Bright Lights City Lights – From Sand In My Teeth

We had arrived, as always, with sticky fingers.
After the blinding white glare outside we had to close our eyes and then slowly, slowly open them in the cool, dark living room with the chickspulled down and the curtains drawn. Nani had waited, as always, for us with glasses of brightly coloured, chilled sherbet. “Go, wash your hands and then come and meet me,” she had ordered.
“I’ve never understood how you can stand in this heat and eat an ice-cream.”
She had critically eyed my brother and me as she did every time we visited her. “Thin! Dark! Not to worry, I’ll fatten you both up!”
While leading us to the bedroom that we were allotted on our visits she told us about the how Sher Singh, her oldest and most reliable Major Domo, a retired Kumaoni soldier, had to rush home as his wayward son had eloped with a girl.

The cook was good but had developed what she suspected was a weakness for gin and ‘what did the fool think that everyone else was a fool too that they didn’t notice the bottle was being replenished with water?’ Anyway, Nani was going to be one smart on him. Close her eyes to the gin swigging while we were here and then out he would go once we left. But giving him the sack wouldn’t be easy, said Nani unless the Chopras, Kapurs and Tiwaris made arrangements or she found a quick replacement. Seeing our mystified expressions, she laughed and her eyes crinkled up the way we had always pictured her.

“Weelll! We have something special,” she said. “Something everyone wants. Something everyone envies. But only your Nana and I have it, for the moment, at least!”
“What? What Nani?” We jumped on her lap, pulling her face towards us.
“What? Please tell us.” But she was adamant. “Washup, washup first and come out fast.”

We rushed in for our bath, the door ajar, not wanting to miss any bit of this excitement. But she had moved to other subjects.
“Anita’s daughter was here yesterday. So fair! What a pretty girl! The raunaq on her face! Of course, I didn’t say anything. If the girl comes down with a rash or heat stroke tomorrow they’ll say it was my nazar. But let me tell you it took a lot to keep my mouth shut. Those apple-red cheeks!”

Ma, who naturally looked drawn after a long, dusty, hot train journey didn’t seem to be enjoying the way this conversation was going. But Nani had carried on regardless.
“Anita was telling me, how they have this big glass of fresh orange juice. All of them. Then, you know, they have at least two eggs each for breakfast. Her parathas are always made in pure ghee. “What is a little weight Auntyji? I want my family HEALTHY! Plus at least three glasses of milk for her children. I believe her husband can’t touch his food without a good mutton curry.”

Ma could be heard opening suitcases and shutting cupboard shutters a little too loudly but Nani carried on. “Her jar of pistachios and almonds on the sideboard is always full. If-you-will-see-it-you-will-eat-it. I must say Anita is such a sensible girl.”
Nani always felt everyone ate better than us, looked better than us, was healthier than us, and saved more sensibly than us.
Ma had snapped. “We eat very well Mummy. My children are thin but healthy. They are dark because they play outdoors. And anyway I am dark and the children have gone on me.”
“No, no!” My beautiful milky-white grandmother had backed off not meaning to take it so far. “You are not dark! How can you say that? You are wheatish like your father’s side.”


We were the ones who always came to NanaNani from new places, new houses, new schools, new friends while things usually remained unchanged with them and their Delhi house.
We couldn’t believe that Nani had a surprise for us. Something new and so unimaginably exciting, she had said.
Her sofa chairs were always blue or grey with an embroidered head and arm- rest.
If they looked worn out, Nani would replace them with another blue set because the drapes were still in good shape. And if the drapes needed changing, the sofas were still as good as new. So it was always blue, blue-grey, or grey-blue. The Chinese plate on the wall had been there for years, as had the pewter urn on the mantle piece. The coffee table in the centre with its dark top and spindly legs had the day’s newspaper. The Persian carpet underneath was a beautiful red with a design, which was like the imprint of an elephant’s foot, Hathi pao. Here, after lunch, we played innumerable games of Sweep and Judgement with Nana, while the rest of the family enjoyed a siesta.
Even her dining table, with its chairs, never changed.
“No more MES for me!”
“Nani!” we would say, “You are always in the same house. You have the same garden. We can still see the zoo.”
“Thank God! I have done my share of travelling.”

She herself always wore an embroidered sari. It was mostly white and always pretty. “I went to this Ball at Fort William with your Nana,” she had told us the story many times over. “Only four Indian Officers with their wives had been invited.”
“But last time you told us that seven Indian officers had been invited.”
“Four or seven! What does it matter? For days I wondered what to wear,” Nani always knew how to stretch her stories.
“Whattowear, whattowear. So I took the easiest way out. A simple white embroidered chiffon. You just can’t go wrong with that. And anyway you know your Nani, she always believes it’s better to be underdressed than overdressed. So there I was very, very nervous. All these British and their hoity-toity wives! But… but the Commandant came up to me and said? Tell me what did he say?”
And in our best put on British accent, biting the Vs and whistling the Ws, we would huff and puff, “Mrs VA-dhe-ra, WH-ite really becomes you!”
So white saris it was.

Her red bindi and red lipstick enhanced her glowing skin. She looked very smart, my Nani, with her dark glasses and her matching handbag. There were only three things on her dressing table: A silver jar of bindi powder, her one and only lipstick and Afghan Snow cream which, one-day, she changed to Ponds Cold Cream.

We had arrived just this morning. We hadn’t been here in two years.
“There’s Nana!” Nana with his twinkling eyes, his neatly clipped moustache and his middle parting with his hair brylcreemed smoothly back. Forever the Colonel Sahib, he stood very erect on the platform, looking out for us.
Amidst a lot of hugging and hand shaking, the coolies had clustered around. The smart ones, as usual, picked up the suitcases and bedroll and told the others to move away.
“Arre Sahib, give us whatever you want.” But once we reached the car they began complaining, “Five rupees! What are five rupees today?” Phool Singh, Nana’s driver, had taken charge. “Jao, jao,” he growled. “You want to loot us or what?” Then out of earshot “Marroon kya?”

The railway stations where we usually began our journey from were small and maintained by the Army. Painted benches and ‘USE ME’ trashcans. There was no “loitering” allowed and the Military Police diligently patrolled the platforms.
Delhi Railway station was so different.
It always overwhelmed me. The noise, the crowds, the smell of rotting fruit and the faeces on the tracks. The bored-looking people spitting out of the windows or throwing away peels. The beggars touched you and put on a pleading nasal voice. And then, once they were given a few paise, they would move away abruptly, not the least bit grateful, and in fact would suddenly look very clever and nasty. Sometimes they forgot that they had just been given something and would come back. And when they would be reminded of it they would saunter off. I guess we all looked the same to them as they looked to us.
The sweeper who, without once looking up, carried on mopping the platform, with his long pole and wet, large swab. It was always our responsibility to see that we didn’t get a wet swish on our shoes.
I was petrified of getting lost. Clutching my mother’s hand, descending and mounting countless stairs through the never-ending sea of people.

Phool Singh had honked wildly and had muttered under his breath while we went past a street of fresh fruit on carts and rotting discarded fruit on the pavements.
“Why do they have this market here? It delays everybody coming and going from the station.”
“People like to carry fruit for their journey. And others buy it for those they will be staying with,” Nana had explained.
“Can’t they buy it near their house?” my brother and I had argued. They must be like my Nana. Once our holidays were over and we were again heading towards this station, he would invariably say, “Look at those delicious chausas! We must pick some up for you.”

That was last thing I wanted. What I wanted was to get through that chaotic to-the-platform-to-our-train-to-the-compartment-and-my-berth rush. Only then could I breathe.
“Come on, there are hours to go before your train leaves,” and all our protests would be of no avail. Those crates of mangoes already packed and readied for us by Nani didn’t matter. He had to give us these chausas. Nana would pick each mango, sniff it, exchange it for another, and then sniff that. He would haggle with the fruitwallah, and, not getting the right price he would go off to the next stall.
The cacophony of the vendors, the squelchy fruit at his feet, didn’t matter. The whole procedure would begin again.
“Nana!” I would wail, “The train will leave. Please.”

Now on our way to the house, we had driven through beautiful Connaught Place with its wide roads, jamun trees, shops and fountains. We had never seen water flow so freely. The tin tub in our tent and our prized tap…. Ma had squealed “Cottage Emporium! Queens Way!”
“Are the beds being put out on the lawn at night?” my brother had enquired.
Nana had nodded. “I bag the right side.”

Yes, that was the fun part of Delhi.
The mosquito nets and the beds put out for the night in summer. Sometimes there was a cool breeze and sometimes not but at least it was better than being indoors. Nana had these stories about Quetta and the bursting orange orchards they had left behind during Partition. There were scary ones of blood and murder and of best friends turning on each other.
“Religion is a dangerous business,” Nana would say.
“It only divides. The British were masters at using it. And we were fools for falling for it.”
“What are you teaching them?” Nani would mumble from her bed. “Religion is very important. Religion is who we are!”

In his not so serious moments he would make plans with us on how to hide the lion in case he escaped from the zoo and strolled into our lawn. With each loud roar, plainly heard from our beds, the plans would get wilder and funnier. Till Nani would tell us all to shut up and sleep.
Nana would pretend to be chastised. He would cover his face with his sheet and snore loudly. Once he was certain Nani was asleep,
“Let’s go to Nehru Park tomorrow. Let’s see you roll down those grassy slopes. And then, of course, we’ll have lots of ice-cream.”

Or he would inform us, “I have a large basket of mangoes waiting for a mango fight!” The idea was to eat as many as possible then with sticky hands find someone to smear. We shuddered with pleasure.
Oh! He was so wonderful, our Nana. You just had to mention the word chaat and he would bundle us into the car and take us for a nice spicy round. And while we were at it he would order hot potato tikkis and delicious kachoris.
Phool Singh had stopped the car at an ice-cream cart. He knew the routine. We had to have a Kwality Choco Bar before we got home. We had waited two years to get our mouths on that cold crumbly chocolate with the dripping vanilla within.


So we arrived home, as always, with sticky fingers and were pushed immediately into the bath.
Having washed off the grime and dust we emerged two shades and a few pounds lighter. We excitedly followed Nani into the living room where she flung off a tablecloth rather dramatically, from what seemed like a box.
“Here! Here is my surprise! You say there is never any change. Well, even your Nani can have change! See! Our new television! Television baba, TELEVISION!!
“Really! Really!” spluttered Ma. “Can you imagine — a television? I see it in ‘Woman & Home’ but you actually have one.”
“How does it come on?” asked my father.
Nani switched it on and we gazed with much admiration at a dark screen of flickering snow. The programmes only began at six in the evening.
Krishi Darshan! Oh! Oh! What a miracle! An hour of farming and gardening tips for our farmers.
“Can you imagine the WHOLE country is watching this programme? Now! Right now! Doordarshan has bound us. United us Indians!” Nana would exclaim.
“But Nana I don’t think they know that nobody has electricity in Dharangadra except for Mr Dwivedi and the Palace.”
And then Bachon Ke Liye.

On Wednesdays, Nani informed us, we could look forward to Chitrahaar. For the News we had to keep absolutely still and silent.
“Just see the beautiful saris Salma Sultan and Pratima Puri wear,” Nani would whisper. “White with black or black with white.”
Night after night we noticed the two newsreaders wear this colour combination and then we realised that in fact all of them did. Was it a Doordarshan uniform?
When my father heard of this he couldn’t stop laughing. “It’s a black and white television, silly,” he said. “If it was a colour television….”
“Colour television!” snorted Nani. “Arre, who has heard of a colour television?”

On Saturdays we watched the regional film not understanding a single word.
But it was Sunday that was the Big Day. The sherbets, nimbu pani, and beer would be ready in the refrigerator. The cook had no idea how many would be eating so dinner was prepared in abundance.
He knew his job was secure till the Chopras, Kapurs and Tiwaris got themselves a television or if Nani replaced him that was unlikely in these days of scarce domestic help.
At 6:15 there would be a rush for the good seats in the living room.
The doorbell would ring and the Chopras, Kapurs, Tiwaris and other assorted neighbours, friends and relatives who were not fortunate enough to have a television of their own, would stroll in and occupy seats that they had taken the week before. The children would be relegated to the carpet. On the dot at 6:30 the Sunday evening film would begin. Only Nana could switch the television on, adjust the brightness and contrast, increase or lower the volume.
The privilege was entirely his. The rest dared not and the children were chided and sometimes whacked if they were even within two feet of this magic box. The rows of spectators began exactly six feet away from the screen. We were warned that we would soon be bespectacled if not blind if we sat closer than that.
Trips to fetch drinks or visits to the toilet were relegated to the Rukawat ke liye khed hai. The cook would hurriedly serve dinner during the News with the women chipping in.
Within half an hour the cook was back on his stool watching the latter half of the film with the rest of us. How we looked forward to Sundays!

In between there were visits to the Rail Museum, Doll Museum and the Arts and Craft Museum. We were like two little village urchins being given a crash course in culture and refinement.
“Leave her with us,” Nani would say. “We’ll put her in your old school, Jesus and Mary. How many times are you going to move her?”
“I did it,” replied Ma, “She’ll do it too.”

At least every other evening the pedestal fan would be out in the garden, the cane chairs arranged in a circle, and we would expect friends and relatives over. Nani said that it was very important to be seen getting along with one’s relatives. And my cousin told me that aunties especially, were very important. They were the ones who handed out the envelopes with cash. Li-tta e Di-tta were very important Punjabi words.
Nani kept a black dairy in which she noted that on Ma’s wedding in 1959 so-and-so had gifted Rs 21. So on their daughter’s wedding Nani had to do at least the same if not more, considering inflation and all.
Every thing that was received was li-tta and everything that had been given was di-tta. Meticulous records were kept and God forbid if you messed up.
Family battles raged over trivial bits of money. It was not the sum that mattered as much as the gesture. But then sometimes the gesture didn’t matter as much as the sum. Basically, you never got it right.

“Aren’t civilians strange Daddy?” I asked, after one such evening where all I had done was to go into the kitchen, a hundred times, and ask for more nimbu panis and sodas to be sent out while our guests sat in a circle in the garden. “They always say Namasteji instead of Good Morning or Good Evening.”
“My dear you three are also civilians,” My father poked me. “According to the Government of India only I am in the Army.”
“No, Daddy we are not civilians,” shrieked my brother and me. Ma insisted that she was definitely not one since her father had also been in the Services.

Civilian was a very strange word indeed. Not a bad word but not quite nice either.
Civilians were always late. If someone had been invited for tea at four thirty, and didn’t arrive till five, my parents would fume, “Civilians!”
Civilians never exercised. (They looked healthy according to Nani.) “You look just the same!” they would say almost accusingly to my parents who were so proud that they did. No fluctuating waistlines and bottoms.
They did not like animals.
Most of them were scared of dogs. Imagine! They asked for the dogs to be put away before they entered the house. And if one was allowed to stay, they didn’t want to be licked. What is the use of having a dog if it didn’t lick you!
They didn’t serve tea in a pot but put the tealeaves, water, milk and sometimes sugar too in a saucepan.

Nani had taught me the science of making tea in six minutes flat. I would start the entire exercise at six minutes to four and on the dot of four would proudly emerge carrying the tray, laid out with cups and saucers, teapot and tea cosy, for the family. If I were a minute late, I would be told off. No civilians in this family!
Then there was this bit about their money. It had a different colour, you
know. When my father saw a foreign car, while proudly driving his much-awaited Fiat
he would say, “There goes a civilian with black money.”

When Ma began packing our suitcases for our journey back home, Nani sat on the bed and watched her emptying the cupboards.
“Thank God the Chopras and Tiwaris have bought a television for themselves. At least eight less to feed next Sunday.”
We realised the Chopras were now proud owners of a television themselves when we noticed their absence from our Sunday evenings. No little thank you note to say that they had enjoyed the Sunday films and dinner. No nothing. They simply did not turn up and we had to be smart enough and understand. Noformalityyouknow.
Ma had A Book of Life she told us. Some rules were cast in stone and some were made up along the way. Saying ‘thank-you’ was definitely cast in stone and perhaps even written in blood.
According to Ma and Nani, Mr Chopra had shown us where he “came from” (across the street, I thought) “who he actually was” (not a spy, surely) and his “background” (“very simple” was that not nice? Not quite, I gauged)
As for Mr Tiwari, his landlord on the ground floor had acquired a television and they were now in his living room. Moreconvenientyouknow. However Mr Tiwari’s conduct was a notch better as he had at least complimented Nani with a ‘nothing-like-the-dinner-you-serve’ when they bumped into each other during their morning walk.
However, the Kapurs and the other neighbours remained our Sunday guests and quietly took over the empty seats, which they had been eyeing for a while.The cook was beginning to see the Sunday numbers dwindle too and even the four of us were soon going home. He realised he was no longer going to be indispensable so at least stopped swigging the gin.

During Nani’s chitter-chatter Aunties would drop in to say their byes and we would move to the living room. Some brought fruit and boxes of mithai. The best ones brought envelopes, which they stuffed, into our hands.
We always protested at least thrice (instructions from our worldly-wise, Delhi-based cousin) and the fourth time bashfully (and readily) accepted them.
On some occasions Nani and Ma would protest. Then it would be quite a tug of war.
The Aunty pushing the envelope in our hands, Ma pushing it back. It was quite worrying. What if Ma won? But most times the Aunties were stronger. When farewells were finally said and done. My brother and I would pounce on the envelope.
“Ekvaaanjaaa!” Fifty-one! Quite a magic number.

Now we were ready to catch our train and go through that dreadful market with the chausas and return home. 

Sand In My Teeth – From Sand In My Teeth

“Let me take it, let me take it,” I pleaded,
But Mridula Dwivedi just raised the shining, stainless steel tiffin box higher.
“Please, please,” I begged. A frown creased her big, red bindi and her smooth moon face showed irritation.
“No!” She hissed. “No!” giving the tiffin box to her son. “You take it and don’t let this one touch it, otherwise Ba will not eat.”

We were going to the edge of the village where the women-who-wore-no-blouses-and-had-shaven-heads lived.
Ketan, Rajan, Ketaki and I went every evening to give the tiffin box to Ba.
The three of them were allowed to hold it while I was not.
There was a big shindig the day Ba saw me carrying her evening meal. She had shouted at her three grandchildren.
“You fools! You idiots! Look at my kismet! Oh! What sins I must have committed in my last life that I was blessed with fools like you. Life has taken everything from me and now you are even taking my dinner away.”
“What happened Ba? What happened?” we had asked.
But Ba had just sat in her thin white sari. Her hand on her head, rocking and muttering,
“It’s bad enough you play with this one,” pointing her finger at me “but to let her carry my dinner is too much.”

So from that day onwards, the three of them took turns carrying the dinner while I just went along for the company.
Whereas Rajan and Ketaki took their task seriously, Ketan let me hold it if he got busy kicking a tin, or throwing stones in the pond. But always out of sight from Ba’s eyes or those of her tale-tattling friends.

The cool desert breeze would make us forget the blazing sun of the day. After being indoors the whole day we had so much energy to expend.
While Ba ate, we sat on the steps of her little hut and tried to push each other off. Or if Mongo, the buffalo, waddled by after an afternoon of grazing, we all jumped off the steps and shouted out her name. Each time she would stop, moo and then swishing her tail, walk on.

“Oh! Ho! Stop it!” her owner would sometimes complain.
“I have to go home and cook the evening meal. You’re delaying us.”
So we would yell “Mong-goooo!” one last time and one last time Mongo would answer back.
Sometimes Yashoben, Ba’s help, would allow us to make cow dung cakes.

Ma wrote and told Nani the first time I made cow dung cakes.
“Oh God!” said Nani, “Send her to Delhi. We’ll put her in the Convent of Jesus and Mary.”

We would play hopscotch with Harshad. She was Ba’s granddaughter, (the elder sister of Rajan, Ketaki and Ketan) and lived with her. Just a year ago she had finished school and married a boy in Rajkot.
When the wedding date had been fixed Ketan and Rajan had hopped across from their house and done a jig outside ours.
“Harshad is getting maaareed, Harshad is getting maaareed,” they sang, “And our father is coming to give a card to Major Sahib.”

Mr Dwivedi had walked across in his spotless white kurta and soft white slippers, his gold spectacle frames glistening in the sun.
He was the richest man in Dharangadra.
At least that is what his children had told me. Of course, the King and Queen who lived in the palace were richer but Mr Dwivedi was a rich man too.

In the veranda he had clasped my father’s hand, “Major Sahib! First big responsibility I am taking care of. After that, there is Rohini and Ketaki. We have fixed Harshad’s marriage. Good boy from a well-eating-drinking family from Rajkot. Boy is in father’s cloth business. His sisters are also married in well-eating-drinking families. Yes, he’s only son. Only son! You must come. Please, to stay and eat with us. Must come,” indicating my mother.

His sons giggled and laughed.
His wife, who stood on her steps, with her head covered and her pallu in her teeth smiled widely and waved her hand.
“You, you naughty girl, you also come,” she pointed to me.

That was the first time in a year she had spoken to me directly. It did surprise me as I was in and out of her house the whole day. I even helped with filling the brass urns with the hand pump. But I was not allowed in the kitchen.

Well, we had all gone for Harshad’s wedding.
The night before Ma and my father had spoken about our having the wedding meal.
“What if they make us eat separately,” laughed Ma. I think she was a little nervous.
“Can you imagine if Dadaji heard of us being treated in this manner? He would splutter and splutter and take them to task.”

We had all laughed at the thought of it. Dadaji would have lectured them on our Kshatriya lineage. We were the warrior class; he had told me many times. “Be proud. We are warriors!” while thumping me on my back to stand straight.
“The audacity of these grass-eating Brahmin johnnies!”
He would have gone on and on till Mr Dwivedi would have begged for mercy and allowed us to eat wherever we wanted.

It was decided that if some fuss were made about the eating arrangements, we would make a polite excuse and leave. Otherwise we would stay and enjoy the pure vegetarian Gujarati fare, which is so watery and sweet.

Mr Dwivedi had, however, proved to be very cosmopolitan (Ma said) and introduced my father, “Major Sahib, who lives across. He is Punjabi.”
At the time of the wedding feast Mr Dwivedi joined us at a separate table specially laid out for us while the others sat on the floor, as is the custom.
Seeing the warmth we had been greeted with my parents insisted on joining the others.
“We will baiso with the others,” said my father in his limited Gujarati.

“Baiso, baiso,” repeated everybody. “Baiso, baiso.” The men seemed overwhelmed and the women couldn’t stop staring and giggling.
My father had pulled off a great social coup and Mr Dwivedi took the entire credit for inviting this Punjabi, who ate meat and drank alcohol.

“In the Military you have to,” he explained. “Dhandho! Work demands. Work demaaands, you know,” he emphasised.
Only a Gujarati could understand what all a man has to do for his work and business.

Harshad had looked surprisingly very pretty in a red and gold gauzy odhni.
Harshad the bully. Harshad the darkie. The only one not to inherit her mother’s colouring sat with such serenity in her finery amidst the celebrations. Smug in the fact that no one could take away her day from her.
“I want exactly what she’s wearing for my wedding,” I told Ma when we went to take a peek at the bride.
The women engulfed us and in conspiratorial whispers spoke of the large trousseau her father was sending with her. You have to give more when your daughter’s complexion is not like a freshly baked roti.

Five months later I had come running in from a recce at large, to drink my milk and rush out again.
“He has sunstroke. Harshad’s husband,” I reported.
Then a few days later a car had drawn up the Dwivedi house. It had attracted a lot of attention because the only other car in the neighbourhood was ours.
A dazed Harshad emerged with her father. The Dwivedi women had stood wailing. Harshad’s husband was dead and she had come back home.

It was absolutely still with no breeze and no dust storm. Just the killing sun.
Ketan, Rajan and Ketaki did not come out to play. Ba, it seemed, had also moved in to share their grief.\
Our evening trips to deliver the tiffin box had come to a halt and I had stayed the whole day indoors, poring through the Illustrated Weekly and reading the Encyclopaedia Britannica with Ma.

On other days, the Regiment Panditji came to teach me Hindi.
There were no English medium schools in Dharangadra and there were not enough houses in the new Cantonment so we were on the outskirts in a new housing complex.

We really had the best house. We had a tent for a bathroom. There was a sparkling white tiled bathroom within, but it had never been used as the Municipality sewer lines were yet to be connected. Instead, we had a tap with a cement platform as a bathing area and four thunder boxes, commodes in the tent.
An in-house cleaner checked on them every now and then.
Ours also happened to be the only tap outside for miles so it was not surprising to come into the tent and find a goat in the steel tub or a mangy dog cooling off. My brother and I would squeal with delight while the cleaner would shoo them off.

My best experience ever, was when I was once in the midst of a bath, and something like sandpaper scraped my wet back.
It was a camel! I had jumped up in naked and dripping surprise. With a bored look he just withdrew his head the way he had come in.

Things had been so bad since Harshad’s return that my friends weren’t even tempted to slide down our prized tent. Something we did first thing in the morning and the last thing before we all went indoors.
“I can’t keep tightening the ropes,” the Junior Orderly had complained to Parminder.
“Not only are the Major Sahib’s children sliding down the tent but even these dehaatis go screaming and yelling down.”
“Let them be,” Parminder had indulgently looked on at the rollicking time we were having. “What else is there to do?”

With the blazing heat outside, I would sit in my odhni, with Vividh Bharti playing on the radio, watching the Dwivedi house for some sign or indication that things were back to normal.
“Don’t disturb them,” Ma had said. “Let the family be.”

One afternoon, however, loud wailing and screaming had broken the stupor we were all in.
Ma had put on her dupatta and rushed to the Dwivedis. I had followed her despite being told to stay at home. All the noise and commotion seemed to come from the courtyard.

There was Harshad in her white sari being held down by two women.
She was screaming. “Ma! Ma! Help me! Ma. Don’t let them do it. Please! Please!”
But Mridula Dwivedi just sat sobbing into her sari with her girls sticking to her like frightened goats.
Ba was also there. Somehow, she seemed to be enjoying herself. She had the same expression when she would watch the garba during Dusherra. She looked as if she was remembering something, very far away.

A friend of Ba’s took a pair of scissors and cut off Harshad’s hair. How Harshad howled.
Mridula Dwivedi always said, “Talk softly Harshad. Who will marry you with a voice that sounds like the six o’clock siren?”
But today no one said anything about that terrible sound that came out of Harshad’s throat.

There was so much wailing and sobbing.
To me, they all appeared to move in a slow motion and everything that was said had an echo.

“Ma where is Harshad’s Daddy? Why isn’t he stopping them?”
But Mr Dwivedi was not to be seen.
He was like Joyshree and Maithali’s father, never there when he was needed most. Even Ketan and Rajan were nowhere in sight. This was a women’s business. The women were handling it.



That is why we played hopscotch with Harshad at Ba’s place where the head-shaven-no-blouse-women lived together.



The big majestic gates slowly opened.
I held my breath while Ma drove our red and white Standard Herald into the palace grounds.
A uniformed Durban bowed low and led us to a beautiful carved wooden door, which was silently opened by a young woman in a sari with her head covered. She led us across a black and white shining marble chequered courtyard. There were several women with covered heads, smiling and not saying a word.

We were expected as we were taken to a huge room with high ceilings and glittering chandeliers. There, at one end was a lady sitting behind a wrought iron table with a beautiful white marble top.
“Hello, I’m Rukmani.”

With her straight shining hair, her pretty chiffon of summer flowers, her cigarette holder in mother of pearl, she flicked the ash off, ever so casually that I was mesmerised by her frosted nail varnish on exquisite long nails. With the other hand she stroked Fluffy, her poodle.
Oh! To be in the presence of a princess! This was a dream come true.

Rukmani Devi, the King’s sister, lived in the Zenana of the palace. Tucked away in a desert kingdom she kept herself busy with the young ladies of the court, embroidering handkerchiefs, Victorian nightgowns, tablecloths and baby clothes.
It began as a respectable pastime permitted by her mother, the fifth and youngest wife of the late king. She was radical enough to allow her daughter to a have coffee mornings where the gentry of the kingdom were invited to view the Princess’s handiwork. With no prodding, pretty baby clothes flew off racks and the bowing and scraping gentry felt privileged to actually have their children wear sailor blouses and frilly skirts that the Princess’s fingers might have touched.

Ma had heard of the Princess’s work and on an impulse fixed an appointment to pick up some clothes for us children.
After a week, when she had almost forgotten about it, a call came confirming the appointment.

So here we were. On a Major’s salary Ma realised that she could not afford any of the pretty things on display that day.
But on that morning in that old palace with thick walls and cool floors, with the sun blazing outside on the brown sand dunes and the wind just beginning to whip up a dust storm, an unlikely friendship between two women took seed.

Out of nowhere a woman appeared with chilled khus in silver glasses. Ma and the Princess chatted and I watched in fascination. The rings on her fingers, the way she occasionally plucked tobacco off her tongue with her ring finger and thumb, the absolute right moment when she flicked the ash as I waited breathlessly for it to fall, her smoky voice and her beautiful blackened teeth.
I made up my mind. Come what may, as soon as I grow up, not one minute late, I was going to smoke.

Ma and she were still talking like long lost friends.
We were invited to stay for lunch but we declined.

On the way back I made up for the silence I had maintained all morning. A princess, a real princess, I carried on and on.
Ketan, Ketaki and Rajan were going to hear it all.

Over the next few weeks Ma was invited several times. First for coffee, then Ma met the Raj Mata for lunch. The Queen, who had come from Delhi for a few days to sort out some affairs, was soon introduced.
And finally, His Highness, Aunty Rukmani’s brother, met my parents and found them trustworthy enough for Aunty Rukmani to visit.

If the visit was meant to be discreet, it was anything but so. As the white Fiat with the fluttering State flag came to a halt outside our house our neighbours, the Dwivedis, had gathered around it.
Some of their visiting friends also came out to see the royal visitor.
Aunty Rukmani emerged, head covered in her now signature pastel chiffon.
“Bai Sahib! Bai Sahib!” blubbered Mridula Dwivedi. “The honour of having you here. Please come and privilege our humble home.”

The Princess just bowed her head and folded her hands and walked into our house.
The shock on Mridula’s face! What! It couldn’t be true! Our Princess was going into that meat eating and alcohol-drinking Punjabi Military man’s house? Yes, yes we invited them to my daughter’s wedding but that was my smart husband’s idea. Surely there must be some mistake? “Bai Sahib!” She tried again.
But by now Aunty Rukmani was inside.

Flinging off her sandals, pulling off her veil, and dragging on her cigarette she walked through our four-room house with a gleam of excitement in her eyes, “Lovely! Lovely!”
When my brother and I showed her our wonderful tent with the thunder boxes she clapped her hands with glee. The palace bathrooms looked like those out of ‘Cleopatra’, sunken marble tubs, walls of mirror, innumerable pretty glass bottles of ittar, but ours, oh, ours was special.
You had to grant us that and not surprisingly, Aunty Rukmani recognised the fact.

There were many mornings thereafter that she spent with us, playing Scrabble, drinking coffee, and baking cakes from carefully stored recipe cuttings.

Once an entire expedition of an old trusted chauffeur at the wheel of the white Fiat, the State flag aflutter, two chaperones, Ma and Aunty Rukmani drove all the way to Rajkot and picked up the entire stock of 10 dusty packets of gelatine from a startled general store owner. For the next fortnight we dug into one mousse after the next.

While whisking something or the other, in a bowl, she told us stories of her English Governess. “Princess, we cannot have you eat with your fingers! What will you do when you are invited to dinner by the Queen of England?” her exasperated Governess would ask.
“I’ll teach your Queen of England to eat with her fingers! And you wait and see; she will never touch cutlery again.” Who could chide such a cheeky Princess?

We heard stories of the beautiful hounds and stallions that lived in air-conditioned splendour.
“You don’t know how lucky you are to have one Ma,” she would say to me when I would answer back. “Imagine having five.”
Her father, who she dearly loved but always referred to as His Highness, spoke to her only thrice in his lifetime.

Being the youngest of a royal brood was not easy. Then there were the funny stories of the exotic but jealous cockatoo, which belonged to a Maharaja and cackled “Meeaaow” every time the Maharani walked in.

I would run barefoot on the dusty, unpaved streets with the Dwivedi children, and in the afternoon, all scrubbed and clean, go off for lunch at the Palace. Or after a stint of garba through the village, spreading my odhni for rice and bajra I would wear my pale green silk ghagra choli and dance in the shimmering lights of the diyas on that chequered courtyard with the Raj Matas watching benignly from the filigreed marble balcony.

Some evenings I would go squelching on the lakebed with a red beach bucket to collect clay for my latest passion, pottery.
Aunty Rukmani accepted with pleasure the ashtrays I churned out for her. She put my tortoise ashtray in bright blue and green between her Limoge and Bohemian cut-glass collection and asked for a pencil stand in yellow and orange.
When the stand was ready she put her pencils in it with a flourish, “What can I give you?”
“You know my friends Ketan, Harshad, Ketaki and Rajan’s Ba, who lives in the other end of the village. You know the one with the head-shaved-and-no-blouse. She won’t allow me to touch her dinner.
Can I tell her, I know the Princess and she will cut off your head if you don’t let me carry your tiffin box!”

For a moment Aunty Rukmani’s eyes widened. “I am just a Princess,” she said. “But I will definitely put up your request to my brother, the King.” 

Closed Spaces – Sand In My Teeth

There was something about the air in this place that never got us enthused. The moment we finished unpacking we began wondering where we would be going next. Usually, we behaved as if we were going to spend the rest of our lives in the new place. Though, of course, we knew better.

While Ma hung up the curtains with Parminder, my father gently unpacked the glassware and crockery from wads and wads of newspaper and straw that he himself had packed in the last station.
This was his job, his alone.
While Ma wrapped the dinner set, tea set, beer and whiskey glasses he would sit down with a bottle of beer, on a Sunday morning listening to Radio Ceylon and carefully lay them in crates.
Then when he unpacked them in our new home, with a very high success rate he would ask,
“And why is it our glasses don’t break?”
We would always chorus back, “Because you are an Artillery Officer. Artillery Officers are smart and their brains are not in their feet, like the Infantry’s.”

The trunk stencilled ‘Curtains’ was as important as the kitchen trunks. The moment the curtains were up, we were home! It was always so exciting!
Then Ma would take out the photos and pictures and put them up. “This one somehow doesn’t look quite right in this drawing room. Where shall we put it?” she would ask.
Carrying it from room to room she would decide that this time it should be in the study, or perhaps in the hall.
By evening, with the lamps on, the pictures up, the cushions all stuffed and welcoming, the curtains drawn and the rest of the world shut out we would wait for my father.
“Welcome home, Daddy!” we would yell, and then the four of us would once again make a new home.

My father would begin with inspecting the trees in the garden.
An Officer before us had planted the fruit and vegetables we so enjoyed and someone else would enjoy what my father took so much pain and pleasure in planting.
The cycle carried on with no difference at all in the level of enthusiasm.

But this time, as I said, it was different.
There was a certain listlessness and a feeling of being truly in transition. Even after drawing the curtains the world wouldn’t stay out.
Parminder said the beginning was just not auspicious.
We had arrived in Ranchi in the dead of night.
There was a curfew on and our train drew into a quiet and eerie railway station. We had driven through a ghost town littered with burning cars, tires and buses. While my father had sat in the front with the driver of the Jeep, we sat behind clinging to Ma.
Parminder followed with the trunks in the one-tonner.
“How long are we going to stay here?” I whispered. I already hated the place.

Officers’ Quarter 4C was a yellow non-descript house, one among four in a compound which was heavily guarded.
The MES (Military Engineering Service) was not at its most imaginative. Maybe they thought that a square block of brick and mortar would make it easier for its occupants to leave without looking back.
It was on the outskirts of the Cantonment but we were well protected with serious Hindu-Muslim riots raging outside.
There were strict instructions not to step outside our compound walls. Once in a while an Army Patrol went by and asked our Guards if all was well and on other days an Officer came by with the supplies.

The nights, however, were terrible.
The wailing and screaming in the far distance would make my brother whimper.
In the evenings, my father with Ma by his side would go to the terrace and look at the fires all over Ranchi.
“It reminds me of Lahore,” Ma would say, shaking. “This is terrible. The haze! Oh God, it’s Lahore again!”

In the three months that we were in Ranchi, we went into town only once when I needed a pair of shoes.
It was such an expedition.
All dressed up to go and buy shoes!
It was not much of an outing though, with no one on the streets and only a few shops open.
All the signboards in English had been vandalised and re-written in Hindi.
The Hindu-Muslim riots were over, it seemed, but the anti-English language riots were in full swing.

As we drew up near Bata someone threw a stone and shattered the windscreen.
Ma stifled a scream and my brother began to cry. I, for one, didn’t want shoes anymore.
“Angrezon ki aulaad! Number plate Hindi mein likhon!”

So we stayed within our compound with only our neighbours, the Chatterjees and the Brars for company and the Adivasi woman who came in to clean the three houses in the compound as the fourth was unoccupied.

She was thoroughly frisked every morning by the Guards and then allowed in.
She would stand there, staring without seeing, when the Guards touched her all over. Her baby wrapped up and slung on her back looked like a black, shiny doll.
He slept while she swept the floors, washed the clothes, drank her tea or cleaned the vessels.
Sometimes she slung the cloth, baby and all, on a branch. Even then it didn’t move.
Only when she put his head in her blouse could we see the head bob up and down and his fat hands press and push. Then with a gurgle and burp he was done.

The very first visit we paid to the Chatterjees was quite strange.
And Ma decided that Mrs Chatterjee was, for lack of a better word, different.
We had waited in the living room where there was a couch and two hard chairs. In a corner were a brass diya and a wedding photograph of Mrs Chatterjee.
She looked very pleased.
It seemed as if it was taken only yesterday. Then there were four big photos of a baby with lots of kohl and one where you could see right away that it was a boy.

The other strange thing was there was nothing to show in their house that they had been anywhere.
Maybe they were civilians. Usually an Army house can be read like a map.
If one had been to the Northeast, spears were definitely put up in a cross. A driftwood arrangement meant Assam, phulkari tablecloths told you about Punjab and wooden elephants-in-a-line came from down South. Mirror-work cushions meant Gujarat while pretty, white embroidered tea linen meant the Convents of Lucknow or Madras.
They had nothing!

Two girls about my age peered through the curtains and smiled at us, but made no attempt to come out.
The first rule of good Officer-like upbringing is that the baccha log always come out and wish the guests.
Mrs Chatterjee came out with a baby in her arms and her thick, long hair was open.
Not tied up! Open hair was as good as wearing nothing.

“Hello, hello! Welcome to Ranchi! Sorry, I was in my bath.”
What was she doing having a bath when she knew we would be calling?
“A cup of tea, coffee?” Looking at my brother and me,
“Some juice for you?”
“Let the children play outside,” Ma smiled at the girls still hiding behind the curtains. “And I’ll have some tea.”
Mrs Chatterjee held me back with one hard hand while holding her baby with the other. “No! The children will not play. These girls,” pointing to the two behind the curtains, “are naughty. They are being punished.”

My brother and I sipped juice, getting fidgety.
Mrs Chatterjee was telling Ma how Elsie, the adivasi girl was not allowed in their house.
“Only outside work. Outside I say. She is Christian! I asked her where her husband was. She doesn’t say a word. I tell you she is not married. That black thing on her back is a bastard!”
We were quickly sent back home as whatever Mrs Chatterjee was saying was clearly making Ma quite uncomfortable.

It was quite the opposite in 4A where there was a Sikh Colonel, his wife and four children, Timmy, Simmy, Kimmy and Jewel.
They were a wild lot who had been everywhere. We spent a lot of time together as there was nothing else to do.
Our cars were in the same garage.
My brother and I would get into our red and white Herald, with me behind the wheel in sunglasses and a scarf whereas Timmy would get behind the wheel in his father’s car, with his sisters.
We would then race the parked vehicles.
They always won, because they were four of them and they could shout louder, “We WIN! We WIN!”
Parminder Singh and their Anoop Singh would also join in. “Come on! Come on! Baby,” Parminder would yell.
Anoop would hoot.

On other days when Timmy was bored he would come by in his chappals and shorts with his shirt never quite in and his long hair never quite done. Through his two missing teeth he would suck in his breath and half-yell half-sing his favourite Shammi Kapoor song:

Aaj kal tere mere pyaar ke charche har zabaan par,
Sab ko maaloom hai, sab ko khabar ho gayi!

“Go bray somewhere else,” Parminder would chide him.
Sometimes we could hear him running at breakneck speed with his mother behind him, with either a slipper or the Colonel’s baton.
If she were not really up to it, Anoop Singh would, in a couple of long strides, catch him and hand him over.
He would then be brought in for a court martial. “Sardarjee, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Timmy would then have to confess to pulling Simmy, Kimmy or Jewel’s plait or having said a bad word.
(‘Idiot’ was allowed but ‘Bloody Fool’ was certainly not) With three sisters what else could one do?

Timmy said that Mrs Chatterjee was a witch.
“She is not Joyshree and Maithali’s real mother. Their mummy died and then …” pausing dramatically, “their daddy got married again.”

Without any fear he would go up to their veranda and yell “JOY-SHREE, MAITHA-LEEE!”
“What is it?” Mrs Chatterjee would snap.
“We’ve come to play.”
All the while I would try and get a glimpse of her feet. Everyone knows that witches have their feet attached backwards!

With Ma in our veranda and Timmy’s mother in hers, Mrs Chatterjee had no choice but to call out the girls.
“Come back in exactly 30 minutes. Otherwise I shall fix you.” She was always saying that. “I shall fix you.”
But Joyshree and Maithali were quite unused to playing.
They would stand around awkwardly, clutching each other and die to get home in exactly 25 minutes.

Timmy also said that the well at the back was full of Muslim blood. “Who told you?” I gasped.
“I know. I know. Anoop Singh and the guards killed 10 of them yesterday and threw them in.”
“How do you know they are Muslims?”
“Oh! I can recognise them anywhere. They have red flaming eyes and purple tongues!”
I never went to the rear of the house after that.

Once, when my father and I were going for a stroll around the compound, I told him about the well.
“Daddy why are Muslims bad people? Why do you sleep with a gun? You want to kill them, don’t you?”
When I told Timmy very smugly that my father, yes my father, had told me that were only bad Indians and good Indians, Timmy didn’t agree. “You’re a baby that’s why your Daddy has told you this stupid fairy tale.”

“I’m going to stop you from playing with that boy Timmy,” said Ma. “He is filling your head with such stories.”

I then turned to the Chatterjees, first a bit hesitantly, and then a little more confidently.
But not once did Joyshree and Maithali come to my house.
They carried the baby the whole day. If he cried even once, Mrs Chatterjee would come and first give a tight slap to the girl who was carrying him and then cooing, take him away.
Even when their father returned home he would just carry the baby around, while Mrs Chatterjee would complain and complain about this and that.

“Why does your Daddy listen to her?” I would ask.
“You came first. Doesn’t your Daddy love you?”
“No, he loves Biswajeet. He’s a boy,” they would say.
“So?”
“We are just girls,” Joyshree, the older one, would tell me. “He’s special!”
“What’s special?” I persisted.
“He’s our brother.”
“So?” I had one too.

He was nicer than this cranky, soo-soo, potty baby.
At least he played.
This one just lay and stared at the wall or slept.
In fact, one day I pinched him when I found myself alone with him.
He was so shocked that he just looked at me.
I quickly glanced around and not finding anyone there, I pinched him again and this time he screamed and screamed.
I got quite a fright myself and hurriedly moved away.

“What happened? What happened to my little prince?” Mrs Chatterjee had asked in her baby voice, which she reserved for him. I was safe as long as her little prince could not speak.
But in my nightmares Biswajeet, all of six months, would be sitting up in his cot with his kohl-smudged eyes. Podgy and fair in his diapers, but in a man’s voice he would say,
“She! Yes, she is the one.”
Rocking each other Joyshree and Maithali would intone, “Never underestimate the power of little boys. Never ever!”
I would protest and I would deny my crime but each night they would throw me out of the compound to the mercy of those men who wanted us to speak Hindi or worse, to those purple-tongued Muslims.
“Naah, he’s not special,” I said. “He’s just a baby.”

“Were you happy when I was born?” I probed Ma.
“Was Daddy happy too? Were you happier when my brother was born?”
“I’m going to stop you from playing with those Chatterjee girls.
Their mother and her stupid ideas,” said Ma.
“When are we going to leave this God-forsaken place?”
Elsie stopped what she was doing.
She had heard Ma say this again and again.
With a jerk she adjusted the lolling baby and looked at Ma.
“What is this Memsahib? All the time you say, ‘When we go out?
When we go out?’
Who told you Memsahib, that it is different outside?”

Elsie was feeling very good these days.
She smiled a lot, flashing her white teeth.
She certainly had taken her revenge on Mrs Chatterjee.

A few days ago everyone in the compound — that is the Brars, the Guards, the Orderlies and us — had heard Mrs Chatterjee screeching, “You bitch! You Christian thief! Is this what those foreign priests taught you?
Stealing! Stealing my best silk sari! Hiding it with your baby!! What you think? I can’t see? I am blind?
Arre, I have big, big, Bengali eyes! You bitch, you…” She beat Elsie on her back and shoulder.
Elsie just flung the sari in question at Mrs Chatterjee who had nearly toppled over.
“Sahib diya. Sahib khush tha!”
Mrs Chatterjee shrank before our eyes and was suddenly half her size.

Then like a panther Elsie strode over to our veranda and picking up the broom, calmly began her day’s work.

********

Parukutty Amma – Sand In My Teeth

It was only two days ago that we had returned from Madras.
As the car had approached the house Ma had begun to shriek. I had cringed in the back seat holding on to my baby brother and had looked at my father in utter disbelief.
“Even Daddy doesn’t know what’s happening!” I thought, suddenly petrified.
Ma had to be dragged in and within minutes my father was on the phone asking if we could change our house on compassionate grounds.

Yes, I remembered the day.
The day everybody said that everything had changed.
I had been in the sandpit and Parukutty Amma, with my brother hoisted on her hip, was near the guava tree. She was coaxing him to drink from his bottle.
We had been but a few days in Trivandrum and everything seemed new and unfamiliar. Even our baby was fretful and cranky.
Parminder said that perhaps he missed Anjali because Parukutty Amma was so different from the cheerful, chatty Anjali. She rarely smiled but did her work well because Ma was always saying,
“Thank God, we found someone for the baby.”

She had no time to tell me stories of her village. There were no tales of little boys who never washed their hands.
Parukutty Amma looked like a brown sparrow with a tight little bun, always doing this and that and that and this. Her afternoon nap, when she spread out her mat on the veranda floor, was taken as seriously as her duties.

“What are you making?” Ma had asked me as she approached the sand pit in her white salwar and blue and yellow flowery kameez.
She had looked so pretty and warm on that morning.
Who was to know what would happen next.

Her dupatta, as usual, lay flung somewhere.
She would put it on only when Parminder came in or when we had visitors.
“Too damn hot!” she would say and remove it immediately.
“Cakes!” I had announced, “Come and have some. They are warm and freshly baked.”
And then her eyes had moved to Amma.
“What are you doing?”
I think she was surprised at seeing the burning twigs in Amma’s hand. There was no response. With her eyes closed Amma was waving the twigs around my brother.

In the next few minutes so much happened.
Ma ran to her and almost snatched the baby,
“Don’t you try anything funny. We don’t believe in all this!”
Amma gave up whatever she was doing and flung the twigs at Ma who recoiled with the baby in her arms.
For a moment it looked as if Ma was rooted to the ground then suddenly she turned and ran, along the way pulling me to the safety of our new house.

“You ignorant Punjabis,” Amma had watched us cower, fearing something we did not understand.
“I was only asking the Gods to make your child drink milk. Don’t you know boys are fragile creatures? They need special care. You disturbed my prayer. I curse you! And beware of the curse of a woman who leaves her young ones everyday to look after your spoilt ones.
You all,” she said through clenched teeth, “will never be happy here.”

With my brother still in her arms and me clinging to her kameez, Ma collected Parukutty’s little bundle of belongings and half threw and half kicked them out.
By now the baby was wailing and I could hear myself whining.
“Leave my house,” she screamed, her hair quite undone.
“Now! Otherwise I will call the Military Police.”

Parukutty picked up her things very calmly and left. It was almost as if she had never ever been there.
Ma had then sat down on the steps, drained of all her strength.
Her chest heaved and her breath was short and raspy and she had broken into ugly sobs.

“Ma,” I had begged. “Get up. Let’s go inside.”
But she had sat there with my brother in her lap till my father returned from work that evening.
When she did go in, she continued crying till we had to call the doctor.
“It’s just post-natal depression.
These modern convent-educated types have the luxury of this depression, you know. It’s a Western problem. Call her mother. She probably finds it too much. Baby, no ayah, new language.”

Ma, who had always gone around drawing open all the curtains in the morning now sat all day in her nightie keeping out the bright sunshine. Her mouth always sour and unbrushed.
She did not touch either my brother or me. In fact, when I went to her she looked at me with a vagueness that frightened me.
And more than once she had screamed, “Get out! Get out!” on seeing me. The betrayal was incomprehensible.

My father, with Parminder, tried managing it all but it was getting impossible. He was advised to take some casual leave.
“The change will do her good,” they all said.

A plan was made to drive to Madras and spend a week with Ma’s cousin, an army doctor.
On the morning of our departure I had watched my father get her into her travelling salwar kameez. She had looked just like my doll, limp and lifeless.
“Go bring your Ma’s comb and help me do her hair,” my harried father had said.
“Which sandals do you think Ma would like to wear?” I had busied myself folding things, putting them away.
After all it was such a long time since someone had needed me.

As the car had left the gates of the house, Ma had turned around.
I remember waiting anxiously for her to burst into tears but instead she had smiled at us,
“Sweetie, do you want a sandwich and some juice?”
There was a long silence in our car.

In the company of cousins and family Ma had played Ludo and she had gone shopping for buttons and ribbons with Aunty.
She had said that she was going to take out her sewing machine once we got back. In the mornings after I had helped oil massage my brother and had put him to nap, I would get down to my crayons and drawing and Ma would read her magazines.

My uncle had given her a talking too. “Come on! You are an Army Officer’s daughter. An Army Officer’s wife! Pull your self out of this self-pity business.”
Yes, Trivandrum had seemed very far away.

Everybody was so busy talking about it but nobody could tell me what was happening, except for Parminder.
He had come to fetch me from school on his bicycle where I had spent the morning chanting
“Tree-vaan-drum, Kotta-yum, Kooochi,” while Sister Melanie walked between the desks with a ruler,
“Louder, louder, faster, faster,” and so we had carried on, “Tree-vaan-drum, Kotta-yum, Kooochi,” till the bell rang.

Upon our return home I had busied myself setting out my wooden bright pink and blue tea set and invited Parminder to join me for a cup of tea.
“Sugar?” I had mimicked Ma.
“Three teaspoons,” Parminder Singh had replied.
Pretending to stir I had handed him a tiny cup.
Slurping, Parminder delicately held it in his large hands and said, “Good tea.”
“Why didn’t Anjali come with us?”
“She couldn’t because her family is in Wellington.”
“How come you always come?”
“I am a soldier. I go where my Officer Sahib goes.”
“Don’t you have a family?”
“Yes, I do in Punjab. I have a father, mother, two brothers, one sister and a wife and a munna. A little boy just like this one,” pointing to my brother who lay in his cot sleeping.
“Why aren’t they here with you, Parminder?”
“How can they be with me? Who will look after the land, the fields, the crops, the buffaloes?”
“Another cup?” I asked politely.
“Yes, yes another cup of your delicious tea, Memsahib.”
I had taken mine and settled down. “So what do you think is wrong with my Ma?”
Parminder had continued slurping.
I had repeated my question, desperately wanting an explanation.
“It’s these damned Madrasis,” he had burst out.
“Madrasis?”
“These short, black, thin people, they are Madrasis. Eating fish and rice. Arre, eat roti, daal shaal, meat. What is this fish and rice?
And coconut oil! My God! That coconut oil makes me want to vomit.”
“Is Sister Melanie a Madrasi?”
“That thin black sadi-bhooti, that sour puss with glasses? Who stands with a ruler when I come to fetch you? Of course she is Madrasi.
We Punjabis, we are seede saade bande, very straightforward people you know. Not like these too, too clever Southies.”
“Am I also Punjabi?” I had asked wanting very much to be like Parminder Singh.
“Arre, hasn’t your Daddy told you. You are a Punjabi. A good Punjabi from Kapurthala. And I tell you, that Madrasi ayah did jaadu-toona, on your mother.”

So overnight, upon our return from Madras, as soon as Ma had been dragged in shrieking, we left the house with the big, airy rooms and the shining, red oxide floors.
The house, which everybody said we were so lucky to have found.
The house with the large windows from which the sunlight streamed in and the dancing dust which I tried so hard to catch.
We left the rambling garden, the guava-laden groves and the frangipani trees.
The house and the walls that held the curse of Parukutty Amma.

********

Coup d’Etat – Sand In My Teeth

“Stop staring!” hissed Ma.
The girl had her eyes closed and her head was on his shoulder while he read his book. He held her hand on his thigh. I watched fascinated as his thumb massaged hers while he continued reading.
Dragging my eyes away, I whispered, “She’s not wearing anything underneath, is she?”
She made herself comfortable, squirming a little and then having found just the right position, sighed and kissed his ear lobe.

My father, who, till now, had been going through the newspaper and looking out of the window, suddenly got up.
“Want to stretch your legs?” he asked my brother who readily agreed. And then pulling me up, not giving me a chance to reply, he took us out of the compartment into the corridor.
“What cheapies!” exclaimed my brother.
“So you were watching,” I was surprised.
“Of course, I was. But not like you. With your mouth open!”
My father peered into the next compartment and invited a young Major, who was travelling with his wife and baby, to come out and stand in the corridor with us.
“We’ve two Germans with us,” I proudly informed him. He poked his head in, wished Ma and then, glancing at the Germans, hastily withdrew looking quite embarrassed. She must be all cuddled up with him, I smiled to myself.

We were on our way to Delhi. Leaving Ahmedabad behind, the train meandered through Rajasthan.
“We’re keeping good time,” my father said to the Guard who tipped his cap at him.
“Yes, sir. But when we come to Haryana Sir, kuch na kuch to hoga.”

Outside, the waves of heat swirled through the parched countryside. The buffaloes seemed the most comfortable, standing in muddy waters with just their heads above. They nonchalantly chewed cud and watched everything go by. Approaching the pond was a serpentine line of women ablaze in colour, carrying earthen pots. Oh to be in a tub of cold water or better still, under a strong shower and have the satisfaction of watching the red sand wash away.

Just this morning, the Germans had got on board with their enormous haversacks.
They were quite relieved to see that we spoke English. He was a doctor who had finished his Military Service and she was a student of architecture.
The ice broke within minutes of his ordering a thali for lunch. He suffered a nosebleed and my father got out at a station to get him some ice.
“That’s adventurous of you,” Ma had said watching him dip his chapatti into a red hot Rajasthani curry. We were eating our homemade sandwiches!

They had toured Rajasthan and after a break in Delhi were heading for Kullu.
They said what they had really liked about India was the gentleness of its people. “Always smiling,” said the doctor. “With so much poverty, still smiling.”

I’d never really seen foreigners that close.
On Janpath, bargaining for clothes or the better-dressed ones at the Intercontinental where Ma’s Delhi friends invited us for coffee. We never saw them in our Cantonments and some of the places where we lived were unknown even to Indians…..

The girl must have come from a good family to be a student of architecture.
But she wore this strange pyjama and a sheer cotton bandhini blouse. She was very thin but strong, as she managed to lift up her huge haversack all by herself. Her silver jewellery, her greasy hair all crunched up with what looked like a knitting needle made her so different from anyone I knew. She was a hippie and I liked her all the more for it.
She stroked his hair, kissed his earlobe, lit a cigarette for him, jumped up and pushed her haversack onto the berth above, revealing that she hadn’t anything on underneath and didn’t once look at us and wonder what we were thinking.
Watching them as discreetly as I could, I lost myself with the rolling of the train in a dream of carrying my own rucksack somewhere across the world with a man like this German. Her flat chest had given me some hope.

The train drew in at Rewari.
People got off. People got in. The guard blew his whistle. The train blew its whistle. But we were still in Rewari. There were no more passengers on the platform but it was teeming with young, loud, raucous, and aggressive boys.

“What’s happening?” We could hear the Guard being questioned. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“You are not moving because we are not allowing you to move,” replied a boy with particularly bad skin, who was walking about rather importantly. This was followed by a great deal of laughter.
A pack of them approached the train windows. The bogey door was hurriedly shut and then the passengers banged shut their individual compartment doors.
“Put down your glass windows,” rushed in the Guard. “But don’t put down the wire mesh windows. You must be able to see outside. These boys set a train on fire last week.”

A train on fire!
One of them saw my fear and came near me as I struggled with the window, in panic. Stroking my arm, he murmured something that I did not understand. But his look made me recoil.
My father lunged at him but he merely stepped back, out of reach and looked mockingly at us. Pulling the jammed window down my father snapped, “Don’t sit here.” I moved closer to Ma.
The Germans were bewildered. “Where are the police?”

Hearing a foreign voice one of them shouted out to the others, “Oho! Oho! Look here! We have a firangi here. Arre! A Goddamn firangi!” Then putting on what he thought was an American accent, “Want to give, baby? Arre, give, give!”
A call from his friends distracted the lout and he moved away.

“Why isn’t the train moving? What the hell is happening?”
We were told that some of the boys were lying across the tracks. Their college was on strike and they wanted to travel ticket less to the next station. Some of them whooped and jumped onto the roof. Others screamed expletives and thumped the sides of the train. And we were all locked up, waiting for the train to move.

I avoided looking out of the window so that I would not make eye contact.
Ma said that would only encourage them to misbehave further.
“You!” he pointed to the German girl. “This is not for you” pointing to his crotch.
He was clever enough to keep his distance and yet could be seen clearly.
“You look like my younger brother. No hips, no breasts.” She turned her back to him. Not understanding a word but understanding it all. “And you!” he pointed to me, “I’ll come back for you in a few years.”
I cringed.

My father sat impassive with his fists on his knees.
The enormity of his rage was there in his clenched jaw and expressionless eyes. By now they were all rolling with laughter and a few others were standing outside, looking at us and urinating in full view. The first boy moved on. We could not see him but could only hear him. “This is for you my love. My beautiful Bobby. My Dimple Kapadia.”

A terrible roar brought us all to our feet.
The Major in the next compartment was getting his rifle out of his bedroll. “I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’ll kill each one of you bastards! Talking to my wife like that!”
“Arre chutiya! Robh jamana fauj mein, idhar nahin!”

The Guard who had been trapped in our bogey and my father, who had rushed into the next compartment, tried to calm him down.
“We’ll use the rifle later,” my father told the Major.
To the Guard he yelled, “Start the damn train. So what if they are lying on the tracks. Run them over.”
“But Sir, each time we start, they pull the chain!”

The boys outside saw the argument inside and thumped the train.
They pulled at the doors and windows trying to get in. The Guard blew the whistle. The train let out long hoots and with a violent jerk, which sent us sprawling, it started.
They began pelting us with stones.

Ma pushed both of us down but one came crashing through the window and hit her. Shards of glass flew through the cramped space of the compartment. We shrieked. The boys were so excited with the mayhem they had caused that they rushed towards the train holding on to the bars of the windows and trying to get a foothold on the doors.

The train gathered momentum.
It gathered speed. Outside the boys kept thrashing at the windows.
I watched my father and the Major open the windows and with the rifle butt and their shoe heels grind their fingers till they gave up and fell away.
They yelled at their mates who had managed to get in, to pull the chain.
Other passengers tried preventing the boys from doing so. There was pandemonium.
“Use your gun,” said my father with unimaginable coldness. “Use it!” This was a man I had never seen before.
This is what he must be like when he went to war.

The Major took aim. With his ruddy complexion and brown beard he was a burly cheerful giant when we had met him in the corridor.
It had been easy to picture him laughing with a steel glass of lassi in his hand, seated on a tractor. Maybe his brother had inherited the land….
He crinkled his eyes and fired. Everyone fell away.
There seemed to be a space around him and his weapon was simply an extension of him.
Everybody’s eyes seemed to be on those solid hands that were moulded to the rifle.

Those outside let go, preferring to fall off from a speeding train rather than getting shot.
The Major fired again.
The hooligans inside quickly and quietly sat down, hoping to disappear amongst the passengers. But the irate passengers were not going to be bullied any more. They were all rounded up and bundled into the toilets, which were then locked from the outside.

It was over.
The horror of the past few hours was suddenly and immediately over. All it needed was a gun.

The hooligans suddenly turned meek….
“Sorry Sirji! Sorry Sirji!” they begged from inside.
But when they were handed over to the Railway Police, at the next station, they turned insolent and threatening again.
Making obscene gestures at us, they swaggered off,
“We’ll be back after a cup of hot tea with our chachas!” The policemen pushed them along, looking sheepish.

From then onwards until we reached Delhi, someone or the other kept coming into our compartment to thank and congratulate my father and the Major for handling the situation so well. Others just came to stare.
A middle aged man, resplendent in his white kurta pyjama, silver and pearl rings on his pinkie fingers, suddenly appeared. In a voice that was as greasy as the cold pakoras sold on the station, he said, “Myself, Shukla. Harish Chandra Shukla.”
With an elaborate Namaskar and more than a lingering glance at the girl’s bandhini blouse he made himself comfortable on our berth and appointed himself our social secretary.
“You!” pointing to a man who was still deciding whether he should come forward.
“Say what you want and move on. Others are waiting, bhai.”
To another passenger he declared, “Colonel Sahib has had tension day, now let him rest.”

With everyone back in their seats he turned to my father
“You military people must take over, sir. This country is going to the dogs. Just because these boys are supporters of the local MLA they create havoc every other day. They want to travel ticket less to the next station. Nobody can touch them. Nobody! Arre! Three police officers have been transferred in the past year. Sabki pant utaar di.”

Then he turned his attention to the two foreigners.
“Where are these people from?”
Upon learning that they were Germans he exclaimed,
“Germany! What a country! Your Hitler was such a great man. May God bless us with one!”

Bonking in Poona – Sand In My Teeth

“Come on, men,” said Lydia cycling furiously.
“Coming, coming,” I panted after her.
Behind us, Parminder Singh was losing his patience.
“Ma ne keya seega chetti aana, baby.”
This was really irritating. No matter where we were, Trivandrum, Ahmedabad, Dehradun or Poona, Parminder Singh always said, “Ma has asked me to bring you home as soon as possible.”
Now here was the prettiest girl of my class, Lydia Quinn, all golden hair and blue eyes inviting me to her house to see her pet squirrels and I had a nagging Sikh soldier pedalling behind me.
An 11-year-old didn’t need a chaperone!

Of course there were days when Parminder was a sport.
When Ma and my father were out in the evenings and the uniform had been set for the next day. With no more chores to be done, Parminder played hours of Monopoly with us.
“Piccadilly! I want Piccadilly,” he would go on and on.
He had heard of Piccadilly from his cousin Kartar Singh, who was a bus conductor in London.
Dipping his potato chips into ketchup, the otherwise cool-as-a-cucumber Parminder would go about building houses, hotels and collecting rent with maniacal determination.

Piccadilly stood for money, ambition, power and distant dreams.
The possession of Piccadilly in Monopoly allowed Parminder to have it all.
This tall, broad-shouldered 36-year-old Sikh from Jalandhar district had always wanted to be a fauji. One was either a farmer or a soldier in his family. The smarties went to Ludhiana district to do
‘bij-ness’ and the bolder ones who could live without their mothers went far away to ‘Valait’.
“A good Sikh can go anywhere, fight anyone, do anything but not live without his mother.”

So for Parminder Singh it had to be the Army.
It gave him respect, which he was acutely aware of since boyhood, witnessing the welcome his village bestowed on returning soldiers. And better still, it allowed him a two-month annual leave to visit his family.

He came back with stories of the village pehlwan who drank five seers of lassi, and how his farts and burps could be heard till the next village. And the time when he went to see his prospective bride who had wanted a soldier husband. He had been so relieved to see that she was ‘dudh jaie’, milky white, when she revealed her hand through the curtain.

My brother and he often hand-wrestled while I was referee. Occasionally, Parminder would allow my brother to win.
“Must drink some of that Bournvita,” he would say. “I’m losing my touch!”

But today he was being a grump and coming in my way.
He didn’t seem to understand the importance of Lydia Quinn.
Lydia had fascinated me from the day I had joined school. So did Tracey Merriman, Ingrid Free and Daisy Robson. They were truly different from anyone I had seen in my last six schools.

One day, at Break, I offered Lydia my ham sandwich which she had been eyeing, and asked her when had she come from England to live in Poona.
“I’ve always lived here, men,” she said taking a big bite.
That, I guess, explained why she didn’t have an English accent.
Now I was going to her house. I had only seen the English in films. To think I was being invited to her home!

Enid Blyton wrote in her books, which I regularly devoured, that your hands and knees had to be clean before tea (this tea was a big thing with them) and I was all grimy after school.
God! I worried. Will they all turn up their noses at me?
“How do you do Mr Quinn? How do you do Mrs Quinn?”
I practiced as we cycled up the Prince of Wales Road, coming to the end of the Cantonment where we turned into a by lane.
The bungalows were no longer white washed with neatly trimmed hedges and lawns. They seemed instead, to be divided and subdivided with rotting plywood partitions. Old furniture lay piled in corners of scraggy gardens and the washing was also strung up, in front.

Were we going in from the service entrance?
Oh no! Her family believed in Dogs-and-Indians-not-allowed.
Nana had told me that during the days of the Raj, even the rich and educated Indians were not allowed into the clubs and homes of the British. I was quite comforted that Parminder was with me. Maybe I should prepare some sort of speech, like Mahatma Gandhi.

Lydia swung into a drive and screeched to a halt on the gravel.
“Hi men,” she waved to a man sitting on a broken chair in his vest and shorts, with a pair of garden shears by his side.
“Hi Lyds!” he answered, pulling the grey hair on his chest.
“Hi,” he grinned at me, not bothering to stand up.
Parminder stood at the gate leaning on his cycle, observing it all.

We entered the house from the kitchen.
So I was right! She was bringing me in through the service entrance.
“Hi Grans,” Lydia said hugging an old, dark lady in a frock. “What’s cooking?”
“Chicken curry, men,” said Grans.
These people seemed quite nice, I thought, what with being so affectionate with their staff.
No SolaTopees and no whips in sight. Yes I know that India was Proud-and-Independent but Ma always said, “Old habits die hard.”

Lydia seemed a good, humble English girl. “Come! Come! I’ll show you Chip and Munk.”
Meandering through a messy house, with children everywhere, we came to an enclosed verandah.
Lydia’s room. Where was the chintz? The eiderdown? The stuffed toys? This didn’t look like anything out of ‘Woman & Home’! In a big cardboard box were two squirrels, fat and happy to see Lydia.
Jumping on her shoulder and then onto her head, we ran out with them into the garden, squealing and laughing.
Mongrels, parrots, partridges and rabbits all lived in the great, big mess of the Quinn house.

“Where are your parents?” I asked nervously.
“You met my Dad outside and my Granny in the kitchen. Mum will be coming any minute.” And sure enough in walked a pretty English lady in a printed frock and a string of pink beads around her neck.

“Mummy!” screamed Lydia.
“What for you shouting, men?” said the English lady. “What for?”
Lydia and her siblings were neatly divided into two colours. She and her younger brother looked like Mummy. While an older sister and brother looked like Granny and Dad.
Quite confused, I cycled back with Parminder Singh. “What a strange English family,” I said.

“Angrez!” snorted Parminder Singh.
“These are no Angrez. There were bad Indian woman who did bad things with Angrez men. Even the grandmother was wearing a frock! Queen of England, if you please.”

Poona had the Anglos, “Things were so good when the British were here, men. We’re leaving for Australia next week, men.”
“Ya, go go you Tommies!” the Marathas would say.
They themselves had all directly descended from Shivaji, that warrior you know, who was the only one, this side of the Deccan, who fought those bloody, temple-breaking Moghuls.
“Hindu buggers,” laughed the Parsis,
“Arre British toadies,” said the others
“Can you imagine they gave up their surnames because the British found it easier to call them by the jobs they did? Sodawallah! Saala!”

Poona was such a delicious chutney.
Everyone laughed at each other and had a great time.
Marzipan sandwiches; Rajesh Khanna movies; Knock-Three-Times belting away at Jam Sessions. Oh! Sister Christine, what would you have done?

Then I learnt that everybody was doing it.
Doing it.
At first I thought only the Anglos did it. What with their morals and all. Then I learnt they all did.
“Lucy Cooper bonked Derek last night in the club bogs, men.”
“Nooo,” said Lydia, “Can’t be, men! She’s going around with Johnny.”
“I’m telling you men,” insisted Tracey.
“What? What?” I blurted, not understanding a word. “What’s bonked?”
“Stupid!” they giggled.

In the evening I met my Army friends at the club.
Samir knew it all.
He was two years older than me and read James Hadley Chase and Nick Carter.
“Samir,” I whispered during Hathi Mere Sathi, “what’s bonked?”

Samir drew back as if he had received an electric shock. Then composing himself, his Adam’s apple popping up and down,
“Why do you ask?”
I explained the conversation at school and after a thought he said, “Remember Champ and Leila, when they were joined together, that’s bonking.”

Yes, I remembered that well.
Champ had got on to Leila and then somehow they were back to back and Leila was yelping. The Orderlies were laughing their heads off and I don’t know why but Samir’s mother was so embarrassed she kept pushing me inside.
All I had wanted to do was separate the two because poor Leila was in such pain.
“You will do no such thing,” said Samir’s mother literally dragging me in.

Okay, so that was bonking.
But Lucy and Derek in the club bogs, back to back with Lucy screaming seemed quite difficult to believe.

“Oh come,” I said.
“People do it too.”
“Oh yeah who? Anglos?” That explained Lucy and Derek.
“Them!” said Samir, pointing to an unsuspecting middle aged couple deeply engrossed in the film.
“Nooo. How do you know?”
“Them, them and them!” said Samir waving his arms about till he got a knock on his head from an Officer seated behind.
“Shut up, boy.”
“Sorry Uncle,” said Samir.
Then whispering he said, “Him too!”
To imagine them all back-to-back, with all the aunties screaming was quite terrifying.
We watched Rajesh Khanna in silence.
“But why Samir?”
“For fun, man.”
“Fun?” I was incredulous. “Fun!!”
“Yes! Fun! And when you want kids.”
“Kids!!” This was getting worse.
“Yes, how do you think you came about?”
“SAMIR!!” I yelled forgetting where I was.
“SSSHHH!”
“Not my Ma and Daddy. Okay I KNOW! NOT MY Ma and Daddy.”
WHACK.
“Oh yeah?” I glared at the Officer behind me. “I know what YOU do.”

••••••

A Complete Family – Sand In My Teeth

I looked curiously at the little bundle as the nurses gathered around us.
“We are going to keep this little boy, this chinnha tambi,” they giggled.
“We are not going to send him home.” I couldn’t believe it! Even Ma was
smiling.
“No!” I said very calmly and clearly. “He is mine.”

Just this morning Anjali had rushed me through breakfast.
“How long are you going to take to eat that egg? Come, hurry, hurry.
Don’t you want to see your little brother? You are a very, very lucky girl, you know.”
Then losing patience, “Okay, okay, leave it. Let me wipe your face. You have egg around your mouth.”
Hustling, bustling, Anjali had cleared up. She had taken me to the kitchen sink and with her hard,bony,
wet fingers deftly wiped my mouth and then with the corner of her sari dried it.

She would have never done that if Ma had been here.
First, she would have dabbed my mouth with a serviette, then gone to the bathroom where, a pretty
convent hand-embroidered towel would have been used…. but today was different. Anjali was in charge.

Anjali with her long arms and legs, her jaggery-brown smooth skin and her thick rope plait that had a
life of its own! Sometimes swishing back and forth as she rushed about her work or lying primly against
her soft plop-plop breast as she sat me in her lap.

“Once I have the baby,” Ma would say, “I’m going to get down on my haunches and mop the floor like
Anjali. None of those ‘Woman & Home’ exercises for me. Mop, mop, mop. Firm hips and good breasts!”
Anjali would throw back her head and laugh, blush and laugh some more.

Now she pushed the party frock over my head with one hand and with the other tried pulling the arm out
of the puffed sleeve.
“Oh! Ho! Girl, come to life!”
“You are being so rough!” I complained. “And why are we rushing?”
“Why are we rushing? Why are we rushing? Arre! We are rushing because we have been blessed with a
brother. BROTH-THER! You understand? Not everyone is lucky to have a brother. You know Bhagwanji looks
down and sees a good girl. ‘Oh! Ho! That’s a good girl,’ he says, ‘Give her a brother!’ I don’t know
what you have done. Because I have neverever, neverever known you to be a good girl. Have you ever
said a prayer? No, never! Even your Ma. Never! But then you must have done something because he’s
decided to give you one.”
A matching hair band was then found and stuck on. A crisp white-initialled handkerchief pinned on my
chest. Lacy socks and white shoes.
“Ready! You are finally ready! Come, come.” Anjali had been so excited.

Actually, the excitement had begun last evening with my father’s appearance.
He was smiling, as usual, but something was different. He had picked me up and had waltzed me up and
down the living room.
I had had dinner by myself for the very first time, feeling truly alone.
Anjali had been nervous and snappy, “Where is your father?” She would say one minute and then, “Eat,
girl, eat. When there will be two, you will have to look after yourself. Your Ma and I will be very,
very busy. No running after you and saying ‘Eat, eat.’ You are a big girl. Three years old! Imagine
three years old.”

Now with my father here she could no longer contain herself, “What is it Sahib? What is it?”
“We have a baby brother!” my father had announced grandly.
Anjali had clapped her hands and laughed. “Thank God! Thank God!”
Parminder Singh had looked so pleased.
“With God’s grace the family is complete,” they repeated over and over again.
I had not known that we were incomplete. Daddy, Ma and me.
It had always sounded complete.
The excitement slowly got to me. “When can I see him?”
“Tomorrow!”

Then he had poured two glasses of a beautiful red liquid from the casks that he had got from Goa.
Two years ago, my father had been among the first paratroopers to land in Goa and it had been set free
from a tiny country somewhere in Europe.
“We’ve thrown the damn British out. And the Portuguese think we’ll let them stay?”
Now sitting on his knee I had drunk to Ma and my new brother.

I had not seen Ma for three days. It was strange to wake up in the morning and see my father have tea
all by himself. I would stand uncertainly at the door, all crushed and sleepy, and he would pull the
bed sheet aside and get me wrapped up. All cuddled, I would sip warm cardamom milky tea looking out of
the windows at the gently rolling blue hills of Wellington. The morning mist would clear away to bright
sunshine.

Every now and then my father would look up from his newspaper, “No spilling milk on my bed,” and I
would reply with all the seriousness and responsibility, “No Daddy.”
Parminder Singh would come in carrying an enamel mug of boiling water, “Shave, sir,” and click his
heels.

While my father shaved and I sipped my tea Parminder Singh would lay out the uniform and go through the
whole drill of buffed shoes, ribbons and medals.
One for fighting with the Chinese in 1962, one for Goa, also in 1962, one for serving in Kashmir, one for….
“Can I wear one please?” I would beg.
“You can’t wear one till you earn it,” Parminder would admonish me, lovingly hooking them on.

“Did I tell you about our neighbour’s cow?” Anjali would ask. “The cow that was actually my dead
grandfather. Arre baba! What a fright we got when it called out to my grandmother, ‘Stupid woman! Get
me fresh hay! Another day of this stinking hay and I will kick you’.”
“How did you know it was your grandfather?”
“Arre! Who else could dare call my grandmother stupid?”

My favourite story was about the little boy who refused to wash his hands
Even after potty. “Wash your hands! Wash your hands! But no! One day he burped. How he burped! And
Ohmygod, Ohmygod thousands and thousands of worms came out of his mouth. All tumbling and tumbling,
fat ones and long ones, pinkie ones, brownie ones…”

I missed Ma most before bedtime so they all made much of the nightly ritual of laying a trap for mice.
They would put a large piece of cheese in the wooden trap and put it in the kitchen. I wouldn’t let
them put a roti as the English people in my storybooks always left cheese for their mice.

“Aha! Your mouse is a Sahib, is he?” Parminder would say. Ramrod-straight in the presence of my father
he could turn into one laughing beard and turban with me. “No roti-shoti for him! Only cheese! What a
shaukeen mouse! What a dandy he must be.”

Next morning they would check if there had been any visitors and invariably there would be a big, ugly
fellow in the trap. Nothing at all like the sweet ones in my storybooks.
Parminder would go out with it.
“Where are you taking it?” I would ask with some anxiety.
“To his Mummy, where else?”

This morning Anjali and I had locked the house and we had half-run, half-walked down the slopes till we
came to the stream where our dhobi, with his wife and daughters, was washing clothes on huge, big
stones.
Mid-morning usually meant a trip to the dhobi family to deposit our laundry bundle and catch up with
the gossip. He had stopped what he was doing and looked at me all dressed up in my party frock. But he
had spoken to Anjali.

“A chinnha tambi, is it? Captain Sahib must be very happy.”
Then looking at his wife: “Any man would be happy.”
But she had continued thrashing the sheets on the stone.

The dhobis had already heard about the fright that Ma had given everyone a few days ago.
We had gone visiting one of Ma’s friends, the one who always wore smart-looking slacks, matching
blouses and had a mop of curly-curly hair. “Permed,” they said. “Ava Gardner if you please!”
After saying bye Ma had tripped and fallen down a long flight of stairs and landed in one heap at the
bottom. I had watched her roll, helpless and frozen.
Her friend had given one long, blood-curdling scream and run down after her. Cradling her head, she had
yelled out instructions,
“Bring some water. Can’t you see she needs water? You! Come here! Sit here with Memsahib. I’ll call the ambulance.”
Someone had scooped me up and had bobbed me up and down.
“Hush, hush.” I wasn’t saying a word. But still, “Hush, hush.”
Ma had moaned, “I think I’m going to lose it.”
Her friend consoled her while desperately jabbing the phone,
“Be brave, be brave. Hold on! I know it’s a boy. I know it.”
Ma was not glowing and most certainly looked worn out. These were good signs. These were signs of a
baby boy’s arrival.

I had suddenly found my voice, “But I want a sister.”
I hadn’t really, really thought about it. But it did seem a good option.
“No!” Ma’s friend had glared at me. “Say I want a brother. I want a brother.”

Did it all depend on my saying it?

Now standing in the stream with the dhobis, Anjali had grinned, “Yes, yes we’re going to see Memsahib
and the chinnha tambi.”
The dhobi’s wife had looked up from her work, “You look very happy, Anjali. What are you going to get?”
She herself was certainly not a happy sort.
Always looking, always watching and always touching if I had worn something new. But never saying it
was nice.
“A sari with a big gold border. I told Memsahib if it were a boy I would take a sari. ‘Boy or girl,
Anjali you will get a sari,’ Memsahib has promised. Come!” turning to me, “We must go.”

But then she herself couldn’t resist one last juicy bit.
Drawing me close to her and hiding my face in the folds of her sari she revealed, “You know she had an
operation. They had to cut her up. I told her, ‘Eat ghee, eat ghee Memsahib. Otherwise how will it
slide out?’
But she would turn up her nose. It smells, she said. It smells! Imagine pure home-made ghee smelling.”
The dhobi’s wife smirked,
“Operation, huh? All cut up? Mine just slid out
and that too without ghee.”

Then waving in the general direction of her daughters and me, “These just slide out. It’s the precious
boys that give you so much grief.”
Muttering she had got back to work,
“If there is no pain, if there is no screaming, how will we know the chinnha Raja has arrived?”

A Matter Of Honour – Sand In My Teeth

Every now and then, the distant sound of guns would send a rumble and shudder through our tiny basha, nearly toppling the lantern. Outside, the drone of the trucks and tanks to and from the Front would carry on and on. The crunching sounds of the gravel would make it seem as if the soldiers were just outside.

Then, one day, “Ma, Ma,” I whispered. “It’s stopped. I can’t hear the trucks!”
Ma awoke with a start and jumped out of her bed. Peering through a sliver of glass where the black paper had peeled off, she tried to see what was happening. The stillness was unnerving. We had actually grown to find comfort in the constant hum of rolling tanks. It meant our soldiers were still outside.

“What is it? What is it?” asked my brother. Sssh!
Oh God! What was the matter?
Someone appeared at the window and gave us a terrific fright! It was Parminder Singh! “Memsahib, come out quickly. The siren will go off any minute.”

At that very second the siren began its wail.
Scrambling for shoes and torches, listening to that terrible sound, which somehow always incapacitated me, we rushed out.
Prabhu had Chippy on a leash.
The bitter cold and this late night haul didn’t seem to dampen his spirits at all. He rushed towards us, pulling Prabhu along. Parminder literally pushed us into a trench and we landed with quite a thud. Chippy jumped on top of us.
“Get the dog out,” raged Ma.

Overhead, the fighter planes screamed through the air.
Chippy began a mad digging spree. With all this fresh soil, he just couldn’t resist.
Dig, dig, dig.
The three of us desperately tried to get out of the hole with mud all over us.
” Don’t worry,” said Parminder trying not to laugh, “The Pakistanis are such lalloos, they will run when they see our pagal kutta.”

We sat next to a hedge, under a tree, watching the Pakistani planes roar by, leaving trails of smoke.
Our own planes chased them across the black but star-studded skies. It was such an unreal feeling — almost like watching a war film.
“Kill him!” we screamed. “Kill the bloody fool.”
“Bloody fool” was allowed only for Pakistanis.
One could call them “Bastard” when one turned 15. Ma, of course, called them that all the time.

No one wanted to go in as the lanterns threw such terrifying figures on the wall. With the sunshine streaming in, these very rooms were so cheerful.
So we waited for dawn.
Chippy was fast asleep in the trench while we sat on our veranda drinking Prabhu’s tea.
A familiar Jonga drew in.
“Daddy! Daddy!” we rushed out. My father jumped out before the vehicle could stop and enveloped us in a big warm parka hug.

Was it only a fortnight ago? I had chanted over and over,
“No more Algebra, No more Geometry,
No more sleeping in Sister Christine’s dormitory!
No more forks, no more spoons,
No more sitting in dull class rooms!”

“Okay, okay, five minutes of quiet please,” Ma had begged.
But my brother had begun,
“Old Macdonald had a farm,
Eeyaa eeyaaaaa yooo!
And on that farm…”
The driver had grinned into the rear view mirror, enjoying himself. He had never got a chance to drive the Colonel Sahib’s Jonga, earlier, as he was too junior. But now, with the others away at the Front, he was driving the Colonel’s Sahib’s family from Bakhloh to Pathankot where they were to catch the train to Delhi.
War was in the air and it was safer to be far away in the Plains.

“Why don’t you look out of the window? See if the one-tonner is behind us? Have a sandwich, but just shut up for a while.”
Ma had seemed not quite herself since my father had left Bakhloh with the Regiment.
We ourselves were leaving Bakhloh a month later, on a chilly November morning.
My brother, Ma and I had got into a jeep with Ashok Khanna, my favourite Second Lieutenant of the Regiment and the driver. The one-tonner who followed us was loaded with our trunks, bedrolls, Parminder, Prabhu and Chippy.

As we drove towards the gate of our long, winding drive, we looked back at the beautiful bungalow, which had been our home for a year. The orchard, the chapel, the apple blossom-lined drive, the stables of the White Colonel Sahib which the Brown Colonel Sahib had used for his chickens.
The Officers’ Mess! What fun we had on the rare occasions when we children had been invited to the Mess. All dressed and so grown up. I was allowed two Coca Colas on those evenings.
“The glasses are tiny!” I had complained. And those salted peanuts with onions that only a Mess cook knows how to do just right. Perpetually chapped lips and salted peanuts! What a heavenly combination!

With the melting of the snows the lilac rhododendrons had appeared. The cherry blossoms lay scattered everywhere and the bright yellow butterflies had brought in spring.
And with spring came the Holi party.
It had been some party. We children ran around with little pouches of gulal, smearing it on each other, squealing and screaming. Every officer, followed by his wife with no exceptions, was invited or pushed in for a dunking in a huge tub filled with dark ominous purple water.

The Regimental song:
“Mere sapno ki rani kab aayegi tu?
Yeh rut mastani. kab aayegi tu?
Chali aa, tu chali aa…”
was sung with such gusto and emotion by our parents that it caught us children by surprise.

Titch, the shortest officer in the Regiment, had got up to dance as everybody sat on the grass and clapped.
Anil Yadav, the handsomest, had followed.
Some eyebrows were raised when one of the new Young Wives had got up to circle a 10-rupee note around their heads.

This was the wife who had recently arrived at a Mess party in a green chenille salwar kameez and red sandals. I remember the Second in Command’s wife turning to the Adjutant’s and whispering, “I leave you to transform this young thing into an Officer’s Wife.”
Had there been enough time?

Then, getting into cars or strolling up the hill to our house, The Gun House, with beer and rum bottles in hand, they had demanded lunch. Ma and Prabhu churned out omelettes and chips and more omelettes and chips! Thank God we had all those hens.

This very Lieutenant, who now sat so seriously in the front seat of the Jonga escorting us to Pathankot, had in a hoarse drawl sung all the popular film songs.
He was quite special, was Ashok Khanna.
When we went to the Mess he would ask me in a voice as warm as pudding, “Ma’am, what can I get you? A Coke or is it a juice?”
He was a lot of fun too.
During the Regiment’s Raising Day Dinner, when Ma was the imperious Queen Of Sheba demanding a ride on a new motorcycle parked outside, he had driven it in through the hall of the grand Mess into the ante room over beautiful carpets and polished wooden floors and the brought it to a dramatic halt before her.

However on Sundays, when I went hurtling down the hill with my feet on the handlebars of my red bicycle, my eyes shut tight and the breeze ripping through my hair, he would stand in his shorts, on the Batchelor Quarter lawns and yell, “Open your eyes you stupid girl!”
“What is it to you?” I would yell back in my chi-chi best.
“Some poor Regiment driver is going to get court marshalled for knocking down the CO’s daughter. OPEN YOUR EYES!!”

Now nearly out of Bakhloh, down the hill past the empty barracks, the Parade Ground, the Quarter Guard. Bakhloh, it seemed, had turned overnight into a ghost town. The men had all gone! Had they known? Had the grown ups known that Holi and kept it from us?

Pathankot had always meant the point from where you went up or went down. Up to the Mountains or down to the Plains. Pathankot was the place where you got things, which were not available in the Canteen.
But this time, Pathankot also meant War.

There were military vehicles everywhere.
The railway station was crowded with soldiers, soldiers and more soldiers. Trunks, bedrolls, haversacks, guns. And the endless sound of boots.
Ma, my brother and I sat on a bench on the Pathankot Station platform waiting for the train to arrive for Delhi. Parminder Singh held an excitable Chippy on a leash; Prabhu and the Jonga driver made a ring around us.
Ashok Khanna brought Ma some magazines and then he took both us children to see the engine.

We had played a game of identifying the Regiments by the berets the soldiers wore. It seemed as if everyone was there. The Marathas, the Rajputana Rifles, the tall Military Police men, the short and smart Ghurkhas and our Sikhs.

Once in a while, Ashok spotted another officer he knew and then there was much hugging and shaking of hands.
“We’ll show the bastards,” they said again and again. There were many families like us going home to the safety of the Plains.
The women, dressed in saris and shawls, their arms wrapped around themselves, would come up and chat.

“Sudha and her boys left last night. Daljeet is at the Front.”
“Brigadier RP has moved his Brigade to Chamb.”
“I’m going to my parents. God knows how long this will go on.”
“Lucky you! I’m going to my in laws.”
“My husband said that the Pakistanis are so ill prepared. They won’t dare.”
“You know Yahya is such a drunk, he is never sober enough to give orders.”
“Arre, he doesn’t need to give orders. He gets his orders from the Americans.”
“Niazi, of course, is busy raping the Bengalis. Imagine! Doing that to your own people.”

At this point Ma would ask Parminder to take us to see if the train had come in.
“What is raping?” I had asked Ashok Khanna. He had looked quite flustered.

Patriotic and enthusiastic young boys with paper flags around their arms had come around offering tea and dry fruit to any one in a uniform.
“Bloody civilians!” muttered Ashok helping himself to a packet of cashews. “They’re scared shitless. Once it’s all over they’ll forget us.”
“Arre Sir, enjoy it while the going is good.”

Chippy had begun to tug at his leash, whining and wagging his tail. In that sea of olive green uniforms he recognised my father.
Everything had become quiet and everyone had disappeared. It was just the four of us again.
Ma had finally smiled after frowning and eating cardamoms for over a month. She soon replaced these with cigarettes.
“Don’t go to Delhi,” my father had said.
“Whaaat?” I remembered we all had screamed, quite excited.
“I can arrange a basha. You know, a barrack. One of those temporary accommodations, an hour away from where we are positioned. I’ll get permission. I’ll do something. The local Brigade Commander’s wife is also there with her three children. There’s going to be no bloody war.”

“Coming, or not coming?” he had asked.
“Coming,” said Ma.
“Coming! Coming!” we both had shouted.
The decision was made and we were off.
My father strode ahead with my brother and Ma followed with me. The Lieutenant herded the men, the dog and baggage.
“Where are you going?” asked several wives.
When we told them, they laughed. “Lucky children,” they said, hugging us. “Going off with your Daddy.”

It was most important I learnt: To stick to your Daddy. As he himself said, “Here today. Gone tomorrow.”

We had settled in our new basha in Damana, a Cantonment nestled along river Ravi, only 12 kilometres from the Pakistani border. Bachelor Officers had previously used our accommodation of three interconnected rooms with a bathroom. Our kitchen was the Mess kitchen, a good 50 feet away.

It was a bright and sunny winter and we spent the entire day outside, on the Mess lawns, making New Year cards, wrestling with Chippy, playing Monopoly and eating oranges.
At sunset the Black Out would keep us indoors.
The most appropriate game to play was Dark Room. The Brigade Commander’s children with their Orderly and we with Parminder, managed to scare each other with much screaming.
Prabhu did his bit by appearing at the window pretending to be the ghost of an Officer who we had been told had been shot in his bathtub. Chippy could always be counted on to add to the mayhem.

On the third of December, we were having a dinner of baked beans and fried eggs with the radio on. Prabhu sat on his haunches making toasts on the heater. Preparations for dinner were always hurried as even Prabhu wanted to be near us, not 50 feet away in the Mess kitchen. Long Indian meals were reserved for lunch.
During the day things were different and at night…well, things felt different. Parminder Singh stood at ease, watching us eat. He was also trying to convince Ma to put in a word for him.

“Memsahib, if there is war, I must fight with the Regiment.”
He couldn’t possibly go back to his village and tell them all he had done during the War was to look after the Colonel Sahib’s family.
Prabhu was preparing his own brief.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I am just a cook. But I am a Military cook. I will cook for them at the Front.”

Lieutenant Ashok Khanna was already at the Front. He had spent the entire Jonga journey from Pathankot to Damana working on my father. He had begged him to detail someone else to look after the families.

Outside, the trucks and jeeps droned on and on. Every quarter of an hour the guard went by “Hoshiar! Beware!”

Then suddenly there came a sound. Nothing, absolutely nothing, like I had ever heard in my life.
The pounding of guns. It seemed one long moment of terror.
The basha shook and the windows rattled. The lantern rocked on the dresser. As if that was not enough, the siren shrieked. The three of us pushed our chairs back in a hurry causing the heater to topple over in the confusion. Chippy yelped. What was happening?

The siren screamed on and on.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. We could only hear ourselves panting. The reassuring sound of crunching gravel began. They hadn’t reached us.
Our soldiers had kept them out.
The guard came by. “Hoshiaaar!” he called out.
“Abe ulloo ab kya hoshiar?” muttered Prabhu picking up the heater and the scattered toasts.
The Brigade Commander’s wife called out if we were okay.
Yes.
Yes we were fine.
The War had begun.

My father came back. Ashok Khanna did not.

••••••

Voting Day – 10 April 2014

I cast my vote today for the BJP – for Narendra Modi as PM.

There are 3 men who are up for the job.

1. A man who has been a Parliamentarian for 10 years. He has attended Parliament 10 times & asked 3 questions. He says he was & is busy with lofty ambitions and is not really interested in the job.

2. A man who says the Congress is bad & the BJP is bad….& though he had an absolutely wonderful opportunity to give us that promised alternative he kicked it & went around the country saying the saying same thing but with nothing to show.

3. A man who said he is fit able & ready for the job. Who has worked and has a State to showcase what he has achieved.

Having lived through the ’64 riots in Madras.’67 riots in Ranchi. ’69 & ’73 riots in Ahmedabad & ’84 riots in Delhi – I have a fair idea what why & who constructs these horrible crimes.

Just like young people in India believe that Kargil is the only war India fought thanks to NDTV’s coverage. 2002 is not the only riot India has experienced….& we have allowed men & women who engineered those riots to govern us for decades.

We brandish those we don’t like “Hitler” too easily as we have seen with candidate #3. Visit Dachau Treblinka & Auschwitz to understand the Holocaust.

With the shameful loot that has taken place during the UPA regime- Food has been snatched from a starving child. The sick have been deprived of healthcare. There are no schools for our young. Water roads housing remain a distant dream….the numbers affected by this loot would by far exceed the 6 million Jews exterminated by Hitler.

CIrca 2011 -The Writing Was There On The Wall !

Today with AAP’s stupendous showing in Delhi’s Elections can we look back at 2011 and see how many did not read the writing on the wall !

Dear Mr. Gupta,

This is in reference to your article- Jantar, Chhu Mantar in IE 14 May 2011.

Frankly  I was initially quite bewildered at the hostility from newspapers and its editors, sociologist and intellectuals at Anna Hazare’s fast, his demands for  modifications and changes etc in the Lokpal Bill, his drawing attention and articulating the general public anger at corruption.

I read article after article of regular contributors and columnists of your newspaper whose writings I had over the years read and enjoyed. Whose opinions I had respected and if I had for some reason disagreed, it had atleast opened my mind to another perspective.

However this time round I have seen the pettiness, the vindictiveness, the disdain, the cynicism of these writers and contributors , including you Mr. Gupta.

“The Lokpal Bill is not going to end corruption”….no one claimed it would. It was only a first step in the right direction.

“Who chose these members from the civil society?”….. these people volunteered, came forward and offered their services and expertise. Was anybody of stature and repute not allowed to participate?

“This Committee would by-pass the Parliament”……yes it would in the Bill formulating stage but it had to be eventually passed by the Parliament.

In most developed democracies citizens do push and articulate bills and laws which are then eventually passed by their Senates, Congress or Parliaments after further debate and discussion.

 And then the most hypocritical, inverse snobbery where one of your contributor’s (and now you) mocked Hazare’s statement that he would never be able to win an election because he did not have the power of money to gift TV’s, alcohol or sarees to buy his vote. Hazare’s disain for the Indian voter was dangerous she said, almost fascist!

The gloating that we are a democracy that has thrown out non performing governments 4 times in 64 years is pathetic!

It seems most of our intellectuals, sociologists, writers, journalists, editors, industralists are cynical, hardened and a part of the system.

They “enjoy” proximity to the powers that be.

They “enjoy” their largesse, a Rajya Sabha seat perhaps?

They “socialise” with this lot. Some write little bits to keep their worth and value and some offer favours in a quid pro quo.

They are cynical to believe that this is how it is and will remain so.

 Mr. Gupta your Jantar- Chhu Mantar is a misplaced piece of writing.

This election did not prove anything except the Indian voter just carries on and on the cycle- exchanging one lot for the other. We are to put it mildly, a passive democracy.

We exercise our vote every 5 years and throw one lot out for the other.

DMK this time and the AIDMK last time.

In the next elections DMK will be back.

Is this a mature, thinking, aware voter?

The DMK has looted enough to feed Tamil Nadu 20 times over for seven generations. They have not been punished- they are being “rested” in Karunnidhi’s own words.

Did your mature voter ever demand what happens to our money? Where is it being spent? Why aren’t thieving people in prison?

No- we simply vote them out.

Then we allow this lot to loot and plunder and bring the old lot back…..”vibrant” democracy indeed.

Are we perhaps mistaking “noisy” for “vibrant”?

In West Bengal one can only marvel at the threshold of acceptance of the citizenry. They watched their state crumble bit by bit for 34 years! Delapidated ideology, institutions, buildings and Kolkatta. Many generations lost!

Now with Mamta, this informed voter which you so admire, surely deserves more than lurching from one tantrum to another.

Perhaps we should meet 5 years from now in Kolkatta Mr. Gupta?

I was given to believe that a vibrant democracy is where citizens demand accountability from the people who have been voted in to administer and govern.

Where they question and deserve a response.

Where citizen groups and pressure groups see that the Government “works”.

Where the citizen expects justice as a right and not a favour.

Where citizens do not have to grovel for what is basically theirs.

At Jantar Mantar, an aged man of another era,  from some remote part of the country, who cannot by any defintion be called cool, came to the Capital and drew the middle class out….and that is what has worried everybody.

These were not Armani clad glitterati that could be smirked at.

These weren’t your Great Unwashed who could be talked down to.

This was the Indian Middle Class Mr. Gupta which has so far been ignored.

 I know because I was there.

I met a young man from Badarpur.

He had recently filed his tax returns- for the first time he said with some pride. His two brothers were still looking for jobs.

He worked 10-12 hours a day, drove back and forth his motor cycle on pot holed roads, returned home to electric outages and no water. He wanted to add a floor to his house but the MCD and police were harassing him……the same old story Mr Gupta…Ghar ghar ki kahani.

The MLA of his locality spent 50 lakhs on his daughter’s shamiana and Kalmadi made those crores and crores, Raja made more……his anger was palpable.

I walked alongside a 45 year old single woman with 2 children who ran an export unit in Okhla. There was stinking garbage on her street which was not picked in weeks, electric outages, inspectors who demanded hafta, MCD would not let her raise her boundary wall despite 2 break-ins, no police patrolling. She paid her taxes but what was she getting in return? …Sheila Dixit had made millions, substandard material was used in flyovers, there were 23000 MCD ghost workers….she was angry.

The word on the street is-

Sharad Pawar?  Why is that man in every cabinet? Who does not know that he could buy India twice over? In another country, another democracy he would be serving a prison sentence. Any scam and his name is there !

About Sonia Gandhi, the less said the better.

Her son-in law, a costume jewellery businessman can buy The Aman…..??!

Who will punish these people? Where is justice?

My parents, in their 70’s walked from Jantar Mantar to India Gate. My father, an ex soldier who has served in the army for 38 years and fought in 4 wars, believes the enemy is within. But then you don’t have much time for ex serviceman either, do you Mr. Gupta?

You feel these chaps are paid to lay down their lives and they have no right to ask for higher salaries. Your opinion as been articulated in article after article that they should be there for patriotism and glory.

I wonder if you have such advice for Karunanidhi’s brood or Sharad Pawar’s offspring?

This was not Tahrir Square. This was Jantar Mantar swarming with Middle Class India. Not with Anil Ambani and his pals, not with Rahul’s convenient Kalavati.

But Jantar Mantar with educated, hardworking Indians who pay their taxes and try everyday- everyday to be honest.

Listen to their voice. 

They are no pushover…..otherwise we may live to regret it.