girl in arranged marriage. Has anyone ever asked whether lovely wanted anything?

It was always, oh your father has died and you need to step up to look after the business. Why bother with studying? That can come later. Anyway, you didn’t score a great percentage in your boards. Family business hi to sambahalana hain, to kya farak padta hain.

His life was based on this chalta hain attitude. This is what was applied to his life. Work, work, work and now get married. It was obey the elders all the time. Why did he have to be a Ram manush? He should be a Casanova, painting the town red. His town was on the crossroads, thus so many girls in the four-city radius and here he was sitting in front of a sadu girl, who wore such a chatkila orange kurta and a tight pajama. Did she not know of fashion? Wasn’t it too ho tot wear such bright colors? And she was supposed to be an Urdu shayari lawyer madam with weird tastes in reading. Apparently, she read everything that was printed, thus the brown framed glasses.

She didn’t even smile, nor did she ask anything. A simple Namaste was what she said, and she sat down.

Lovely so named because his Dad thought he was a lovely baby and the name stuck. And, it was till date his name.

Lovely was a hardworking man, not a boy anymore, his beard had recently sprouted its first grey, and it didn’t bother him.

Why was he supposed to say yes to a girl who had called him Lovely shovely , written him off because he was not educated enough, was not sophisticated enough as she told her friend.

She might have vidya , but didn’t have buddhi..

And looking at her, he wondered what fate had in store for him?

And who was she to make fun of his name, with a name like nitu -shitu it was as if the Gods had conspired against him and were having the last laugh.

Hanuman ji , mein aap ko saal kela doonga , bachayo...

Allah mein, yay khatoon se mujhe bacha do...

Lovely - Shovely ki dastaan

Last week was Mintu- Shintu, this week it was Lovely – Shovely. Where did Bhaiya churn out these cartoons she thought? Agreed, he was a businessman with a fleet of 100 trucks, he had the entire UP under his sway. Even the CM Yadav who had a foot in his mouth perpetually asked him to arrange trucks for the transportation of grains etc. all over the largest state that could have ben a country by its own.

And, she was not even given the courtesy of knowing any details just a SMS from a friend who worked in the bank where janaab had his account; where his Mummy ji had mentioned to all sundry about their plans.

They were an old agricultural family, Punjabis who had displaced to UP looking for progress, prosperity, who were Sikhs in every way but now spoke Hindi. She was more at ease with Hindi, and the romance of Urdu. The utter sophistication, the ‘adaab” of Urdu, the poetry, fine arts swayed her more than Gurumukhi.

Her village was currently famous for two things, rape and more rape of minor girls and then hung for all sundry to view. She was ashamed, horrified and had warned her friend who lived in Lucknow to be careful for her two young daughters. It was a fashion now to send kids to summer school; no one had bothered with that before. Who wanted to learn about painting or theatre anyway? The rampant disorder of crime had left everyone shocked and stunned.

 Shaking herself back, to the present she didn’t know how to sidestep this particular problem.

Even trying to Facebook him had just shown a cover photo of trucks and a handle bar moustache at the profile picture. What was she supposed to do, swing at the handlebar mooch? Oh, why did she have to go through all this?

Braving the histrionics, and thinking about doing the chai samosa ghisa pita routine once more made her cringe. She used to laugh at girls who did this and had always thought she would escape this routine and would be swept away by the knight in shining armor. But, that was not the case. All that love was for the books she read!

Thinking of wearing her brightest orange with her tightest pajama just like Sadhana and her hair all straight, plus remembering what Rashmi had told her to side sweep her hair to distract the glasses she wore. Every woman was a woman and she had her vain side.

The bell rand, and Choti went to open the door, and she started fumbling and made loud noises and ushered them to the drawing room. They had come early. No open hair, just the normal bun and she was ready.  She couldn’t even iron her kurta; it would be what she wore, and no careful application of kajal. It was what you see is what you get, no artificial packaging.

When she entered the room after 20 mts of preening in front of the mirror and trying to look presentable; she was taken a back. The Lovely shovely was decent looking, the handle bar mooch was so reminiscent of Shikhar Dhawan. The beard was cut properly, clothes were keeping in with the times, the pink linen was pass, the jeans were decent and the essential chain, bracelet was missing. Where was the flashy phone that was so the ‘identity to name fame and claim ‘?

She sat down on the edge and looked at his mother.

For once her being educated and being Ms. Know it all had her fumbled. She needed her gang to help her. Lovley ji, looked at her and cleared his throat and spoke in perfect Urdu and asked her where had she done her law degree from ?

To be continued…

Pallavi - shisha and balliyan

The school shut down for summer and the kids didn’t want to be dispersed. They think it’s not too hot, or the machhars didn’t trouble, the insects didn’t trouble nor did the grass bother. We have two measly fans for a 103 kids and we sit in the open under the trees on the farm. It’s an open -air pathsahaala and then we shut down for a month. Every day around 5 pm I think about the kids and the subconscious feeling that class is going to start and also remember the small nuances of the kids who have creeped into my heart with their individual traits.

One of them has slowly and steadily left an imprint.

This month is and was Mothers day special. I told all the children let’s make cards, you know and honor our mothers who sacrifice everything. The children were enthusiastic and started making cards and painting writing in their new learned English words of love and the little lines that we all know by heart, like Roses are red, eyes are blue. Etc. and lines in Punjabi.

And then they made little flowers, and colored plants and tried to decorate their cards. Some of them, were sheepish because there mothers could not read or write. I counseled them to make the cards and give them, and it was a chance to be nice to them on a day and make them feel special by doing little chores and helping her out in the house.

They did all this and all was forgotten. It was the weekend and on Monday one of the girls came forward. Pallavi, is a young girl who is dyslexic, she has a severe squint and is a hyper girl. Well, surprise, surprise, she had given her mother who is a widow, forsaken by her in-laws a shisha (mirror) and balliyan (earrings). She had broken her earthen piggy bank.

In life, we take things for granted, we also act smug thinking we are know it all’s plus we are the ones who have the right to celebrate these western festivals. In fact, we act pretty condescending towards others. I was guilty of the same. I was teaching them but had forgotten the lesson myself. This young girl humbled me by her gesture and the very fact that she had picked up on all the teachings and actually enacted on them . Doing prayanams, self improvising courses or reading heavy tomes of books and quoting authors and poets did not make me a better person but life and its daily  lessons do.

Infact, vidya comes later , but buddhi comes forth and empathy won that day . A dyslexic gril , who is made fun of, who by sheer rote and repetition was studying and coping with the system taught me love and compassion….

http://sikhchic.com/cuisine/to_parantha_or_not_to_parantha

mera paas maa hain..

It’s mother’s day for the country for the world! Everywhere we have card shops luring you in to buy the glitzy card to express your love, adoration and affection to your mater’. I call her mataji; Mother India, mom, ma and when I need her MAAAAAAA! No matter how old you are, how many greys you have, you will always need that unquestionable, acceptance which is frankly with no one else.

Every relationship will judge, question the motive, and the love given is hesitant but a mother and her child, no wonder this bond is pure, divine and angelic. She brings up her child with love, sacrifice and I used to laugh when other women said Oh my heart beats for two, or I know about my kids intuitively before hand. I can read faces; I can read the body language.

All of the above and more are true. There is a status on face book that says, describe God, and one child said all the alphabets together cant begin to describe HIM, well in the same fashion any amount of permutations and combinations cant begin to describe my mother. We all have our special memories with her. I have mine and they are invaluable. A day to commemorate her is indeed a special moment. Pamper her, spoil her rotten! The revolution is here and it started with the Amitabh Bachan and Shashi Kapoor starrer Dewaar where, he says,” mera paas Maa hain!”

This phenomenon is not limited to the rich or the socially upwardly mobile but its infiltrated the poorer sections too. The kids in the school I run have started helping out their mothers as a way to say thank you, they have started peeling onions, garlic, bringing in water from the pump, putting in the bag, shoes in the room or just plain old clearing up the room. It’s not about the fancy nail spa, or the facial coupon you gift her to make her feel special, it’s the daily chores to make her life easier that one needs to do. Show her you love her everyday and don’t take her for granted. A hug is the easiest and is free to give and comes with a life long guarantee.  Call her up, hug her and tell her she makes the world go round for you, as she is your bedrock! And you say Mera paas maa hain…

The Lowly Parantha

Every morning, I try and pick up my backside and ask it politely it to walk. I have now gone from asking it politely with minding my P’s and Q’s and now its been reduced to powerful expletives; but nothing works. It’s always tomorrow, pucca promise. And, then the day starts with deciding what to eat with the tea. It starts with the rusk and the customary 6 almonds, half a walnut (all dieticians swear by this; to kick start the metabolism). It is a miracle that the stomach starts rumbling and I start cooking up various gastronomic delights and fantasy of food.

I do try to control with the large precision, military lined up cereal boxes. Did you know that, if you took up the K challenge, you lose weight in 2 weeks and get a sexy die – to waist and perfect proportion body and that too draped in a Chandini type chiffon sari!  There is the miracle muesli, a mixture of dry fruit, rolled oats and all sort of dried cereals added to make you feel good, give you the right balance, energy and to kick start your day in the right way. Man, so boring. The bland, dried, shriveled , an excuse for raisins, dried up fruits, that look ,and chew like leather . It just doesn’t do anything for me.

The oats, Weetabix well they look like congealed stuff, so not good and then porridge. I grew up eating it as dahlia but its changed to the fancy porridge.

The society also dictates that it’s not fashionable to say that you eat roti or parantha. It’s very rustic and plebian to choose the lowly roti over the fancy schamncy pancake or the muffin. Also, you have arrived in the pseudo society we live in, if one says, no no I would never eat a parantha there are so many calories in this!

And , then being the pure Punjabi I am , my heart sings, smiles and dances a beat when it hears the word parantha. However times are changing, my age is catching up and as I enter the cardio – risk group, my doctor says to take it easy. But, what a lover’s sight it is, a stuffed parantha with what else potatoes, cooked slowly, made crisp served with fresh churned butter, a bowl of chilled curd, and some chili pickle. Tell me, truly doesn’t it make your mouth water?

However, Friends, Punjabis, Country men, here I come to bury the lowly parantha with my hands and with my stomach, its been diagnosed as unhealthy. Sadly, now we need to part ways with my doctor telling me how the slow cooking, in ghee is killing my arteries, sending me to a slow but sure death. I part with you not because I don’t love you but it’s killing me! I know I mascaraing Sir Shakespeare here , but time and tide wait for no one and I need to beg leave …  However , with a spring revolution on the cards in India , I might just join the AAP band wagon not for their ideas but the aam parantha and live life parantha size!!

aper.hindustantimes.com/epaper/viewer.aspx