Beautiful, she said.

I never thought I understood. Not completely ofcourse. She was so far away from me. Yet, I loved her so much. We probably shared something, right from the day I was born. I entered this world with a Wagon R -like head ( if you know what I mean) maybe due to the hard labour my maa had to endure. Family members and friends , am sure, must have wrinkled noses at me at the disfigured baby I was. Probably I looked more like a beat-up football player Then, comments followed “Arey, whom does she look like?” “Certainly, she doesn’t resemble either of her parents”

But not her.

Paati (grandma, my maternal one) , thought I was beautiful. Her eyes twinkled with happiness when she held her first grand-daughter. She told me, a few years later over kodbales & sajjappams, how it was love at first sight. She didn’t really use the same words though. Summer vacations to me meant paati and paati meant food

Just the thought of going over to the beautiful home in the quaint little town near B’lore where she lived, would make me look forward to writing off all my exams on one day. The thought of travelling in a rickety bus (there were just 3 buses that would travel everyday at 5 A.M. , 11:30 A.M. and 4.20 P.M.) and the discussion that we would have at home to choose the bus, was something that I found very exciting. I still vividly recollect paati standing at the doorstep waiting for our auto. As soon as I hopped out, she would always say the same thing, ” enna. paati ippo gnapakatuku vandaala?” ( you remembered Paati now??) and I’d always say, ” Ille paaaaaati.. school.. exams” and the same stories. After feeding us some great lunch that always had appalam, she would ask me about school.

She was a great listener. She would always ask me about school, Chintu’s kindergarten and later on school and unlike many paatis would encourage me to experiment new things. I remember her telling me that women, these days, need to study a lot, be ahead of men and all the revolutionary talk. For someone as old as my paati, this was a refreshing and rare attribute.

There was this summer vacation, when I had been to paati’s place and joined a summer camp. I’d come home late at 8:30 P.M. (ya well, it was considered late) with an aunt and paati used to always wait at the door for me, even though her favourite soap was on T.V.

Paati and T.V. soaps shared an undefinable bond. She always watched Hindi soaps, especially there was this “Shanti” on T.V. and then “Junoon” which she used to watch with so much interest. She loved “Surabhi” as well on DD. She’d finish her work quickly so that she could watch all her soaps. I remember her laughing , crying, shouting in sync with the actors on T.V. She had a particular chair for her soaps, at 45 degree azymuth. I still don’t know why she wanted that place – maybe it would help her see and hear better. But, whenever I think of her, this is one image I always have of her in her resting chair, glued to the T.V set.

Cricket!! was her life – another understatement. She used to watch all the matches, ball-to-ball, even the highlights of matches that India won. I remember her cursing the Pakistan players, South African players, her head almost inside the T.V. screen. I remember her asking my aunts to make a sweet after India won a really good match. I remember her shouting in glee everytime India played well – batting, bowling, fielding and even the commentary.

 Paati, went beyond bedtime stories and rangolis. There was something unique about her. Everytime I went behind her and closed her eyes, “P”, she’d say and laugh. Of the 9 daughters, 14 grandchildren who had assembled there for summer, she knew it was me and I always loved her more at that moment. And then, she’d always give me her hand-fan, something that I used to be fascinated with and would go on fanning her and tell her about li’l nothings. Her most priced possession towards the later years was the mosquito-hitter, the electronic one, which looks like a shuttle racquet and you just have to switch it on and go phat phat phat and presto!! all mosquitoes die due to shock. I found it amusing too and still do. I used to wait for her to lie down and watch her go phat phat phat all over the place.

 I remember her being there for my moggina jede ( a long plait adorned with jasmine flowers that is almost a compulsory milestone for a girl in Karnataka, atleast was) , for many Janmashtamis, Sankrantis, for a few of our b’days, for a prize distribution and so many more. Every memory I have of her, has her smiling face, those twinkling eyes behind the brown-rimmed glasses.

There was something that kept her happy, always. Even the day before she left us, she asked for a potable T.V. in her ward and watched a cricket match. That was my paati.

I was not there when she left us. And that is a feeling, I will always carry with me, till my last. Paati had promised me that she’d visit us that winter and that was probably her only unkept promise.

When I looked at her fast asleep, never to wake up again, the magnitude of whom I lost hit me like a storm. Whom would I tell school stories to? Whose eyes would I close stealthily, from behind? The thought that Paati won’t see me graduate,will never be there for my wedding, will never see her great grand child, came flooding to me and I stood shocked, not able to shed even one tear. I’d never receive all those goodie packets she’d give me when I left for the next academic year, none of the peek-a-boo sessions would ever happen, no one to tell me stories of how people managed all subjects at school with just one notebook, no one to make me feel proud for being a girl and later on a woman, no one to sit on the chair I loved to see her in…..

 I wanted to cry too.. but couldn’t.. But when I took one long last look at her , I could only think of one thing to say.. “Paati, you look beautiful.”

 

My name is Mahadevamma…..

We had recently been to Talkad – my cousins, their parents, my family and ofcourse, the I Talkad – hmm.. kind of brings up images of paths of sand, Alumelamma’s curse, those small temples along the path that leads up to the Kaveri at which you will find yourself casting double and triple glances to make sure if that indeed is Kaveri. Dont’t ask me why. The whole water body seemed to be covered in dirt. And there are people everywhere. No, it is not the people I have a problem with, but their bathing, brushing and spitting acivities. They treat it like a shower. It really gets to you to see people getting soap and shampoos to Kaveri. Wasn’t that supposed to be the “dip” that one had to take? I’d prefer the non-polluting version of water-play. Talkad to me meant that. Atleast till our trip. Talkad to me was water and temples and sand.

And that’s when “Mahadevamma” happened. We had hired a tempo traveller and once we reached Talkad, we got down at the entrance so that we could have a nice chattery walk and look at everything at our own pace ( nice walk in the sun is a little oxymoronic, eh?) Anyways, after having gotten off, we began walking, reminding each other to take as many snaps as possible ( With the present-day schedule of anyone, even that of my 7th standard-cousin, it is not often that you go on family trips and we were all excited).

 After like around 20 steps, we stopped to look around. We saw a a huge rectangular shaped construction below us. It was hollow with nothing inside. Our divergent thinking paved way for various creative answers and suddenly we heard a voice behind us – ” That king take bathing there.” We looked around to see who had said that and saw a quirky elderly woman, very lean but with bright eyes doing the most of communication. One of my aunts asked her as to who she was. “My name is Mahadevamma”, she said. “Wow! She speaks English”, one of my younger Bishop Cottons- cousins exclaimed. “Yes! I know English. Butler english”, she blushed. Thinking that she was there for money, one of my “cautious” uncles asked her what she wanted. “We don’t need a guide, please”, he said.

 ” Waaaaa.. yaakang aaditra budhi (why do you act like that Saar?)? I only helping. You seeing”,she said. “How sweet”, I felt for she surely had the courage to come up and be confident about whatever she knew and what she wanted to do. Now, my dear mother just cannot stop herself from “interacting” with people. ” How do you know english?”, she asked seriously. “Oh, many people coming. I talking talking talking talking. Bidiyamma adenu dodda vishya ( leave it, what’s so great about it?)”, she replied. No, my mother wouldn’t stop at that. ” You know ABCD..?”, she asked. “Yes yes. I know”, she said. Can you recite it?”, my mother asked. I wasn’t surprised. She makes sure she knows them in and out and then gives them those “tests” to test the veracity of their claims. Moms are like that. “oh.. thatuu very simple. Bidi”, she said adding that she may have forgotten it as she doesn’t get a chance to revise it. By this time, I must have wandered off in amusement, towards the edges of the path when I heard her call out to me ” chinnu.. hey, you chinnu.. orange. come this side.. follow me.” I turned back so astonished and saw her looking at me. ” you only, chinnu.. orange chinnu”, she said looking at my orange top. Phew! I smiled at her and asked her if she works anywhere and her family. She told me that she had 2 sons, one in college and the other in 7th standard and she worked in a few houses as a helper to make ends meet and on weekends she would go around with tourists. “My name is Mahadevamma”, she added after furnishing all the above details. “eh?”, I wondered but later on realized that she has the habit of adding ” My name is Mahadevamma.. mm.” The “mm” was always with an air of attitude that said ” Am Mahadevamma. Don’t mess with me” kinds. Soon, she had a name for all of us. All my cousisn were guys and soon they all became Kannada actors. One became Sudeep, the other Darshan, Ganesh, Vishnuvardhan, Uppendra (Uppi, to be precise) and what not! My cousin who she nicknamed “Ganesh” didn’t really like it , not after she told him that he is plump like Ganesh. Even our boxer Rocky who was with us became Ravi ( Ravichandran, remember?) “Hey, Ravi! Come this side darling”, she called out and I had a strong feeling, Rocky blushed though he did not really follow her.

 ”Going river, temple half hour”, she sudenly shouted out of nowhere and I wondered if she was trying out a poem with rhyming effects ofcourse. Naa, she was only telling us that we are going to the river and that we can finish seeing the temple in half an hour. Atleast that’s what her kannada translation meant.

She also let out strings like ” Don’t care, don’t change”, ” ok, have a good day”, at anyone she saw and we were so amused by her behaviour. Finally, when she left us by the river, we felt so sad that she wouldn’t accompany us for the rest of the journey. Those few lines of English were her livelihood. Not just hers but quite a few people there who would show around foreign tourists. The foriegners would laugh everytime they heard a ” come this side. Follow me”, but little did they know that these people have learnt the language for reasons that go beyond communication – their food. When Mahadevamma saw a few foriegn kids laugh at her English, she looked at my mother and said- ” avru chikkavaru. en gothilla. munde nan thara doddavaradaga avrige gothaguthe. avaga naguthara? ( they are small. They don’t understand anything. When they become as old as me in the future, they will understand. Then, will they laugh at me like this?”). More than the river, the sand, the stories behind Talkad, Mahadevamma was the interesting find. I will never be able to describe her in words. There was something about her. Something beyond the language she had learnt. Maybe the confidence. Or maybe the rappport she instantaneously built wth us – a few of us.  She signed off with, ” Next time you come here, you must come home. Just ask for ” english mahadevamma’s house” and they will tell you”, she smiled and waved a quick english-bye before running of to another tempo traveller that had just arrived.

Coz’ words are all I have….

“Smile, an everlasting smile…. “, the song runs through my head, repeatedly. I realize I have had this book infront of me for like 15 mins now but somehow don’t recollect reading a single word of it. I feel funny. I feel guilty. I feel I have wronged someone. In short, I feel terrible. R taps me on my shoulder – NR ( that’s our terminology for no response). R shakes me and looks at me quizzically! “What are you dreaming about? Do you realize that I have been calling you like a dozen times now?”, she asks, her eyeballs almost popping out in surprise that I, a super senior ( not self proclaimed, this time) can be so un-professional in a place where I am supposed to show all the diligence, dedication and all good words starting with the letter d-. The hospital. The multi-rehab centre. 

 Actually, I myself don’t know why. Am sure, we all have days when we wake up feeling a little funny and don’t really look forward to the day. Am not referring to bad hair days or pimple-right-on-your-nose tip days but rather those days when the yesterday has left behind a not-so-pleasant feeling. But what was it that made me feel so low? Song? Tuesday? Nah! And then, I suddenly realized why. I saw her again. Yes! There she was, clutching onto her little rucksack and standing at the registration. I prayed to God that it was not what I thought would be.

 But alas! My fear turned out to be true. “P, there is a case”, I heard the call. P, is me ofcourse. Tiptoe-ing ( or is it tiptoing) as though my footsteps would wake a 1 year old child sleeping blissfully, I walked to the OPD room where the file was. I saw the name on the file. “Girijamma”, it read. (name changed for reasons of privacy and ethics). I was not surprised. Was she not the “Sarojamma” who came yesterday? And the “Savithri” who had come last week? I walked out and called her name, “Girijammaaaa”, looking at her, knowing very well that her name was not that. She looked at me and smiled. The warmth and the shine piercing my heart in a painful way. This smile was so different. I didn’t feel happy looking at her smile. I felt guilty. I felt quite lost. Does she even realize what she is getting into? What will I tell her? I smiled back at her. Perhaps, there was a long latent period thanks to the sudden influx of thoughts, she looked very reassured that I had actually smiled back at her. Knowing very well that I was repeating the protcol that wasn’t necessary at all, I called her to the OPD room.

“So, Girijamma, what is your complaint this time?”, I asked not able to look in her eye. “Illa doctoravva, Girijamma is my daughter”, she said (in kannada ofcourse). “your daughter?”, I asked surprisingly. “Yes, my daughter is mentally ill. She does not understand what I tell her. She cannot carry out her activities of daily living either”, she said, fully thorough with what I would have asked her had she not told me anything. “Where is she then?”, I asked. She got up and brought her daughter inside. I looked at her daughter.

 A pretty girl hidden in a very ragged outfit sat in front of me. She seemed extremely disinterested in what was going on. Except for her attire, ( she looked like she was forced into wearing something that did not fit her or that meant to hide her beauty and grace), she looked fine. And yes, detached. I caught her attention and said a hi. She looked into my eyes, and looked away. I felt funny again. I asked her if she had had her breakfast. She looked at me and nodded meekly. “What did you have, Girija?”, I asked hoping I could hear her voice. Her mother interrupted. “She can’t speak. She can’t understand. She is very disoriented, always. And foolish”, she remarked. I felt my temper rising. “Please let her answer”, I said as politely as I could, but knowing very well that I hadn’t feigned the politeness-part very convincingly. The mother kept quiet. “Girija, give me your hand”, I said. She raised her hand a bit and as though she had committed a great sin, put it down and shuddered.

 Ofcourse, I knew the reason. Her mother had pinched her thigh. Thank God for R who walked in to borrow something, that I regained my cool. “You don’t need to be scared of anything. I will help you”, I tried to reassure her, afraid that the crack of my voice would give me away. She smiled weakly. ” Do you feel tired? Do you want to eat something? “, I asked, scared that I may scare her by questioning too much. She just shook her head. I turned to her mother and wrote down the complaints. The same list. No ADL. Her inability to follow instructions. h/o epileptic seizures. Total dependence. No conceptual skills intact. The list went on. I hated diagnosing her. I knew she was well. I knew she could think like us. I knew she had wanted to talk too. I knew she was just another like me. But deep down, I knew why she behaved that way.

Hadn’t her mother come for a disability certificate that entitles them to a monthly allownce of 1000 per month and free train travel for the caretaker and the person with disability? Yes, I suddenly knew why I had been upset. I had seen the same lady who had brought her daughter coming for a certificate for herself saying she had other problems related to hearing. She had then brought another elderly man with her, who said that she was mentally challenged and could not speak. When they were told that such issues do not entitle the to receive a compensation and were explained what kind of a disability would fetch such a certificate, she had told me that she’d get her daughter who is “mentally ill” and that she would claim a certificate. As I stood waiting for the supervisor to see Girijamma, I knew very well that she would get nothing that she had come wishing for. And I really feared that.

I knew what was haunting me. I looked at the lady. I saw the wrinkles and the dark circles. And the worry in her eyes. It touched me to know that a person can go the extent of calling her own daughter a person with “mental challenges” even when she was not. How much it must have pained her whenever she had to lie about her daughter! Over my years here, my perception of a person who lies has changed.To call your own with harsh terms such as “handicapped” to meet ends meet makes me feel drained out at times. I won’t pretend that am strong. I believe one needs to really see and experience these instances to grow as a person. It is just another example of learning outside classrooms and football fields. The extent to which one’s hardship makes lying inevitable is cruel. Gruelling. And knowing all this and denying a person an allowance and to send them away empty handed, leaving them a few rupees poorer ( all that they spend on travelling and food) and all the physical exhaustion they endure ( umpteen check ups and departmental visits), all the mental fatigue ( they actually try to come up with various problems to try their luck in various departments) – trust me, is a hard hard job! Knowing that the allowance is meant for persons with genuine disability and discharging your duties ethically is one thing. But then trying to justify this to your conscience that screams for attention is another. And somewhere, along, we concede; to what, is unanswerable.

I realized my file was on the table. And history would repeat itself. Like yesterday. Like the week before. And I had to see her sad face again. Whom would she bring the next time? I wished for an answer. An appropriate one, not the evasive ones. I was thrown into the perpetual dilemna again. I hated helplessness. Experience doesn’t always teach you to get used to things. Some things are meant to be the way they are. I shied and looked at Girijamma sitting in front of the supervisor. Detached. Her mother, joined her hands as mark of respect and sat on the chair, smiling as obediently as she could; trying to be her best. And I relived my fears once again.

What do I want?

I have this huge urge to leave the post empty. The title is pretty much all I want to ask.Rather, know. And before you imagine some such incident that might have sparked off the post, let me gesture a violent “NO”.It hasn’t been one incident. Rather, a series of my thoughts and wants that have led me to this position. To wonder – what do I want?

This is not a post meant to evoke I-thought-she-was-fine-what-happened-to-her reaction For the record, I am indeed fine. Probably a li’l too fine, offlate

No. Don’t mistake this to be indecisiveness. It never has been that. I think, the problem is in my prioritising. Like now. With 4 deadlines beckoning, I had to blog. With my impending supervision and Mt- everest pile of documentation and case reports beckoning tome, I had to blog. I just had to. Impulsiveness? Foolishness? Or am I the “you-are-not-serious-about-your-work” typos?

Nah. I am surely not. Okie. Maybe impulsive to an extent. Foolish. Lets not even go there. And who says am not serious about my work? I surely am.I enjoy every bit of “most” of it. As long as I am doin’ it by choice (which I mostly do) it is fun! Aah, yes! There are the inevitable episodes that are expected of you which I somehow manage to do too. Would not dare use “enjoy” there.

Maybe I see myself as being too special. But then, special isn’t always with a positive connotation, though I meant the positive one here. Why on earth would someone want to be doing everything? Why on earth would someone be interested in a hoard of myriad issues and disciplines that the only way to accomplish them all is to have a lifespan of a tortoise multiplied by 2?

Call it over-ambitious. But it is true that it is hard to satisfy someone who lives on dreams. Each li’l accomplishment only leads to more want. Happiness is but momentary and you’d want to make sure it lasts, forever. For you and for others.

“Try closing your eyes and see what is that one thing you want or wanted always?”, is what most agony-aunts tell you. Not that I have been told this. But have watched far too many episodes of this kind to be able to predict its next occurrence. I have to admit that I have tried it. And was even more confused.

Agreed. It is the much talked about human tendency to want and want more. I am not referring to that kind of a want. It isn’t the “want” want. It is more about nullifying wants. It isn’t just about making changes, you see. Almost like – Doing everything you can to make it want-free

Alright. Am not making any sense. Still, I “want” to go on.

Probably a few of you would tell me that it is good to have a lot of wants and I may get a few of them done, actually. But will I ever be satisfied is a question. Perhaps I will be. For that one whole moment.

It is funny how everyone(most of them) dream of changing the world but end up changing their dreams. Is it even fair to comment given the circumstances? I don’t know. I don’t want to either. I am sure that I wouldn’t understand

And my mind doesn’t permit me to find words to express what I feel right now. Some lexical access issues, perhaps. Or maybe it is just a phase. I’d like to believe it is not. For, life seems so very exciting now. Wanting to do a lot of things and not knowing to prioritise isn’t so bad, after all. You’d never run short of hobbies in the worst case.

Am not a list-person but still li’l ticks in my mind will be great moments, am sure. On the forever-growing-mental-representation of my very own bucket-list.

p.s. I have said this elsewhere. But then, things haven’t changed, have they?

Rant: I am having this amazing apple-bun now. And I’d love to learn to bake it. There I go again. Can’t get crazier.