30: and a desire to live

In all these years, I never woke up on a birthday to a bunch of flowers. This time I did. My neighbour from a floor below got me a lovely bunch of roses, leaving her umpteen visiting relatives back home, for a few minutes.

My husband squirms when she walks in at `unearthly hours', like at 6.30 am, for a bit of coriander or dry-leaf plates. But in a colony where we as a couple have been made to feel not so good, she and two other neighbours are like oxygen.

It was Ganesha festival and I had fallen sick, unable to make a dish or pray with ease. She promptly got us delicacies that she made with her expert rustic culinary skills. Of course, she fell sick, stressed out after the festival and we had to rush her to the doctor too. But sickness does not stop her from dolling out dishes with ease, something I lack.

On Friday too, she walked in, fresh after their pooja. Thank God for such neighbours.

Our visiting friend from Bangalore left on some work at Bandra and Dadar, followed by another neighbour. Of course calls kept me busy. The new mobile with an old number - calls, wishes, smses...Afternoon: Hubby dear gave a surprise. The chair I have yearned for at my workstation!

I can hope to write for many hours more in a day, without hurting my back or my health.

Have received many thoughtful gifts on the B-Day over the years – figurines of Lord Krishna, cards, show-pieces…but one of the best birthday gifts I received was a sketchbook by dad a couple of years back. Hope. Just out of 10^th standard, my immediate goal was to get a seat in Chitra Kala Parishat and pursue painting. A futile attempt. A harsh reality…for every other student who came there kept telling dad and me – you need influence to get in here. I had to give up. And even made another bid after pre-university. Got an application from Chennai’s Kalakshetra. He said no.

After years of buying an easel, one of my first big buys in worklife, and not being able to work at painting, here he was, suggesting I actually go back to doing my dream!  

Evening – it was cake-time with no party. All my life I found cutting cakes meaningless. Somehow birthday cakes symbolise quenching others' taste-buds with your knife, not to forget blowing off candles. Shouldn't we rather light lamps? In spite of this, since college, two of my friends would make it a point to bring one home faithfully, completely aware of my disinterest.

Over the years I took that obligation easy -- after all, it was friends and family who wanted to do something for me! I even cut two cakes in a single day once! One of those really big surprises was when I took the day off during my Indian Express stint in Bangalore.

My close friend came by to spend some time with me that afternoon. The doorbell rang. And lo!  A bunch of office colleagues turned up with a cake at my door! Such incidents are rare in the big bad world of journalism! To have colleagues who stand by you is something really big. And such instances have left me overwhelmed to this day.

I had of course refused to cut the cake till my brother turned up. My mother insisted too. `Let her brother come. He's somewhere closeby,' she said. He did turn up from an errand. During the lunch that followed, that a colleague was shocked to find he was not my blood-brother! And also the ease with which he bonded with my mom.

Years have gone by. I cut a cake yesterday too. Not for my sake but for the kids from among the neighbour’s relatives who longed for it, for my neighbours who found pleasure in dabbing its cream over my face, for hubby dear who wanted a bit of celebration and a friend who found happiness.

My original plan was a quite day – just sitting by the window and writing with sips of coffee in between. The day was anything but that.

`In your happiness is mirrored mine,’ says me, with a desire to live begin life afresh.

 

Gust n gale

At the moment, Goregaon's numerous lights pop out of match-box buildings one after the other. Skylight is just pink enough to fade into grey. After a few weeks of no rain, it suddenly threatened to pour like crazy. But what's more surprising is these raging winds from the sea-side just don't look like they will stop. Non-stop. 

As if with vengeance. In the compound of the next building banana tree bunch on their neatly laid garden has swayed in all directions for the last two hours. Frightening grey clouds moved over my building looking like they would burst any minute. But no, its just the gust scaring the wits out of people there on the road. It was never so windy, not even at the peak of monsoon.

For the fruit vendor solemly standing by his cart out there, or the chat-seller at the street corner, life just goes on, rain or sun, wind or breeze. Have never seen them shut shop. Not on a Sunday. Not when rain battered this stretch out during rains...At about 10 every morning, they dutifully push their carts up to this part of the hills.  

 

Lantern in a jungle

A lovely lantern in my hut! It is not hung up there in a hamlet, but right in the middle of a dense jungle. I had gone there on work a couple of times.

The hut is quite a comfortable one, with an outdoor toilet that's as neat as a dream hotel could get. David and his wife run the eco-lodge, in the forests of Khanapur (Khanapur town is otherwise infamous for the scam accused Telgi). 

For the city couple who've cultivated their working farm here, chucking the luxuries of city life, it's been a journey full of adventures. They've lived here for over two decades and have stories to tell in abundance about their progress, from life in a hut to running an eco-lodge that serves home-cooked food with homegrown vegetables.

What's so special about this place? The couple has this amazing love for conservation of nature. Plus, this spot on the earth has the clearest of night skies -- with stars dotting it like sequins on a bridal saree. 

A clear nightsky is certainly close to impossible in cities. Had given David my share of anxieties while on a visit. But am sure this jungle family is going great guns.

Turning 30: a thank you note

A cliche goes: Life begins at 30. The truth is, we've lived so much of our life till now that stepping into the fourth decade looks so frightening.

Am turning thirty in a few hours from now. Thirty and married. Thirty and not in Bangalore, but the big bad city Bombay. Thirty, with no full-time job on hand. Cynicists would call this burn-out time, after all those years of throwing health to wind for sake of a single passion called journalism. But yeah. It also means 30 n happy 2 b home, basking in the love of a caring husband.  

If there is something that proves itself as important as breathing, its writing. At 30, I thank God for all those wonderful people s/he has brought through life in my way. The best days in worklife have been when I met people who taught me life with their mere existence. Friends who have stood by me through my follies, failures and pulled me up every time I fell taught me patience. Parents who stood by me when people threw dirt in the name of moral policing taught what security means. Their generation that got so obsessed with ego-clashes and ritualistic behaviour, gave birth to the rebel in me.

My grandparents who with their experience, have given me a glimpse of an entire generation pre-and post-independence. 

My cousins whose letters landed in our letterbox at the right time -- greetings, post-cards, inland letters, even letters with that `Due' fine that I would end up paying to receive from friends, formed the security called love.

Am turning 30. Some of them are married. Others still on their way to adulthood. But all of them taught me life. Thank you cousins.

My school nestled in what was once a quiet corner in Bangalore -- KVDRDO, is something I will not stop thanking God for. It's laid the foundation to life -- replete with its project school nature, friendly atmosphere, those enterprising activities for students such as managing school assembly, display boards and houses, students became individuals and not mere mugpots.

My teachers are an integral part of that system. Not all memories from school are pleasant. They can be debated about later though. My bunch of school friends are who I swear by.

Teachers at college were equally caring. College exposed me to the big bad competitive world and literally threw challenge at my face. To prove myself. There is one man I would not be able to forget though - Jyoti Sanyal, the dean of Asian College of Journalism who we loathed and cared for at the same time.

It's been a few months since he passed away, but he continues to live on in his writing, more so in the journalism he inspired among his students. It is another matter that most of us could not stay on in his good books, for reaching his idea of a great journalist was a dream not so easy to come by.

At my workplace, my colleagues who stood by me specially when manifestations of childhood trauma hit me hard, mattered more than anything else. 

My mentors in journalism who came into my life after a long wait, are those guiding stars I would hold on to for dear life.

If there is one person who has taught me not just life but how to live it, my friend from school who my people know as my adopted brother stands out.

Ever came across a friend or even a brother who would silently be with you during a therapy session that was no less traumatic as one's childhood trauma itself? He did, and made life look so inviting that I began to live, not merely exist to fulfill my dreams. 

Thank you dear. And thank you all, for giving me hope in life.

Am turning thirty. And raring to go. All I pray for is sound health.