Withered blooms

How green is my garden!

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/home/opinion/edit-page/Withered-bloom/articleshow/12222990.cms

Our gardener and I share a love-hate relationship. I love seasonal flowers and he hates them. He thinks of flowers as pests and keeps wondering what earthly use are they. If he could have his way he’d transform our little garden into a vegetable patch. “You can eat fresh vegetables everyday!” is his standing argument, for which he has encroached a third of the area and planted his utter favorites – gourds, methi and spinach.

No amount of persuasion with this ‘maali baba’ works, so I usually pitch in myself, while he watches with a disdainful sneer. My experiments always start with sowing the seeds, waiting patiently for a month for the plants to sprout, losing patience and invariably ending with a shamefaced visit to the nursery for plants ready to bloom. Despite the fiascos which happen every year with monotonous regularity I haven’t lost faith in myself- one day I’ll grow, and not buy, my seasonal flowers.
And a month ago I found the big polythene bag bulging with seeds. They were not labeled but I was sure that they were the same I had painstakingly collected last year. I rushed with it to the garden- getting our all-in-one office boy to strew them in the characteristically empty flower- bed was a matter of minutes. And then the wait began.

This year it looked like my persistence was about to be paid off. Tiny, bright green plants sprouted and soon covered the barren flower-bed. Excited I emptied a bucketful of fertilizer and was rewarded with a fresh burst of growth which threatened to choke the bed. Getting to thinning down the plants, I carefully plucked plants by handfuls and replanted them in all the flower-pots and remaining flower beds. Still there was a surplus and working on the ‘do unto your neighbors ….’ principle, I distributed it freely to neighbours, advising them sagely to plant not more than four plants per pot.
“What is it?” one of the ladies asked, eyeing the tender green plants.
“Oh, flowers…,” I said with a superior smile, these people knew so little about plants, “multicolored flowered, they’ll bloom in March!”
“They look familiar, you know…” she said a bit doubtfully. I couldn’t help laughing, “Oh, they do, but don’t worry they’re those lovely flowers…”

I rediscovered the joys of nurturing- watering the plants diligently, swatting away our pet when he tried to eat the labours of love and everywhere in our garden I could see the pearls of my hard-work.

But something was missing. The one thing I do know about flowering plants is that they start budding when the weather turns warm. And mine were just going on sprouting more and more leaves. Maybe they would bloom late, I told myself and sprinkled some more fertilizer in the hope that it’d hasten flowering. They became positively luxuriant but still no budding.
And then, the other night it suddenly struck me, how come we had such a huge packet of seeds? Our measly buys from the nursery yielded hardly a spoonful, so where had that big polythene come from?
The next morning I surreptitiously compared the leaves of Baba’s spinach patch and my plants- they looked distressingly, alarmingly similar. I bit of tiny pieces of both- they tasted exactly the same!

I brought out the offending polythene bag and held it under Baba’s nose, “Which seeds are these?” I asked him, half-sure of his answer myself.
He took out a handful, peered carefully and put it back, “Spinach” he said happily, ”Keep it safely, we’ll use it next year,” he beamed more broadly, “this year you’ve done a very good thing by filling all those silly flower-beds and pots with spinach….”

Did I wait to hear more? I did not.
I was on my way on the oft-beaten track to the nursery.
And the neighbors are yet to know the truth.
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A small voice: Celebrating Myself!

A small voice: Celebrating Myself!

http://www.womensweb.in/articles/celebrating-myself/

Celebrating Myself!

Celebrating Myself!

Wow and thanks for giving me this opportunity to actually get around to think whether I am celebration-worthy! And Lo! What do I find? I am! Like so many of us ‘unsung heroines’ out there; like every lady with gumption out there!

The problem with us unassuming types  is the ‘Oh, no, it’s nothing’ syndrome, no matter how good we are, how tough and fruitful our journey has been, we brush it off with ‘oh everybody does that’. Yes, they do and we do and that’s why we ought to feel pride in our achievements – however small they are. Our humility, I can assure you, has only one outcome- being taken for granted and rightly so, if we can’t appreciate ourselves, why in the world anybody else would?

So, the title got me thinking- furrowed brows and all! Have I really done, as in, done anything stupendous? What is it about me that I can celebrate? Is there anything at all? Does being my mother’s only support in her last days count as important? Is raising a fabulous kid an achievement? Is holding a family together worthy of an award? Could I or would I give any credit to myself for becoming and being the person I am? Has my journey from a gawky girl to a self-possessed forty-something (you’ll never know forty-what!) been as simple as it looks?
Noooooo!!! NOT AT ALL!

I think, the fact that everything about me is a lesson in DIY- Do-it-yourself, is cause enough to celebrate. From choosing to study Literature when everybody around me was hollering ‘MBBS’!, to finding my soul-mate, to sticking to being a full-time mom and leaving a lucrative job against popular wisdom, to finding my passion for writing (you had guessed it, hadn’t you?) , to getting over rejection slips and plodding on till I got it right and published…..the list is long….I did do them all!
Add to that, that I was a novice at everything, being a wife, mother, teacher and writer and didn’t have the benefit of ‘mentors’, not even a Ma-in-law to teach me the basics of home- management!

And I learnt it all one tough step after another by myself! And I think I have proved myself in every field. Well- my hubby has survived 26 years of me, sonny is a source of pride and joy, students have been tremendously successful and more than anything, have become friends to me and lastly, kind editors are publishing my work- if that doesn’t entail a full-blast celebration- what does? Bring on the roses and tulips (glasses, I mean, but naturally!)
On a less boastful note, I take pride in saying that people who matter to me and vice-versa can always and I do mean, always, count upon me for love, support, sympathy and yes, hard-knocks when they’re needed. In a world that is increasingly becoming all about facades, with me, you get what you see – no pretensions, I personally feel, it must be so exhausting to pretend to be what you’re not. And I am proud, very proud of the fact hat I belong to the endangered species of those who never need to pretend; who have the courage to be always themsleves.
There have been many contributors in creating the person I am- the direct and the indirect influences; some taught me what to do and some, what not to..….both equally important.

And I think that means bottoms up for them all and yet another celebration!
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Sarv Shiksha??

Sept.1st- historical as Didi retired from her 23 years of teaching music. A trip to the village where she had been transferered a mere 15 days before-- the Govt. / the Edu. Deptt., at least of Rajasthan, functions in mysterious ways! It must have seen some sense in all the unneccessary paper-work and hassle- creation for a person about to retire!

Anyway, the trip was an eye-opener in more ways than one. Villages and villagers are nicer than small-towns, people simple and friendly and of course, no pretences. Plus, unlike Alwar, lovely breeze blows all the time. A 'prohper' send-off was arranged for didi- the 'do- shabd's by some teachers, the gifts of shawl and the customary clock and chai-paani. Sweet.

But then, arose the question why were there so few children when such good infrastructure is there? Why were the teachers so sleepy? Why the black-boards untouched and why the children still unlettered? The bigger pity was that of the 9 students, most looked pretty sharp.

A pipe dream??

JUST A PIECE OF CLOTH

It is a piece of thin muslin cloth, an old chunni, past its accessorizing days, being recycled in true blue Indian style to serve as the roti-cloth, curd-hanger, sprout-tier and now as this ingenious instrument which works where many a skilled plumber failed.

The whole story is something like this- a kitchen tap, wrongly installed  off-centre rather than in the center, due to lack of foresight was the bane of my domestic help’s life as it sprayed water unstintingly over her and all over the cooking slab. At intervals, different plumbers came, cursed the previous ‘ completely useless’ ones, had tea, tinkered around, pronounced the tap cured, swore on their dear, departed mothers that it’d stay that way for at least a year and left. For a few days, things would be hunky-dory, the spray would restrain itself to the sink, spare the slab and Krishna Bai’s sari. And then would start the sinister spluttering again and we’d be back to square one.

And then one day, KB’s daughter came, took one look at the offending tap, decided that she certainly didn’t want to be sprayed, took the afore-mentioned piece of cloth, tied it firmly at the tap’s mouth and that was that. The shrew was tamed, the spluttering stopped effectively and everybody was happy.

The simple yet eminently effective method- just a bit of the (un)common-sense and the will to check a problem -  got me thinking. The builder had made a mistake, we had accepted it as our fate mainly because it was not directly troubling us, we hardly ever needed to work at the sink with the faulty faucet as that is K Bai’s territory and things had remained the same for the past few years.

Isn’t that our general attitude in almost every sphere of our lives? Our famous ‘chalta hai na’ attitude at its worst? Be it the clogged drains- we press our perfumed hankies on our noses and move on; our use of polythene bags- everybody does it so we too join in, they are convenient after all and then when we find the outskirts of any town strewn with the colored bits of polythene, we wince and move on; whatever pangs of conscience we may suffer are effectively taken care of by forwarding impassioned SMSs by pressing ‘send all’ in almost the same breath as we forward the latest Santa – Banta jokes or ‘liking’ similar messages on Facebook and then, yes, we consider it a duty done and move on.

So fond of moaning ‘what to do, this is India, after all’ we have learnt too well to take things in our stride, be it ineffectual administration, babudom, more loopholes in every system than its fabric and of course, corruption.

Right, things have been bad, our systems not really the best in the world, we have made incorrect choices but who says things should continue like this?

Some of the ‘plumbers’ we chose could not spot the trouble nor stop the leakage of our resources till we got this ‘Lil’ ol’ man in topi’ , our own piece of cloth, which just might work where the mighty anti-corruption measures failed so spectacularly. He doesn’t know politics or even administration, what he knows is that he is no longer going to be taken for granted.

What prevents us from being little pieces of cloth and stop nonsense when we see it? Is it our ingrained ‘why bother? It isn’t affecting us directly!’ Or is it fear? How many of us, those who are vociferously supporting Anna on FB or cells or by attending candle-light vigils can and will desist passing on that surreptitious green-note to facilitate a pending file? Why must we wait for some BIG miracle to bail us out?  If we can be our own small but worthy miracles, Anna has won.

He can fight the bigger wars, we, the smaller battles….and please don’t tell me it’s a pipe dream.

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Counting Blessings- Small town diaries Part II

What is convex and black and small? A beetle? Nah- an aunto-rickshaw's vinyl roof and when you see hundreds of them without an inch of space in between, you're bound to think -it is auto-rick apocalypse. But apparently it isn't. I'm told smilingly that it is the 'normal' evening rush in Mumbai and 'No, I won't take you where you want to go,' the rickwalla's smile is broader. He's sympathetic, it says, but not mad. I've no option left but to walk, more than a mile, in heels, when finally the roads started to open a little.
I'd never have faced this in my beloved small-town. Traffic has increased, it is unruly, encroachment has narrowed the roads and there are strays aplenty but few jams. True you have to avoid a pit here, a puddle there, a dog here, an apprently deaf cyclist there while steering clear of the ox (which is considerably bigger than your car) by the road side, but jams? No sir. This small town may crawl but it doesn't come to a full-stop.
Space- that is also what a small town gives you, physical if not otherwise. You don't need to be a millionaire to afford a 3-4 bhk, and the h can be huge, a garden, roof and spacious verandah thrown in for good measure.
And the biggest blessing is - hold your breath- savings. You can't spend no matter however much you want to so you save per-force. And why can't you spend? Let me count the ways- 1. No unhealthily expensive but inviting eating joints, the ones that are there have made inconsistance their hall-mark so you don't want to challenge your luck too often. 2. No malls (yes, in this day and age) - the one which opened recently has three shops with all the rejects from Delhi or someplace. 3. No movie-theatres (forget multiplex) unless you want to brave rat-infested, gutka smelling and gutka colored walls of the two existing 'picture-halls'- Thank God or whoever for the Dish....
The list continues tomorrow..................

  

The Stepford / Small town Wives

I was watching 'The Stepford wives' last night. The unbelievably 'Perfect' lives- happily busy, perfectly turned- out wives churning out one perfect dish after another, managing households on well-oiled wheels, satisfied husbands happy in their club ... and I was eerily reminded of the ladies around me, the house-proud ladies who revel in in their kitchens, take pride in doing 'EVERYTHING' themselves (ref. to the first of  'A small voice'). The Stepford ladies were robots, I daren't even think about what kind of brain-washing goes on here......it's scary.
 There too 'the perfect world' was a smart lady's brainchild, here too I see many versions of that lady. The sar-pe-palloo types who look down upon others who don't conform to the 'work-temple-work-kitty-work-TV...work......' schedule in which they've lived for ages.
On the other hand, they appear to be more contented with their lives than their so- called emancipated counterparts juggling with careers and homes and kids.....
On yet another hand, is that what a woman's life should all be about?  I'm confused.