Hand of faith

He sat hunched, spirit broken. His head lay, in between his legs, and everything seemed grey, his clothes, his turban all of it seemed sepia toned color after countless washings. The only thing that stood out in sharp contrast was his white beard. He was born a Punjabi, but sadly was defined as a Muslim by his religious identity today.

The last time he had ever visited a mosque must have been when he was a toddler taken by his father and his uncle’s for his formal name keeping ceremony. Ever since that day, the country had been divided, his family was here and some were there and it didn’t matter to him. Life had embroiled him in his circle and he kept on living day by day caught up in between wife and children and birth and death. Where did he ever have time for Allah? God had taken a back seat.

Aziz was in shock, his entire life played in front of him, like a film reel and never had his name been a problem when he partook langar in the Gurudwara. No one had ever stopped him for entering and eating langar. In fact the last  Bhaiji who was his friend made sure he got his share of Prasad in the morning every sangrand.

Today was gurpurab, and Guru Gobind Singh ji’s birthday and he had thought he would go and take his langar there with the rest of the villagers . All human beings have the same eyes, the same ears, the same body composed of earth, air, fire and water. The names Allah, and Abekh are of the same God; recognize ye the whole human race as one. Guru Gobind Singh.

That was what he had been taught by masterji and now these radical, free thinkers, custodians of modern day fundamentalist religion questioned him once just over his name.

His snide remarks made him think, and he was made to realize that he was different. Did they come to know from his turban? Was his beard cut differently? Who was a Sikh or who was a Muslim? Where did the lines come in the forefront? How on the day of commemorating the birth of the warrior saint soldier, poet who saved humanity and let it flourish by all his acts ,was he being questioned?

Wasn’t being human more important or was it just a phrase coined for marketing gimmickry? Aziz , sat , tears rolled down his eyes and he felt his years now. The years sat heavy on his shoulders and he felt old. Life had dealt him partition, division, births, young deaths, separations, property disputes and riots , and countless things and the latest demonetization where his old pension was also withheld ; the sarpanch failed to get money out from the bank in the long serpentine queues.

Nothing had affected him, but being questioned just because his name was Muslim,had shaken him . To be set apart, by young boys who he had seeing born and were now sprouting flowing beards proclaiming a stronger claim to being a sikh. A sikh was a person who was a seeker of truth and that’s what he had been all his life , working with the villagers to make the gurudwara , tilling the land and even building it .

Tears rolled down his grizzled, wrinkled cheeks and he wondered , and wondered , when a small hand touched him.

He looked up and a little girl asked him what was the matter?

She took his hand and asked him to come along and she took him inside to the gurudwara , talking in a sweet gentle tone that all human beings were equal and the word langar had come into existence just because everyone should sit together irrespective of caste , creed , color and social standing.

He followed her, with eyes blurred with tears , a smile forming and as he sat down it seemed as if he was at peace.

Last , he could hear was a sound of someone shouting Babaji , uttho  and then calm.

Infact , humanity reposed faith once again.

The Big Fat Punjabi Wedding And Xmas Cheer!

The Big Fat Punjabi Wedding and Xmas cheer!

I am in the midst of a big fat Punjabi wedding, just the kind Karan Johar tries to sell to millions of cinemagoers, but we have all the melodrama, clothes being stitched, darned, taken out as they miraculously got tight, hair being fashioned in the latest designs, and trust me the time these girls take to do their hair is not funny but it still comes across as messy. In our time (yes, I’m old with all the shades of white hair) we were made to dress up in suits that were fixed for us, with gota tikkis on them, and hair was oiled, braided so tight that even air could not pass through it .The only concession to fashion was bangles and a parandi. And, if you were old enough you were given your mother’s smallest gold loops to wear so that you would look all dolled up.

These days, the decorators tried to sell us themes, flowers, canopies, umbrellas, and some innovative smart kid tried to sell us the Modi –demonetization package. He told us about solar lights, flowers that could be recycled and virtual cards that would lower the cost.

I must say they do come up with everything. However, what takes the wedding to the next level is the word co-ordination, We literally coordinated everything from the flowers to the clothes to the traditional boxes, and out went the budget .The key word here is color has to be taken into mind, it has to be the subtle English pastel rose for the boxes as we were drinking high tea in Dorchester, to the bright yellow reminiscent of the mustard fields of vibrant Punjab for mehendi and the sophisticated golden or ivory for the wedding. It’s like the Punjabi in us, just went out of control over one word, what will people say, and there you have it. Demonetization is the new annuls horribilis for the year 2016 but I think it skipped the wedding chapter. We just got bigger than ever.

The best part of the weddings is how one family member will get upset with another and a whole family saga is written, and that is how history is made.

I have this habit of posting, chronicling the wedding in my own way, posting pictures and trying to convince my better half to smile and that its ok to do so. The stiff upper lip persists, however. Taking pictures in our finery and posting them, and then discussing the colors fashion is the best part and getting to hear from a sister that its my 200^th suit is all part of it.

However, we all came to a consensus that the late night anxiety ridden, depression induced, stress ful, guilt ridden besan eating chai sessions were the best. The bonhomie of those late night masala chai, fuelled by gossip, with mind you the latest Turkish soap opera playing (that is a standard at our house) with the entire house surrounded and engulfed by fog has set the standard for all weddings to come. And the chaos, next morning of applying what else make-up plus the confusions of missing thermals and getting ready on time, with tempers flaying is what we Punjabis are famous for. In fact given the mix even the hot water geysers acted up and threw in their fit of tantrums, they just refused to work, the solar water system was elusive and we kept on packing ourselves with enough inners to rival the advertisements shown in television. I must say they are misleading; none of us looked that svelte wearing them, just more and more boxy! And, to cap it all the wedding season is not complete with out the NRI who is  full of life and thinks everything is nice , but in our wedding this time suffered from the worst case of Delhi Belly that even left us ironclad Indians afraid. Thus, we friended all kinds of chooran, hajmola and pudin hara, we are all popping these drugs that are working wonders and raising the temperature wherever we go.

The cheer is there and today the bazaar is full of Christmas cheer and on the traffic lights one of the young hawkers shivering in her thin clothes wearing a bright white red Santa cap was trying to sell me balloons in her chaste Punjabi Hindi mix.  

And she sold all her balloons to all of us, embracing the holiday cheer and spirit and the festivities continues and it leaves a warm feeling in the heart when one knows in spite of divisive politics we still celebrate all function irrespective of religion …and it continues with wishes and the light is brightest in the hearts of the poor as seen in the next village to ours where the church is lit up with the best laser lights and the colors of Christmas cheer .

Aloos and Demonetization !

We are farmers, and belong to one of the dying breed where we actually toil with the vagaries of nature and its fury and the volatile market, and a zillion other reasons, that would not fit here and the ever fickle NRI that wants to earn his money here but will forever abuse India especially Punjab for being the worst, dirty state and so not nice! That is another story for another day. But, a surgical strike hit us by Modi ji whose intentions are honorable but he broke our backbone just when the seed potato season had started. The season just dried up where the farmer couldn’t pick up/ buy our seed and we couldn’t transport it.

How many farmers have credit cards, or have a cashless operation? In a country as vast as ours they don’t even speak the same language; so you can imagine my husband speaking a mix of Hindi- Punjabi trying to explain a farmer who is speaking non stop in Bangla that he should buy the seed and get the truck unloaded! He, a robust Jatt started explaining politely at first and then it just spiraled to a conversation that I swear could be heard from here to Midnapore. Where does Modi ji want us to sell our seed potato? How does he want us to survive? The other alternative is to offer potatoes for landfill!

He in fact, singlehandedly created panic in our labor (Bengali) who belong from an era where they are just concerned with solid work, day to night and our are most efficient team, they don’t loiter or waste time, like the Punjabis. They were scared, shattered as they don’t trust their contractor, nor did they understand RTGS. Sir, what do we do? Our electrician from Patti has to marry his sister, and the boy’s wala want a motorcycle as dowry. How should he tell them that Modi ji just changed all plans and he cannot withdraw his own money and they were facing a problem? Weddings and rishtas don’t wait, Mr. Prime Minister.

He told us something, which had me laughing; an old man whose daughter was getting married in a few days, just lay on the middle of the favor and decided to stay there till he didn’t get the money!

Sir, all you do is for us, but have you thought what the common man goes through?  Mothers get medical prescriptions but chemists do not give medicines on saved old notes, civil hospital ran dry in the first few day.

Then you gave us a break through that farmers could buy seeds with old notes, but where are we supposed to use them? The lines are longer than the basilisk of Jk Rowling’s memory; even the famous snake of the Vedas has been crossed. This Horcrux of black money will not be so easy to kill or eradicate .

I, in the mean while have been reduced to not getting new clothes this winter and have become fashionable by resurrecting an old demonetization look by wearing all black and adorning a shawl! Whatever hair I had left have  become whiter than white and did I mention as we cant afford junk food anymore , we are all living the life of a Patanjali saint .

Do you  see the larger sattvic picture ? Maybe this is a conspiracy that would make all of us healthier nation and who needs cash , we can all live on fresh air and love!

My Vagabond Hen

Life on the farm is always interesting, and I so need to tell you about this hen we have (one of many) .She is small, petite and is a mix of silver, brown feathers and the caretakers call her Chinese murgi. She just has a mind of her own, is a vagabond and refuses to toe the line. She caused uproar last week by not coming to roost in her coop. In the twilight zone, she just managed to escape her warden and spent a night out! The entire farm was looking for her; you see we have brought up her to be a free- range, organic type of chick.

She roams around all day long, pecking, and having a great time, stress-free and voila her eggs are stress free!

So, it was a cause of great concern when she went missing and after a while when we had looked at all her roosting places, she was found busy eating her insects under the fruit tree.

She just wants to be free and not be tied up to anything,

I guess it’s the flavor of the season. The change that we seek in our lives is so apparent in even the birds that live around us. Maybe she just doesn’t want to lay eggs, which knows what’s cooking in her mind.

Do we ever let go of the control that rules every moment of our lives and just keeps us guarded and under scrutiny? There are certain rules and regulations that control and dictate our every move we make. Sometimes, I feel we are under pressure to perform and to be in a certain manner to make not oneself happy but the world.
There are unwritten dictates that govern how we dress, talk, speak and project one. It’s all an image projection to make and fit in this world. So many times, we do things just because we worry what people will say. In fact, the social and mental conditioning is so ingrained in us that we in turn do this to our children and so forth. It starts at an early age, where one is fed images of being this good child, be thin, fair, have a good figure (yes, it starts very young now). Children are subconsciously given an image which they want to measure up to, be fair, be smart, trendy wear all the right designer clothes and not speak one’s mother tongue (that is so desi, verni). Only English and Hindi , mind you , and it’s important for the boys and girls to blend in , no one should have the Sikh joora or long pigtails! Imagine, the bullying a young child goes through over his religious identity. Children can be cruel and they can reduce another to tears and also cause lack of confidence. It changes drastically as one grows older and worsens and spirals to other problems, like depression and stress.

Imagine if my hen was controlled and had to lay eggs like clockwork, all she asks for is freedom to scratch the mud and eat her insects! And, a night out some times, not asking much, just letting her is as Mother Nature intended. Some times, all it takes us to do is take a chill pill, go back to our roots and do some wandering …

I thought I’d never say this but I actually sympathize with Kejriwal ji for the first time. You see, I am currently battling the mother of all colds and this mysterious cough that according to the Doctors is a mysterious viral that has everyone under its spell. For once both the Punjab’s are in solidarity and there is absolute unity over the smog that is causing this rattling cough. I started with a normal cough thanks to my habit of eating pickle and anything tangy and mistaking that one is supposed to eat achar and hence complete one’s quota of green vegetables…

I took this edict a tad bit too serious and went overboard on the green chilies and then it all started. I have become one of those old hags who one used to read a pictured thanks to an over active imagination stemming from an overdose of fairy tales. Remember, the witch in Hansel and Gretel, that’s how I am these days with the crackly cough and chuckle! You know Kejriwal is known for his muffler, I am known for my favorite yellow Sualin bottle that I swear by. It’s the only thing in the world that gives temporary relief before I get wracked by a coughing fit.

Every known combination of antibiotics, anti-allergic, cough syrup, I have and currently have a sock to rival any self respecting chemist shop. All sorts of lozenges anything that anyone has said, from the honey based to the tulsi, to the mulethti to the English sounding licorice to the Swiss herbs one, I tried everything.

In the meanwhile, my voice changed just like the fair-weather status of politics like the politicians who are trying to angle into AAP or Congress from the melodious to the husky to the foghorn. Just like how the guy holding the loudspeaker shouts going about in the streets, vote for congress, and vote for akali-bjp combine! With agricultural prices taking a nose –dive it seems to be a good alternative career.

The best advice is the one, which one gets from village folks, I was told to eat 3 jalebis soaked in hot milk and nothing more after that and sleep. One even asked me to eat a dry coconut slightly roasted on a cowdung!  I’ve abstained form rice 9m y favorite) to eating copious amounts of dry ginger made in a curry that I resemble a dragon with all the fire power.

Maybe they do this to smoke the cough and phlegm out of the system and cure the body. Or, maybe I had been possessed by the demon of cold and cough!

I don’t know. I just know I resemble the red nosed Rudolph the reindeer clad with Kejriwal muffler sounding like the politician who so promises utopia but crumbles as soon as elections finish.

My dreams are to breathe normally through an open passage way.minus the yuckyfeeling and not cough the night away. Some accuse me of not taking any medicine or not following it; you’ve got to be kidding! You should see how regimental I am this time; I would put the Germans to shame with my timing and clockwork medication.

My only plea is for Swami Ramdev to find some Patanjali cure, the jal neti made me nauseous and I think the water went into some other opening and just never came out. You know that rolling eyes emoticon was just made for me, however last week as I was just hoarding Sualin by the boxes, I instructed my broker to buy shares in the company that is the only thing that works along with hot water with a tad bit of honey and a twist of lime (a poor rendition of being English) but all I can find is humor now.

And, my friend from Lahore posted an Ayurveda cure, a mix of honey, banana and water that sadly looked so repulsive that I decided to brave the cough.

People who drink the brandy and hot water toddy, that just is a temporary relief and not an excuse to start taking the spirits . I hope none of you suffer , and till then the latest for me today is mint tea and caramelizing sugar , and my tip of the year is buy shares in the Hamdard company and strike it rich !And, I perfected my costume for Halloween by doing a Kejru !