Mashalla

When she was born there was joy. The celebration of life. Her home town was Saqqez in Iran where everyone knew everyone. She went to school. Played her games with her brother Kiaresh and her friends. She was rigorous in her fasting during Ramzan. But she looked forward to its end. Celebrated Eid. Before which she had got her new clothes stitched. Which included a new hijab. Which hid her beautiful hair. 

Life went on. She graduated from school and watched her brother explore his world with a growing confidence. And she always asked why she couldn’t. 

"Why?"

Difficult questions to answer from a free spirited intelligent girl. Who would'nt  take the usual " Because I said so " or "Because that’s the way God wants it". So she lived with it. Realising that for a small town girl and for everyone else the rule of the Guidance Police was absolute. 

She was excited about going to the big city. To Tehran. The lights there seemed so bright form afar.  Five hundred and seventy one  kilometres. Seven and a half hours away from the Guidance Police. She didn’t let the hijab slip. But it wasn’t tied to her head so tight that her lovely locks didn’t peep thru.

They arrested her. They took her to the police station. And on to the Moral Security agency for a briefing class. But they taunted her and she didn’t take it quietly. She answered back. To an authority that was unused to and didn’t like being questioned. The medical scans showed skull fracture and  bleeding. They moved her to a hospital in a coma. Forty eight hours later she was dead. 

 

When she was born there was joy. The celebration of life. Her home town of Siolim in Goa where everyone knew everyone. She was rigorous

 In her Good Friday fast. But she looked forward to Easter. 

Especially the Easter Vigil service.  But " No Sleeveless" . She wouldn’t be allowed into church. 

" Why ?" she asked. 

" Why?"…..

 

 

Covid 19

It was a containment zone. Everyone there was of the same religion. More or less the same education. More or less the some economic status. They weren’t allowed to leave. 

There were special trains being arranged for them. To take them away from the city. 

There were official guards at the three entrances. Food was distributed here. Chaos with the lines. 3.4 square kilometres for four lakh sixty thousand men women and children. 

When the older ones started dying they had to take care of the burials themselves. The teachers among them were using the walls that hemmed them in as blackboards. For those who risked their lives stepping out of home. But you had to step out of home anyways for a toilet. 10 people to a room. To live. No one had worked out how many people one toilet could support yet. But whatever the statistic they were way beyond it. 

There was a wooden footbridge over the wall that the men would sometimes go over at night. In search of food. Defying the sunset curfew.

The black market economy thrived, supplying as much as 80% of the food. 

Men, women and children all took part in illegal trade, and private workshops were in buisness . Even with that there was unemployment. Unemployment that was leading to extreme poverty.

The deportation on a daily basis was via two shuttle trains: each transport carrying about 4,000 to 7,000 people crying for water. 

 

That was Warsaw.  Jüdischer Wohnbezirk in Warschau, "Jewish Residential District in Warsaw"; Polish: getto warszawskie) was the largest of all the Nazi ghettos during World War II. 

 

Dharavi has an area of just over 2.1 square kilometres (0.81 sq mi; 520 acres)^[3] and a population of about ten lakhs.

Nargis Dutt Nagar at Bandra no statistics yet but the density can't be very different from Dharavi.

 

 

 

All statistics from Wikipedia. 

Covid 18

He retired a full fledged Colonel. Maratha light infantry regiment. He’d fought in the Pakistan war. Liberated Bangladesh and kept India safe. Retired into a flat in Jolly Friends, CHS, Mumbai. Still went for his morning and evening walk everyday. Swagger stick in hand. 

The lack of decorum at society meetings  left him shocked often . Always, for the lack of discipline the parents exerted over their rebellious offspring. And the building secretary’s sorry control over sweeper, mali, watchman, lift man, Pump man, etc. etc. etc. 

His request that the watchman standup when ever a member entered or left was rejected.

“ We can barely get them to stay awake Colonel Saab”

“ If we make him wear a uniform we will have to pay for it and the outgoings will go up.”

Building drivers playing cards while they waited ? He’d court martialed people for less. 

The fourth floor robbery would never have happened if the watchman had a fixed reporting schedule like the Colonel had suggested. 

When he asked for fixed playtimes for the building children some one scratched out the ( retd.) next to his name on his nameplate.  

He’d organized troop movements within enemy lines. Supply lines to keep garrisons. Whole divisions in food , transport and army issue rum.

The fatality rate for Covid 19 was on par with Siachen . If you were 60 plus  then it was like Siachen on a very bad day for Pakistan.

The world was in retreat. Not just  the world, the country, the city. Lockdowns and curfews that were more fitting to war time. The building was a mess. No garbage collection. Water supply erratic thanks to a pump man who had gone back to his village. The garden was messier than the prevailing political scenario. 

The building secretary had stopped answering his intercom. The building watchman vanished after he was held up at knife point and relieved of phone and wallet. 

The Colonel started a roster of duty with the chappies from the second and sixth floor. When the food situation worsened he initiated the food pool with common purchasing .  SOP [ Standard operating procedure ] for any army mess anywhere.

He reassigned the mali’s duties to the fifth floor lady who had a green thumb. Support personnel were the kids, twelve to sixteen, when they were done with the water pumps and the disinfectant wipe down of the lift. He had a weekly review. And a monthly award. For the best soldier nay society member. The secretary came forward to offer his services in whatever deployment the Colonel saw fit. The Colonel put him in charge of the joint fitness program.

Four months later it was over. They’d found a vaccine for Covid. A vaccine and a cure. In the whole pin code of 400050 around Jolly Friends CHS they were the only  ones who had survived unscathed. 

A week later he found a new name plate on his door.

No (Retd.) No scratch marks.

It just said “The Colonel.”

Covid 17

Covid 17

 A group of friends at a party. They’d never had anything more intoxicating than beer. And the one time a gulp of feni mistaken for water.  He’d spat that out though. Here was a friend of a friend of a friend with marijuana. He was offering him a drag. He’d have been a sissy to turn it down. Not in front of everybody. Even the girls hadn’t said no. So he partook that day. And the next and the next. 

Maslows heirachy of needs applies to almost everything. Marijuana to hashish to brown sugar to mainlining heroin was just a logical progression. More heroin for the same high. Lots more for an increased high. 

Until the day he ODed and landed up in the emergency room. Then started his rounds of the rehab centres, support groups, counsellors, psychiatrists, faith healers, ashrams.... . There was always someone on the fringes. Ready to alleviate the unbearable pains of withdrawal with that just one hit. That first step onto the downward slide he was trying so hard to get off. The one step that always lead back to the full blown avalanche. Days of bandhs he always made sure he was buffered. 

The initial lockdown had been easy to field.

The withdrawals this time were the worst ever.His dealers had vanished. Not just them but everyone in the bylane next to Bandra station. Them ,the matka ticket sellers, the hookers, even the beggars. 

Two months into the lockdown. He was thinking that if he could make it thru two months maybe he could make it thru a lifetime. Maybe he had a chance.

Covid 16

Timing was everything. At which point did he put on his mask. The second he put it on everyone always turned towards him. Too early and the cash counter was too far. Too late and his face would be on the CCTV.

He went down on his knees to thank God for the new compulsory Covid mask rule . 

Walked in with a mask he had put on when leaving home. For once absolutely sure that his face would not be captured on the CCTV. Handed the cashier his note demanding all the money in the till. He couldn’t see her reaction thru her mask. He followed her finger to the sign next to the register. 

No Cash.

PayTM only.

Covid 15

They saw each other at the bus stop every day. They soon got talking. They soon got married. They soon had a baby. Baby dropped off at Mummy’s house every morning. They kept going to the bus stop. To get them to the 8.10 Churchgate fast. 

It was blissful. They went to the beach every Sunday morning. Seeing the little one trying to escape the waves cracked them up. An occasional movie, family parties, church feasts and summer nights. When they whispered everything in each others ears.

Along came their second born. Noisy and demanding. She quit working. What with the first one entering kindergarten and his parents needing food sent over everyday. He still caught the 8.10 Churchgate fast.

The Sunday trips to the beach petered out. Slowly eroded by piano practice and Hindi tuitions.

He started joining the boys for their after work drink . He didn’t catch the 8.10 anymore. He had a car. The sea link made it feasible to drive in.

The company upgraded his perks. His drivers allowance allowed him a driver.

Even the occasional movie was history. Fallen to the pressures of board exams.

His promotion came with a secretary. To help him keep track of schedules and meetings. The kids presents were wrapped and in the car before he even remembered their birthdays. The least he could do was take her out to lunch. Then dinner. Then the out of town conference.

He was grateful for Touch ID locking phones. His eldest wondered why he was so touchy when he borrowed the phone for a game. He got him his own soon. It was safer.

They knew his time at the office was what paid for everything . So they never complained.

The trial lockdown was a disaster. Privacy in a two bedroom house with two kids, one maid, one wife and one dog ? No movement beyond the compound gate. He was missing her and she was missing him.

When the lockdown was extended for the third month she quit. An email with her resignation. To him and the HR department.

That evening he helped with the dishes.
Later in the night the wife said “ Now you want me ? ”

Easter Covid 14

For her advent began when she started shortlisting dress patterns. At least 40 days before Christmas.
So that the whole process of selecting the pattern, estimating the material quantity, buttons and trials was not hurried.
After all the journey is the destination.

Even regular Sunday morning mass dictated that fashion choices be made. Colours that suited her had to be balanced  with 
the banishment of red for lent. With  shoes that hadn’t been ruined trying to catch the 8.10 Churchgate fast. 

Luckily she’d bought the material for her Easter dress before the lockdown. The darn tailors shop was still shut.
No way  he could cut, stitch and deliver in the time left. At the rate things were going she’d be all dressed up and nowhere to
go even if she had the dress. 

Protective face masks were the order of the day. The front line health care workers needed them the most.
But they were in short supply.The tulle she had  gave the masks that designer edge. The lady doctors loved them. 

She was on time for  the Easter vigil. Had never paid more attention. She didn’t have to worry about what Sandra or Mary or
Perpetua were wearing. She didn’t have to worry about the mud from the dusty ground spoiling her shoes.
Or whether the  roast chicken for the Easter lunch would be as perfect as it always was. Wheter the Easter eggs she had
ordered were full almonds and no peanut dilution. She did worry about wheter they would reach her.

She renounced Satan and all his evil ways. Lit the Easter candle off the kitchen stove. 

Easter spirit as dead as the saviour on the cross. Especially  with the fourth floor having two positive cases.
There was a tomb like silence in the building. 

When they recovered and came home it was a little better. She experienced the joy of the resurection. First time ever.
Her report and everyone else's in the building was negative ten days later.

Lucky for some. Covid 13

His bike defined him. A cherry red Harley Davidson. 1600 cc. People heard the thump and turned around. They saw the bike and craned their necks to follow him. If there was anything the bike lacked he made up for in gear. His leather jacket. LED trim on the gaurds. 

His helmet cost more than a brand new Hero Honda. Shumacher used the same brand. If it was good enough for Michael it was even better for him. The kids in the building were forbidden to touch it. No vroom vroom pretending to ride games on this bike. The watchmen cleant it, but under his supervision. 

Jo Boy ? Yes the guy with the red Harley. Not Jo Boy, Mary and Franks son. Or Sandra’s brother, or the guy who worked in the Customs. 

Curfews and compulsory social isolation destroyed the best laid plans of mice and men. No bike rides. Bike rides? He was lucky he could still walk up and down his road. 

The kid on the second floor was a medical intern. Worked in town at Nair hospital. Bandra to Nair hospital was two bus trips and one local train trip away. One way. The trains had stopped. Too risky. Social distancing in a Mumbai compartment was .75 inches on a good day. Taxi drivers had abandoned hearth and home aka their cab to head back to UP or Bihar or Chattisgarh or wherever their long journey had brought them from. 

So he loaned him his bike. What the hell, it was just sitting there. 

He was pointed out now. 

“That’s the guy who had loaned out his Harley.”

 “29 lakh bike and he gave it to that doctor kid to get to the hospital everyday. “

A week later he even gave the kid his helmet. 

Covid 12

She came in every day. Dusting, sweeping, mopping , and cooking. When the youngest came back from school with a head full of lice she fine combed them out. She loaded up their washing machine. Whites on Wednesdays and Fridays. Everything else Monday and Saturday. She handwashed their delicates. The machine would spoil the elastic or rip the lace. Her chappatis were rounder than a full moon.

 She’d even learned how to make Sorpotel and fugias. So for feast days she was called in for extra duty. Had to stay late after the guests left to wash up. Washed the windows before Christmas and brassoed the front door latch and plant holders before Easter and Christmas.

There was a police order that wearing masks outside was compulsory. Now they wanted her to wear a mask. Had to be on before she entered and stay on. 

Ok. But they should wear masks too. Wasn’t their inside her outside ?

Covid 11

He was enjoying this. He’d never slept in a bed before. Always on the floor. With a bedroll, which was rolled away every morning to make place for the day. 

Along with everyone else’s bedding. Along came Corona and of course he was hit. Along with everyone else in the hut. They shared everything. The communal drinking vatee on the matka. The old dalda tin for the toilet. 

It took some getting used too. Sleeping on a platform 3 feet above the ground. He couldn’t move too much. Not with tubes going into him. Tubes coming out of him. Bags to see his fluid intake and output. Blood samples and urine samples. He could grow used to this. This food being brought to him in large quantities. This bed that propped into a chair. 

The tubes  came off as he got better. The doctor saab said he was jawan. That God had spared him. Soon the tubes came off. 

He rolled off the bed in his sleep. That hurt. He was discharged immediately. The doctor saab said that if he had the energy to roll off his bed he was well enough to go home.

Dreaming in the Times of Covid 10

Just outside the school gate stood the bora walla. Loosely named. Because the seasons dictated what he had for sale. The school authorities knew that his hygiene standards were questionable. As were the sources of his supply. Or maybe they were just caving to the canteen operator who wanted his monopoly maintained. Monopoly on the forever hungry stomachs of a whole school.

The borawalla had a pile of multihued boras. Which he sold by the cone. He’d show  up with paper cones ready. Filled and capped to prevent accidental slippage. Also to hide a few rotten boras. Discerning cutomers had no time to protest. Everything had to be transacted thru a locked grille gate. Quickly. A few hundred boys clamouring at the gates like lions at feeding time in the zoo. It was a fifteen minute short break. You had to have the correct change at the ready. He took the money before parting with his boras. 

That was SOP with whatever was on his cart. Though with different products the customization changed. The guava tranactions were more intense. Selection. Slicing. Then the decision wheter you wanted salt or salt and chilli powder, or just chilli powder. His pricing for gauvas was more random. Only because of the randomness of a ripe gauvas size. The same applied to Kairis. Raw green mango whose sourness made you close your eyes and wince. But not as wince worthy as his Bimlees or Imlees. Groundnuts were standardized. A cone of ground nuts is a cone of groundnuts. Or water chestnuts split in half. Which for some unfathomable reason was always accompanied by smoking aggarbattis. If it was to keep the flies away, they did’nt.  Come the monsoon he had butta. Pre roasted for quick dispensation. But lime , chilly powder, salt? . A given  Which self respecting school boy would even think of having a butta  which hadn’t been rubbed down with all of the above. 

Did call him the butta walla, or the kairi wala or the tamrind walla ? It was always the borawalla. Whom we were warned against by home and state to have no truck with. On pain of a slow lingering death.

Love in the times of Covid 9

She was always well turned out. Clothes from Troy or Wendell. Hair by Toni and Guy. M.A.C make up. Jimmy Choo’s. Victoria’s shh… . Olive for birthday party dinners. Bombay Canteen if it was lunch. 

She made page 3 at least once a month. If she didn’t her publicist got hell. The last time page 3 didn’t see her for a month she changed her PR agency. So what if the write up about the party cost more than the party. 

If you got it flaunt it. And if you don’t got it , pretend.

She’d air kissed her way through demonetization, the bomb blasts and the riots and the Ambani wedding.  But Covid  was proving a harder nut to crack.

The PR agencies photographer couldn’t come to Pali Hill from Dombivli. Like it was the moon ?

So she was reduced to selfies. Times Now wanted them in Hi Res. 

“Darling we have to keep an eye on the money. The factory is shut and the workers need money for food.”

‘Lakme. You gotta be kidding me ? Let them eat cake.’

Positive ? Ok . Can I have a super deluxe room ?

NO!

Ward!

Ward?

I’d rather die than be in ward. 

So she did. She didn't make page 23.

Covid 8

She was tired. Tired of hearing clichés. The one she liked to hate the most was when the going gets tough… That was just the biggie. The others said have faith in God. His eye is on the sparrow. Whatever will be will be. Blah blah blah. None of it helped, while she got mired deeper in doubt everyday.  Whether the governmnet would be able to keep the country together ? Whether her exams which had already been postponed for a week, a month, a quarter would ever happen. Would she ever graduate ? If she did what then? In a post Covid world with just about everything restricted ? Her dreams to go to the US for a Masters seemed like a hallucination.

 She’d had it all chalked out. Graduate . Work for a year or two. Post grad abroad. Marriage. A family. She’d keep working. Kids. Travel to Europe on immersive vacations every year. Grand kids. She’d spoil her grandchildren rotten. She’d fadeaway in a rocking chair, knitting socks when she was 80 plus. 

That pesky neighbor refused to take no for an answer. So there she was with them making masks for slum dwellers. Even before they finished that, vermiculture was under discussion. Garbage collection was as much in the past as Mohenjodaro. So she helped build the pit. They had sessions for everyone. How and what went where. Pesky neighbor wanted to have a soup dispensing station at the society gate. For anyone who couldn’t get a meal. She volunteered for the 7-8 pm shift. An old uncle wanted help. Her chemistry background would maybe help in his distillation. Liquor shops were going the same Mohenjodaro route. He claimed he’d never ever had such a smooth rich flavourful full bodied peg. 

The second round of mask production was getting underway. The kids of the colony needed to be kept up to date with their maths and english and science. The next road wanted her expertise for their vermiculture. 

Her college wrote to say that she could complete her course online. She didn’t have the time.

Love in the times of Covid 7

 Every evening at the bar. DSP large with soda. A bowl of monkey nuts on the side. Though he had a repeat every day, the waiter would still ask him.

He had grown up happy. In a big house with a small family. Daddy, Mummy and him. Well to do. Car, T.V., telephone. Daddy was the first to go. He had just finished college. But Mummy requested him not to start working immediately. 

They had to put Daddy’s papers in order. Bank accounts, LIC, UTI. Transfer the telephone to Mummys name. Salcette society share certificate. Even the name for the grave ownership. It was tedious work. And slow. Forms to be filled out in triplicate. The notary called to wish him a happy Christmas . And Easter. And Divali. And Christmas. Then Mummy asked him to get the house repairs done. With a job who would supervise the work ? Then she had a fall. If he left her alone in the house with the servants they’d steal them blind. 

The proposals kept coming. He was never sure if it was or the house or for him. Pretty girls, plain girls, ugly girls. Piano LTCL, ATCL and BEd graduates. Mangloreans, East Indians and Goans. Even one Anglo Indian.  He approved Mummy didn’t. Mummy approved, he didn’t. 

And so it went till Mummy died. That’s when he started going to the gym bar every evening. Keeping a kitchen running for one person was a waste. So after his two large DSP’s he’d study the menu. Came back to Beef chilly fry and dal with chappatis every night. A parcel of fish curry rice for tomorrows lunch. The top woman would make his breakfast tea and porridge. 

The proposals were now issueless widows and innocent divorcees. But Jo boy who sometimes joined him at the bar laughed. Its bad luck to marry a widow. Divorcee. Theres no smoke without a fire.

He finally sold the house. Two flats and more crores than he could spend in three lifetimes. One flat was just full of all the extra furniture from the bungalow.

Lockdown ? Breakfast was marie bisucits and tetra pak milk. Damn. He’d burnt the maggi noodles again.

Covid 6

She had German measles in her second trimester. The doctor warned her that there was a good chance the baby would be compromised. Good chance ? She thought. That’s a bad chance. It was . But they found that out later. That this perfect baby girl with ten twinkling fingers and ten twinkling toes was deaf. 

So she quit her job. Resigned from the ladies sodality. From the entertainment committee. From anything that took her away from her baby. She put her into regular school. What took the other kids five minutes would take her baby  twenty. But her lip reading was getting better by the day. When she had to start on Hindi and Marathi it was back to square one. But she made it. Slowly.

She learnt painting and computers. She dated. She got married and had her own children. Two perfect little beings. Who grew up and got married. Went off to start lives of their own. 

Along came Covid . Face masks mandatory. Lip reading ? Back to square one.

Love in the times of Covid 5

They were a close knit society. The door  of every house open. Wheter you had lunch at your’s  or any of the other dining  tables in the building , it was home.

When Jo-Boy got that promotion, the congratulations message on the notice board let her know before he could. When tv’s first came around they had all chipped in and bought one. Every evening they would get together in the lobby for first, the rosary, then tv. The building that prays together stays together they said, only half jokingly.

They’d gone thru the days of the blackouts of the Indo Pak war, thru the riots, thru the floods, thru the bomb blasts, thru Bombay, Bharat and Mumbai bandhs. They’d  get thru this too.

 Until Aunty K got a fever. Social distancing was 6 ft. As soon as they rang the bell they’d take a few paces back. She almost drowned in the chicken soup they flooded her with. Until chicken was banned with a H1N1 scare. Mutton was almost unavailable. When it was available it was so expensive. What they could,they sent over in old Jimmies Chinese takeaway dabhas. Aunty K didn’ have to bother about returning those. The virus could live on plastic for 3 days they’d been told. 

When her cough started,the soup stopped. Too dangerous, waiting at her door. Her son told them the fever had started. At the evening rosary they dedicated the first decade for her speedy recovery. The last four for their well being. Saying a rosary with the new social distancing being 15 feet was a problem. Especially if you were old and hard of hearing. The kissing of the statue après rosary had long ceased. They asked Ks son to keep his windows closed.

“ But it’s so hot!”

The virus could stay in the air for 6 hours and their windows were above, below and on either side of Aunty K’s.

Either the soup and / or  the prayers worked. The fever went away. The cough vanished. They all had to be tested. All clear. Except Aunty Ks son. 

A carrier. No symptoms. He could never open his windows again. 

Covid 4. Be careful...what you wish for.

It was a match made in heaven. She thanked the gods for it. Every day. While she prayed for a child. He was an atheist. God, he said had nothing to do with anything. 

And unto them a child was born. Of course he needed a black spot put on his cheek. To mar his perfection and keep the evil eye at bay. She thanked the gods for him and prayed for his good health. That he would stand first in class. He did. Regularly. She thanked the Gods. While she prayed he would get into medicine. If he did’nt, then at least engineering. The Gods smiled on her and him. 

Those long hours in Emergency were trying. She prayed that he would be done with them soon. He wanted to go to the states for an MD. 

Suddenly Emergency was flooded. Flooded with people who came in with a fever and a cough. And left in a hearse.  

She prayed that God would keep him safe. He didn’t.

Love in the times of Covid 3

She loved tradition. Even as a little girl. Making kulkuls on the lead up to Christmas. Midnight mass. Opening the presents when they got back. Of rosaries in the month of May at the grotto. The tradition of only Dad being allowed to ignite the rockets for Divali. Sparklers and snakes she was allowed to light. 

Making coconut leaf crosses for Palm Sunday. Polishing the brasswear with torn up old shirts. Of moulding marzipan Easter bunnies and settling them in crepe paper fields. Handpainting dried out eggshells. The Easter vigil and making sure the hot candle wax didn’t burn you while you renounced Lucifer and everything he stood for. 

She loved the solemnity of a funeral cortege. The slow march of mourners with a rosary that ended at the front at least five minutes before the tail enders caught up. The candles and crucifix lead procession to the grave. The ritual of the eldest covering the face of the deceased.The dispensation of rose petals. Their gentle showering down on the lowered coffin.

So many years. She’d seen it all. Many times over. Now she didn’t walk with the cortege. At  least the bus allowed her to get there before the seven day mass. She tried to get into the condolence line early. Too long a line and she might need a toilet before she reached  the family. 

A fever. A dry cough. A wheeze and she was gone.

No more than 20 persons at the funeral. Sorry. Police orders.

 Closed coffin. Health department orders. 

Grave ? Sorry all the labour have gone back to Bihar. 

Being the pragmatist she was she would have said “I’m lucky I could attend my own cremation”.

Love In the times of Covid 2

 She could go out now. Without holding her hand over her mouth. Her hare lip. Which polite people pretended wasn’t there Which cruel people stared at pointedly. And children pointed out to their friends. The N-52 facemask was perfect. All it let you see of her were her eyes. Twinkling and luminous. She found the funny side of things easily. 

Day 1 Recommended Social distancing  6 ft. The line at the bania shop distancing 2 ft.

‘ Excuse me, it’s your turn’

Day 4  hi I’m Al. 

Day 7  I’m Sam

Day 9    The conversation so quickly went to isolation, lockdown, 9 minutes of black   out, 

Day 12  Zoom date with virtual background Juhu beach.

Day 13  FB friends.

Day 14  No Pics of you in photos?. I sent you mine.

               No. Im a very private person. You’re very good looking. Model typeJ

Day 15  Zoom date with virtual background Elephanta Island.

Day 16 Al What ?

Just Al. Sam what ?

Just Sam.

Day 16.5  Zoom date with virtual background Gulmarg.

Day 16.51- 16.59 My sister says I’m using all the bandwidth J

Day 17- Day 117 . Dreams , hopes, aspirations.

Day 118 Marry me Sam ?

                You don’t even know my name Al. Al? You must be Christian.

                No, Full form Ali.

Day 119. Salaam Ale Kum  Al. Its Sameera.

Day 120 Social isolation lifted. 

                He gently traced her hare lip with his finger. 

                Marry me ?

Love in the times of Covid 1

The Capulets and Montagues had nothing on them. An enimity that went back 40 years. Over an ill matched romance ? A business rivalry ? A joint pursual of Miss September Gardens ? If only . It all started over the mango tree. When it grew so big that the spread of its branches overran the boundary wall. When a branch grows it puts out leaves, then flowers . Flowers that turned into the most juicy alphonsos this side of anywhere. But they were then good neighbours. So the mangoes were harvested and what grew on this side of the wall stayed on this side of the wall and what did’nt, did’nt. They bought a new car. Maruti 800. Luxury. No more BEST bus queues. No more walking to the Mount. The best place to park it was in the shade of the mango tree. But the leaves and the crows were a problem. So they bought a net for the leaves and a catapult for the crows. Perfect. Until the monsoon came and with a huff and a puff, a big branch of the mango tree came crashing down. Taking with it, net, windscreen glass and one side mirror. Scarring for life the roof top and bonnet.
C “I told them to trim their tree before the monsoon”
M “Serves them right. Showing off with a new car”
C “Anyway its their tree that fell on our car so they should pay for the repairs.”
M “ when mangoes were falling it was theirs, when trees are falling its ours? Ha !”
 And so it went. They didn’t send each other Christmas sweets that year. Or the next. Or ever. The youngest had her first communion party. There was an anonymous police complaint about the noise. The over hanging branches were chopped every year. Brutally. When they went on holiday, plants stayed unwatered and goldfish died. The plants too. Going for evening mass instead of morning eliminated the need to cross the road. Which eliminated the need to say Good Morning. Or looking left and walking straight. Grocery shopping was a problem. Get a rickshaw. Go to Shakari Bandar. Provisions for a week could not fit into one bag. Four bag two trips from dispatch counter to rickshaw line. One eye on the richshaw walla to ensure he doesn’t drive of with second lot while you unload the first lot. Anyways that’s to Corona rickshaws were off the road. A twenty year old with four bags is a problem. A sixty year old with four bags is a two man project.
 “ Let me help you Aunty “
“Thank you Baba”
“I’ll drop you home aunty ?”
“Sorry I cant hear too well thru this face mask. So much trouble for you”
“St. Leos Road ?”
“I’m on St. Leos Road too.”
“This house? “
“Say hello to your Mum and Dad baba. Tell them to be careful . These are dangerous times.”
“Will do Aunty and if you need anything just shout over the wall.”

God bless the child.

Long line at security. End of the day. End of the year. People rushing to catch a flight to be home Christmas Eve.late and in a hurry. One little girl. A child with special needs. Anyone could see that. The mongloidism . The drool. But lovingly held. Held by a mother . Till they reached security. Where a guard wants to frisk them. Seperately. The wail of a child in the unfamiliar. Being isolated from the only familiar in sight. With an irate next in line telling them to hurry. At that moment euthanasia was a viable option. So that the gaurd and the irate passenger would not have to worry about doing their job or being late again. Ever.

Rich man , poor man, beggar man, thief.

There was a box at the foot of the neighbourhood Crib. For people to put old clothes into. Clothes they didn't fit into anymore. Clothes that were taking up more space in valuable real estate than they were worth. They caught a thief on their way back from midnight mass. Trying to steal stuff from the box. Which was filled to overflowing. The building watchman slapped him around. Then handed him over to the passing police jeep. How dare he steal from things that were meant for distribution to the poor and the underprivileged !

Oh Baby let me be...

One little girl waiting for her daddy to come home. Home for Christmas. After being away for so long. And so far away . On an oil field in the gulf where even the mobile signal didn't reach. He called from the big town when he reached there. The first leg of his journey back . Six thousand kilometres. One helicopter, two planes and one taxi ride. He bought the biggest teddy bear the airport gift shop had. It would be bigger than her. The only place in the cab for the teddy bear was the front seat. The familiar landmarks going past in a blur. The last turn that brought him to the building gate. The cries from the window with the only lights on in the building this late. He got his bags out . She'd reached the gate. Is this the little girl I carried ? An hour later he remembered the teddy bear. Long gone with the cab. "It doesn't matter Daddy I'm to old to play with teddy bears anyway." She was right. He was wrong. The teddy bear wouldn't have been half as big as her.

A Pink Christmas.

Divali was good for business. Christmas was better. Everyone wanted their house painted. Their furniture polished. He understood surge pricing without knowing he did. But surge pricing didn't apply to old customers. Whose walls he'd painting thru weddings and first communions. Thru first wives and second. Why did the second never like the colours the first had ? Whether the first was departed or just distanced, the second always changed the colours. He knew the colours people would ask for before they did. The office goers wanted white. The shippies blue. The bankers a touch of green, when their wives allowed them. He liked painting the children's rooms the best. When their parents allowed them to choose the colour. Didn't happen often. Most times the kids were shortchanged. Old peoples colours with young persons curtains and cushions. They'd been trying to have a child for so long. So many IUI's and IVFs . Novenas and grapefruit . Both guaranteed to leave you with child. One worked. Neither of them was sure which did. Quiet joy over seeing a squiggle on an X-ray. On hearing a heartbeat within her that wasn't hers. The baby was due December. The 20th. Booties and baby dresses. Nappies and bonnets . Advice from her mother and mother in law. Eat this, don't eat that, sit like this. It's surely a boy I know. Looks at the way she's walking. When you're expecting a girl the walk is different. It's surely going to be a girl. An expectant mother only glows like that when its a girl. No they didn't want to know what it was. And the doctor didn't tell them. She came on Christmas Day. To a room the nurses had decorated. With thermocole angels and cotton snowmen. He called him to tell- him the room had to be painted. And she came home to her room . The room that he had done having worked three days nonstop. He walked home carrying ladder, empty paint tins and washed clean brushes. Smelling of turpentine and polish. Wearing the pink splotch on his shirt like the badge of honour that it was.

Scrooge

Every year the kids would come around . Singing carols with guitars and tambourines. Every year he scowled at them. What was there to be so happy about ? Christmas came . Christmas went. Life went on. He still had to deal with the cold. Which made his aching bones ache even more. He still had to deal with the kachrawalla and the phone walla and the postman. Demands for baksheesh were in triple digit inflation. He still had to spend money for the cousins who thought visiting him was an act of charity. He had to manage without the maid who would want Christmas Day off. The damn carollers were proclaiming peace on earth and goodwill to men. They we're singing Silent night which woke the cranky baby next door. Next year he'd pretend to not be at home. The year went slowly. Not much to do when all you have to worry about is yourself. When your only social outing is to the doctor. When the only visitor you get is the maid. The obituaries were more interesting than Modi's demonetisation. Trump or Clinton it didn't make a damn of a difference to his rapidly increasing incontinence. The month of May was just more noise. More noise of children who played noisily. Just outside his window. Couldn't their parents keep a hold on them. Divali brought even more noise. Soon it was turning cold again. A notice near the stairs told him the carollers would be visiting the road on the 22nd. 8 p.m. He closed the windows at 7.30. Had his soup and chappati and turned the lights out. Sat in his bed. Needed to go to the toilet. Couldn't put the lights on. That would give the game away .Then he'd have to put something into the carollers box. Headed to the toilet in the dark. Tripped over the bathroom mat in the dark. Cracked his head on the edge of the basin. The carollers sang for two masses on the 24th. One at midnight and an earlier one at which they outnumbered the mourners.

Mary Perpetua Buffet

She worked hard and saved harder. Multiple instruments. As recommended by her LIC officer. Her UTI agent, her bank manager. Her LIC officer didnt tell her about the trip to Bangkok he got if he got his target of insurees. The UTI agaents commision on each penny she invested in was a secret she was not privy too. Her bank managers monthly quota of fixed deposists made her just another dot on his sales graph. A dot that made him look good in the eyes of upper management. The stock market. Nobody even told her about it. Too risky baba. Its just like gambling . Only instead of horses you back companies. No, No . It's not gambling. They are sure to make money. They already are and need more money too expand. But what ddo they do ? They make chappatis. Chappati? Yes. Imagine . Ready made chappatiss. Every house wifes dream. No more kneading flour at home. No more burning your fingers on a hot tava. No more sieving the flour to get the weevils and the stones out. Ready made chappatis. Heat and eat. How can they not do well? We are all going to invest and we'll be millionaires. The more money you invest the more chappatis they sell. The more chappatis they sell the higher your dividend. But suppose they take my money and vanish ? They cant do that they are listyed on the stock exchange. They have an ex army general on their board of directors. They have a factory in Kalyan. They have 300 employees. Ok. How much will a hundred shares cost ? That much. Dividend ? They havent paid a single dividend yet. They're still building the company. Get in early. Next year the share price will double. What Mary no fixed deposit this month. Going for a holiday ? The share price was going up. She encashed her LIC policy to buy more shares. With the announcement of a Dividend at 20 % she liquidated whatever she could of her provident fund. The share price doubled. Then it halved, quartered and vanished. The factory closed down. Chappatis were not a product that travelled well. Not from Kalyan to anywhere. How to hide losses from showing up on a share report. How to put an ex army generals name on your company letterhead when he is in an advanced stage of alzeihmhers. How to manipulate a stock price. the chappati makers could have written the manual for them all. No more first class pass. No more holiday to Goa this year. Definitely no more stock market. It was just a lot of bull. Irrespective of whatever Warren said.

Doctor, Doctor.

You went there when all the home remedies had failed. When the barley water and kanji had been consumed by the gallon, but the fever still remained. He had an impressive reception. Framed certificates . Proclaiming that Dr. O was a panel doctor. For Air India , for the railways, for various banks. In gilt frames were gilt edged certificates. Certificates that had letters after his name with more consonants and more vowels than in "The lazy brown fox jumps over the clever dog." That procalimed him a Fellow of societies and associations. But that's not what made him the family physician. He was the closest. When looking for a bride your search might traverse far corners of the globe. When looking for a violin teacher you look for someone who doesnt mind teaching you even if you are tone deaf. But when looking for a family doctor you look for close. Close enough to make a house call in the middle of his dinner if something has gone wrong with yours, and you need and emergency Hemmlich. Close enough to be there to certify that your non misting over mirror diagonosis of Uncle Aldos heart attack is correct. Before Uncle Aldo starts to stiffen and you cant put his white gloves on. Close enough to accidentally bump into on the way to church. Where that rash on your neck can be cursorily examined. Without having to pay him when he says it's nothing. Wash properly. But when you go to him you try not to touch anything with your bare fingers. People with infectios dseases come to him too. You touch nothing other than the National Geographic. Which show you how a certain tribe in Africa wears nothing but beads. Much more fascinating than the migration pattern of the siberian duck. The only thing a duck is good for is moile. He would examine you with torch and stethoscope. Make you cough and stick your tongue out. While you held your breath and hoped that the cause of the fever was not cancer. He'd scribble his prescription. In a hand that would challenge the reading skills of people who could read mandarin written in the devnagari script. His compounder thru his jailor window would take the note. Out would come a bottle with a paper stuck to the side. Small origami like cut in the paper marking one dose to the next. Powders wrapped in paper sachets. Pills colour coded . All dispensed with strict instructions to drink only boiled water, no oily food and lots of vegetables. Green ones. French fries? They are made from potato vegetable. No they're fried. Three days later your body is as good as new. No spells. The mercury in the thermometer not crossing the red line anymore. What you had and whether it was powder, liquid or pill that cured you remains Dr. O's secret. Thank God it wasn't cancer.

BandraBuggers @ The Bandra Gym

Father forgive me.

Sunday morning and Im late before its even begun. It has'ntrained yet and the city's water is in short supply. But I have to have a shower . Bucket bath? There isnt even a bucket in the bathroom anymore. Doesnt look good the interior designer said. So if the statistics are right I use 60 litres for my bath instead opf the 20 a bucket would have held. The damn watchman is missing. He has the car keys. And he has'nt even washed the car yet. Whats more important his morning ablutions or me getting to mass on time? He stutters and mutters while I tell him if he ever delays me like this again he's fired. The water goes by 8? Thats his problem not mine. Damn pedestrians crowding the gate. The line of cars waiting to get in gets longer. First all the cars that came in for the earlier mass have to get out. Here comes that damn beggar woman. Tapping on the car window.. Like I cant see her. I can smell her thru the glass. Her snotty kid is drawing circles on the glass. With what you dont want to know. An angrily waved hand doesnt drive her away as quickly as a loud blast of the horn. The only parking slot left half covers the gate. Its opnly half. Everyone will defintely be able to squeeze in sideways. But I'm inside church before the priest walks up to the altar. The four people on the four person pew are shuffling closer together to make room for me. Damn I should have chosen a pew that had no pregnant fat people in it. I move to the middle of the pew. Its directly under the fan. Its Fr. Ubaldo. Sermons going to be long. Sermons going to be boring. why dont they retire him ? Why do I have to suffer him ? Why cant he speak more clearly ? 75 is not that old . Look who's at the lectern. Cant pay her society dues on time and wants to lead the responses. I confess to almighty God........ Thank God I live a good Christian life and have nothing to confess.

Thank you Bala Saheb !

Thank you for all you did in life and even more in death. Thank you for the loyalty the supporters your showed you. If the shops had been open today I would have had a problem. I would have had to tell my wife I had no money. Because the site I work at gives me work on a daily basis. I work eight hours, they pay me for eight hours. If the shops were open she would have asked me where the food on the floor was today. I didn't have to tell her that I had no money. What kind of a incompetent hunter gatherer would that have made me in her eyes? The shops were closed, the market was closed, even the liquor shop that sometimes extends me credit on a quarter of santra was closed. So with my pride intact my belly empty and my children hungry I say thank you. Jai Maharashtra!

Jago Mumbai Radio Show. BandraBuggers on the airwaves

Bandra buggers on the airwaves http://soundcloud.com/clement-desylva/link-open-mic-link-1-brin ....copy and paste link to browser window.

The Widows Might .

Sudden death in real life hit you more than it did in hockey. It had left her with two children to raise and his aged parents to look after. Money there was plenty of. No, not plenty, but enough. If she was careful.  The perfect life they had envisioned growing old together, traveling the world together , visiting grandchildren many years down the line wasn't going to happen. Everyone gave her a long rope. She didn't need it. She asked for no favors and resented the condescension. And it scared her that there might be long strings attached . So she built her walls. Bit by bit. Set up her independent systems. She couldn't have friends over. Because with friends came husbands. Who would drink when they came over. Who might think they had been called over for themselves and not for their wives. Who might.. And what would the neighbors say. The growing up process for the kids didn't stop because their father was dead. Admissions had to be dealt with. Birthdays had to be celebrated. Cantankerous old inlaws had to be taken for early morning blood tests. And she did it all. She missed him every second.Every day. When she made the single cup of tea. When the father in law died and the brother gave the eulogy. When the boy had to be told about the birds and the bees. She was more uncomfortable than he was. She helped with the sodality. She helped with the CHS.she helped with the ALM. It kept her world secure. She chose when to go out and when to come back in. She chose to let nobody in. Nobody into her world . Nobody who might upset the balance of an equation that was never going be real again. While she wore her coat and the coat of the man who had died suddenly.

The Zonal Filmfare awards

Subash Bhai mopped the sweat beads off his forhead. His banner, ‘Yukta Arts’had not produced a hit film in almost a decade.. “What we need are the fresh ideas”, he told his Assistant Mukri, as he paced up and down his decaying Lokhandwalla office. “What we need are the new stars who are better than the many old ones”, he declared. “People want action, sensation, reality TV put on the screen… “”Sarry Sir” said Mukri, “there have not been too many terrorist acts of late.. “So, go find something exciting!” boomed Subash Bhai. Something with Passion, revaange, laughter, tragedy, badla, something more exciting than even the ‘Saas-Bahu episodes of Ekta Kapoor!” Mukri hung his head in despair. For once he had no inspiration to give his boss. He knew in his heart, that all of Subash Bhai’s hits had been the result of him being his sounding board. He decided to find inspiration in the theatres of Mumbai – Prithvi Theatre was saturated. NCPA was too high brow. He ambled upon St Andrew’s auditorium. Buzzing with activity, Mukri happened to ask what was the action about? “The Zonals” replied one of the organizers, proudly displaying her shiny badge to prove her credentials. “ What means that?” Asked Mukri. “You don’t know what are the zonals?? Replied the busy organizer… “See for yourself”. Mukri excitedly bought two tickets and called his Boss.. “Bass, Come here and see for yourself , they are telling you will find a new heroine, plot line and entire star cast”. Four boring hours later, Subash Bhai is not impressed. Not with British accents the Queen would have been proud of, or the abstract acts that reminded him of the Emperor’s New Clothes. “You call this drama?” He thundered on, red in the face. Pretty girls in fancy dresses acting like monkeys? I am not understanding what you are finding so exciting about this zonals-shonals” With that he stomped out of the power packed auditorium, a sad Mukri trailing behind, his head hung low. For once he had disappointed his boss. Mr Bhai, however was slightly impressed. It was the chikna announcer that caught his fency. “Find out his name”.. ordered the Bhai. Mukhri came back a few minutes later.. Sir, Chicken Masala, sir… “What? Who would name his bachcha after a curry? Growled Mr Bhai. “Exactly right boss.. that was his name.. Curry.. Mr Krish Curry”…” Krish? Who does he think he is? A Superhero?” There had to be something more about Bandra’s most talked about event.. Mukri thought to himself as he ambled alongside his boss. Maybe he should ask someone who calls the shots.. the judges, perhaps? Mukri decides to do some research. He must get to the bottom of this. For his boss’ sake at least . He waits patiently till the results are declared and the show ended. The crowds are milling around him exiting the auditorium. Some are cheering, others jeering. The song of the day seems to be “We are the champions”. Mukri is wondering whether the FIFA world cup is on at the moment. Poor Mukri doesn’t know anyone in this large group comprising of Bandrabuggers, wives, sisters and girlfriends included. There once was a hero in a Bollywood flick named Anthony Gonsalves. “Hey, Anthony”! Shouts Mukri, hoping to get some attention in this melee. Five fellows say “Yes”. One of them takes him aside and wonders what this idli is doing amongst the fugiyas. “I need some help”, says Mukri. “Aks, men”replied Anton. “ I came here to get some ideas for a new film in Bollywood.. in there, all the dialogues went bumper over my head. I am completely lost and confused. Am I stupid or what? Can I meet the judges? “Judges? replied Anton. You’re mad-o-wat? You want to get bashed up and have your teeth broken in height order”? “Sorry” explained Mukri… I just wanted to see Passion, Revenge, Romance, Dishoom-dishoom all in one place. Could not understand anything, in there”. Anthony whispers something in Mukri’s ear. Mukri listens attentively and thinks he has found his answer. CUT TO Scene Three. Act One. Location: Bosco Hall – Late Night. The post mortem meeting after the zonals is on. Mukri silently seats himself in the last row. Right next him is a rather tall actor he had seen on the zonal stage. Tall actor seems to interject the proceedings to make inane points. About a picnic to Uttan. Woman in flower skirt objects to whatever he says. Somebody objects to a performer. Her father was Hindu. But she’s Catholic. Mukhri stops chewing his gutka and quickly swallows. Boundary changes are re-demanded. Are they talking about Kargil or Chimbai ? Real action is taking place before his very eyes. Real Drama - Action. Passion. Revenge. Man with rosary ring wants ticket quota for each zone to be increased. “Over my dead body”, says Mr.Chairman. Duet winner has lodged a complaint. Her winning partner kept the cup in his house for 3 days extra. South West Zone is lodging an objection against themselves that their lead actor was not resident in the zone last year. Disqualification is better than losing by 300 points. Harakiri over dishonor. Mukhri can see it unfolding before his eyes. The Lead actor plunging a ritual Samurai sword into his bosom. While fountains of tomato sauce gush forth. While his lover who played the main lead for another zone cannot rush to his side because of … choir practice. Flower skirt objects to the Dramatics Judge no.2. He’s an old has-been. He held up the judging procedure while he went out for a smoke. His ex-wife was acting in the North West production. Though post separation she lives in North East with her mother. He wished his mother-in- law was more politically inclined and would know that all North Easterners are to be sent back. He wants her back that’s why he gave her Best Actress. Objection over ruled. “Won’t help him” says Flower skirt, “I know she’s seeing a chap from Dadar”. Mr. Chairman in a rare loss of temper tells Flower skirt, “ Next time, you get the judges “ . Tall man objects to the quality of samosas being served at the post mortem. Flower skirt tells him they are much better than his mother’s beef patties. “All patties and no beef”! she proclaims. Tall man asks what can you expect for Rs. 7.65 each. While Mukri misses tall man’s thought blurb which would have let him know that tall man was trying to work out how to put the arsenic into Flower skirt’s Mangola at the next meeting. Mousey gold Bangles is opening her purse. Mukri wonders what her weapon of choice will be. Gun or Knife. It’s full of pieces of paper. Where she has scribbled some code. NW 56.25, SE 63.72. There is a difference of .23 points between hers and the solemn scorekeepers. The North East zone objects to the following. A] The division of zones so that their best tenor was robbed from them. B] The restriction on not using a winning piece. [ After all they all knew that ‘My Prayer’ was the only song that suited Mr. Pimento’s voice and range. ]C] That Roger Drego gave special lights and sound to his zone. Mukri is stunned. Roger Drego ! Are they talking about Roger bhai who gave them fifty foot high speakers for that big song and dance sequence ? The auditorium usher(in his yellow shirt) who attended to lodge his case against the Hershe Bakery’s hot dogs that found their way to row E15 objects to any aspersion cast on his boss. He was also there to return the 153 water bottles left behind by the contestants in the lobby. Flower skirt, Tall man, Mr. Chairman and Yellow shirt usher are all ears for Mousey gold bangles who argues her case against the redrawing of boundaries to facilitate equitable distribution of talent. She asks what they will do if Chelsea gets married and moves to North West. “Remember what happened to East Pakistan” she says ominously. Mukri is wondering what her signing fee will be. Tall man thanks God that the old fool Pimento did not have the range for ‘My Prayer because he had sat up with him at the Bandra Gym the previous night. Suddenly there is Action in the house. Mukri cannot contain himself. The entire South East zone has now landed up in full force. Mukri wonders if he should notify “Aaj Tak”. Would their satellite vans have space to park outside Serpis? Plan abandoned. South East presents their case.. Why have the North Easterners got so much publicity just before the zonals.. that too in the ‘Times of India’? If those North Easteners can call themselves Assam, we are the US of A! Tall man claps his hands violently in full support of their stand while Mukri is rubbing his hands together with glee. Mukri did it again. He had found his plot, storyline, dialogues with all the masala he needed right there that evening. What’s more.. he found his Hero..ironing out the creases, trying to make things better for next year’s zonals at least, and even ending the meeting with a prayer. His new leading man– the chikna Krish Curry! By MS BANDRABUGGER (Aka Annabelle 0

Going , going, gone.

He was a shippie. Six months on two off. A lot better than the days when his father was a shippie. Then it was twelve on two off. And the ship had Internet. And a satellite phone. A big ship whose masters paid him big bucks. Big bucks to take cars from Japan to America. Wheat from America to Africa. Once they even loaded iron ore off Goa. He could speak to her on his cell phone. Every day, for the three days they took to load up. Sometimes thrice a day. The big bucks were useful for buying the flat. The day he put down the down payment, he proposed. Yes yes yes. Three voyages and the money her grandfather had left her paid for the wedding. Honeymoon in Bali. Three days back home and the company wanted him to join a ship in Australia. No honey I can’t take you on ship with me. Only first officers and captains are allowed that. I’ll be first office next year. So he checked his email at the end of each watch and before the beginning of the next. It was raining back home. The BEST had gone on strike for a day. The parish priest was transferred. The new guy was a Keralite. He came home from that voyage and the party lasted sixty days. Back on board the Phillipino cook was trying to learn how to make Biryani. It just wasn't the same. She was sick. Go to your Mums house. You can't be by yourself. Not sick , sick. Morning sick. What? You heard me "Daddy. " He wrote to the co. Immediately so that he,d be there for the delivery. The only thing they stuck to a signoff schedule for, births and deaths. Eight pounds of heartbreaking smallness. As much hair on her head as he had on the back of his hand. Two little eyes that smiled at you, two little ears that .... And one big voice that raised hell if she wasn't fed or changed within three seconds. No honey, children below three aren't allowed on the ship. How can we leave her with Nana. The planning for the first birthday started via email three months before D day. The building had never seen a celebration like this. The whole compound walll was covered with pink balloons. Even the watchman got Biryani for dinner that night . Officially. Unofficially he got some beer. Another voyage, another ship, other ports. It's either her birthday or Christmas. Christmas. We'll celebrate her birthday next year. So Christmas it was with the dance at the gym and the Christmas bazaar where everyone who was linked to Bandra by a thread showed up. Where he stood in line with her on his shoulders to get her gift from Santa. Where he dried her tears when Santas ho ho ho set them off. He wasn't there for her first day of school. But she cried only a little bit she said. Master . That entitled him to family accommodation. The company schedule and the school schedule were at odds. Ok next voyage. Honey I'm sick. Yes yes the good sick. Can't talk now have to take Kim for her dance class. The Doctor says September. Too many large whiskies at the new years dance in Jan and you become a daddy in September. This contract finished in June. Two off meant he'd have to resume inAugust. Don't worry I'll manage. Mummy's here to help me with Kate. A boy. He didn't haul the first officer over the coals for the shoddy docking at Shangai. Damn He should have been there for the delivery. The school wants both parents for the admission interview. It's either that or her first communion. The dentist recommends braces. Forty-five thousand bucks ? Are they made of gold ? Shhh. Don't play the TV so loud . She has school tomorrow. Can you take them out for dinner You,ll laugh so loudly. Even the neighbors would get up. No we can't go to Goa in May. Kim has her piano exam then. Ok you go. Yes I know you work very very hard on the ship. Yes I know you need a holiday. The kids exams are in two months. The teacher says if we don't take it seriously now the kids won't take them seriously later. Ok. I'll be back late. He walked his little girl down the aisle . He knew where the time had flown. And she thought her daddy was crying for her.

When in Doubt .

St. Thomas was here. I doubt that. St. Thomas amidst neon crosses and plastic flowers ? A group of sari clad women gather around a casio keyboard practicing hymns. While large signs everywhere urge you to watch your belongings .The pile of footwear outside each entrance let's you know that this is Indian Christianity. There's little of interest here if what brings you here is curiosity and not faith. There are lists of parish priests of days gone by. Heavy grilles guard windows and doors. Were they to keep the newly converted in or the heathen out ? A sign tells us that St. Thomas's grave is accessible from the back of the church. A wrong turn somewhere between front and back finds us on Marina beach. More fishing boats in one place than you'll ever see. Nets dot the beach scape. Little shanties where card games fill the time between fishing. We cross the boats to get closer the the water. Only to invade on the privacy of kissing couples and toilet bound fishermen for whom the penumbra of the boat affords the only privacy. The leavings of toilet bound fishermen do not for a pleasant stroll along the beach make. So we move back away from the water. Dodging thru footballs and beach volleyballs. Thru tyres propped up vertically that make do for cricket stumps. Our cheering for a well bowled ball that hits the tyre draws puzzled glares. The batsman is only considered bowled if the ball goes thru the hole in the middle of the tyre were told. Just hitting the tyre isn't good enough. MCC ,Gully or Beach cricket, all with rules almost incomprehensible if you're not on the inside. The boats are starting to thin while the multitudes are starting to abound. Children atop ponies. The pony man running along side. Whipping at the ponies flanks. Trying hard to get the pony to break out of his sedate walk so that the children get a run for their money. A few meters of trotting before both horse and man agree to live and let live. Bedsheets stretched between bamboo poles and smothered with balloons. While from ten feet away airguns on the shoulders of wannabe QuickGun Muruguns and their lady loves in equal measure seek to burst their balloons. Cheers for their nominated shooter with every pop. The missus handles the guns while the mister keeps blowing up balloons to fill the emerging gaps on the sheet. Candy floss men abound . With floating clouds of pink and white in their wake. The couples walk with contrived nonchalance toward the boats. Coffee is pedaled from the backs of cycle and heads. To balance a hot urn of coffee on your head, dispense coffee into a minuscule plastic cup, collect payment and still keep scanning the horizon for new customers calls for a highly developed skill set. Kites abound. Without the violence of Mumbai kite flying. The peace loving Tamilians happy to watch their kite with it's long tail fly sedately in the evening breeze. With no wish to slice their fellow kite flyers kites and vanquish all that shares airspace with them. Families on the sand are huddled together. Odd. With so much space on all sides of them. Up close you see the bed sheet that all of them are trying to squeeze onto. Is it to keep the sand out or just to be near Amma who's doling out wadas and idlis ? The sun goes down to reveal the lights of the port in the distance. With the light house adding it's intermittent spotlight onto an ever-changing kaleidoscope. We don't have an Amma with us so we don't have wadas and idlis.
So we hop into a rickshaw venturing further afield in search of chicken Chettinad and dosas. Just like Amma would have made, had she been a Madarasi.

The road to hell is paved...

You say airport and the cab driver thinks it's his lucky day.
Double charge Saab. Long line at the airport . Extra charge for baggage sir.
What baggage? My daughters school bag is bigger than this.
But Kingfishers cancelled their flight and the website says the counter closes 45 minutes before tAke off. So you say Ok Ok and get in.
The joggers are out already. Dodging Aunty Mazie who wants to be in time for the novena before the mass.
From Monday. You promise yourself. From Monday I'll be up early and jogging. And i'm not going to get sidetracked by the Mumbai mirror and dr.watsa. I,m not going not start checking my email. Maybe not Monday ...tue. Because Monday evening I'll get a new pair of track shoes. the old ones were given away to the watchman because they weren't being used. And no going to A1 for patties on the way home from the jog. Because that's like walking out of an AA meeting into Raja Bar. Maybe a new route altogether so that the aroma of the freshly baked bread doesn't make you stray into that palace of indulgence pretending to be a bakery. No stopping to chat with with fellow joggers about stock market tips, cricket scores or Sunny Leone.
Saab up or down ?
Huh?
Jet ya Indian airlines.
Down. Jetlite. Budget doesn't run to full service tickets.
Saab two hundred.
Two hundred!
Meter plus airport charge plus baggage charge.
Mr. Sobhraj aap kya samajta hai Mai Poland ka Sardarji ho , mai Moira se aya kya ?

Pride and Prejudice

Jo-boy has come back from kindergarten to tell mummy that his bench partner is Ravi.
What ! A Hindu?
No mummy he's a D'souza. A sigh of relief. If even your bench partner is non catholic his worshipping of heathen gods will imperil your up coming first communion ?

Standard Three and it's also a Ravi but this time Gaitonde. Not so bad he's a Hindu fellow but a Goan. Thank god for small mercies. Auntie Dolcie has displaced Barrack Obama's election from the family news. She wants to marry. Marry outside the community. Granny is searching her soul. Searching for where she went wrong with Dolcie. Did that fall from the mango tree cause permanent damage when Dolcie was five? Why , then why does she want to marry a Mangalorean? They're are just like Hindus. Their women wear sarees not dresses. Their names are Vivek and Anil. Their food is idlis pretending to be Sannas . Their men are better at business than the Sindhis. That's the silver lining on the cloud. At least Dolcie won't starve.

Dolcie changes into a red saree halfway thru the reception and were told it's tradition. This makes grandpa see red. But they're serving scotch so he's okay.
Dolcie's expecting her first baby when cousin Jerry announces that he's getting married. Yippee do da yeah. Party time here we come. Visions of fugias are dancing in our heads. Only to be told that the bride wants the Arya Samaj rite.
Arya what?
She's Hindi ?
No Mummy Hindi is a language. She's Hindu.
If I die now it will be your fault.
You won't die mummy and she'd like the women to wear sarees for the wedding.
What does she think we are? Mangloreans?

Dolcies son is born.
Kris.
Chris ?
No mom Kris. It's like Chris with a K.
Don't call me mom you're not an American.
She doesn't know about a certain Hindu Gopi loving butter stealing blue blooded god and is thus spared a cardial infraction.
Kris goes to kindergarten. His bench partner is Pablo, who's French parents are working with an NGO in Khetwadi.
Kris travels the world. Comes back to Bandra. Invites his parents to his wedding where he and Sam will pledge their undying love for each other under the mango tree in the garden.

Thank god your grandmothers not alive to see this, she would have died of a heart attack.