A rare love story

This is a rare snap of precious lovebirds Ram and Kamala a.k.a. my parents! Actually it is one of the very few where Papa is smiling. They would have celebrated their 67th wedding anniversary today. Actually they celebrated only 41 together. 

They may not have been your regular loving couple as Ram had a terrible temper and could blow a fuse at the drop of a hat.  Kamala on the other hand was calm and rarely showed her anger. At best she would retreat to a corner waiting for the storm to blow over. It would with Papa often making a treat for the one who had been the object of his wrath. 

My memories of them are countless but somehow they all seemed linked to me their child. I cannot recall any lovey-dovey ones barring those I triggered!

They remained discreet almost to a fault. 

So it was a surprise and also reassurance to know that they had been madly in love when I discovered a bunch of love letters. Somehow I never read them to honour their memory. I guess and hope my kids will. 

Theirs was a unique love tale. Kamala was reconciled to die an old maid as she was determined no to marry unless her country was independent. In those days 30 was considered old. Ram was entering his forties and still a bachelor. Both lived thousands of miles from each other and the likelihood of their meeting was close to non-existent.

Met they did courtesy a family connection. He courted the small town girl with European flair and she fell for his strange but loveable ways.

They would leave for unknown lands and he would make her discover new sites and experiences all coloured by his own passion. 

She followed him and imbibed every thing. 

Together they bore the pain of losing a child and the joy of having one. Their love for each other was demonstrated in unique ways: if Ram managed to grow vegetables for his vegetarian wife in the dead of Prague's winter, Kamala would surreptitiously learn French and surprise him on his birthday. 

This would go one till the end of their life when Kamala in the throes of cancer would swallow the fish he fed her as he had read that fish could beat the dreaded C and Ram at the age of 80 would sit up the whole night on a tiny stool holding her hand and waking her up every 45 minutes as she dreaded dying in her sleep. 

He let her go one sizzling June night, honouring the promise she had extracted from him on their wedding day: that she would die before him.

He outlived her by a year, the time needed to ensure that their only child was strong enough to carry on.

I am sixty four

I must have been fifteen when I first heard When I am Sixty Four by the Beatles. It was in Ankara and I had just got my copy of Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band. In those days sixty four seemed so far away. Time does move slow when you are young. I runs at the speed of light the older you grow. Anyway the song them was amusing and above all peppy and one did not pay much attention at the lyrics. It is said that Mc carney wrote it at a very young age and back then I guess 'sitting by the fireside' and 'digging weeds' was what young people thought old people do.

Today I am sixty four and perusing the lyrics there is not much I really do. I may have lost some hair but that is about it. My Vera Chuck and Dave is my grandson Agastya and by sunshine boy Utpal. What a blessing.

In his lyrics Mc Cartney states Who could ask for more? I mean more than the weeds, the walk, the knitting of the sweater and the Sunday mornings ride.

I do as I have so much more. From a partner who feeds and needs me, to children who love and care but above all my Project Why family that has allowed all my dreams and aspirations to come true and  given me a reason to live. I am blessed.

The little girl in the antic pram could not have imagined what life had in store for her on the other side of fifty. Thousands of beautiful children who entrusted their dreams to her, a huge network of beautiful friends that became family to this only child. I have never felt so loved and wanted and needed. I feel humbled and small and elated and euphoric at the same time.

I want to thank each and everyone who made this possible.

God bless you all.

Today I lose another friend.

The neem tree next to my house

The house next door was broken down a few months ago to be replaced by what is knows in Delhi as builder's flats. This is the plight of numerous houses like mine, built in the sixties when one family or at most two lived in villas with a courtyard in the middle and a small garden in front. Since as demand increased and maintenance costs too appeared the ubiquitous builders flat. The builders lobby has ensured that they be allowed to use maximum space. The authorities insist on parking space on stilts. So bye bye garden, greenery and flowers. Cement vies with marble and glass for space. 

In front of the house being erected stands a majestic neem tree. It has been there for more than 4 decades and provided shelter and shade to many. Though not directly in front of my house, its sprawling branches caressed our home and the rustle of its leaves when the wind blew was welcome as I sat outside reading a book of watching my boys play. 

This tree became part of my life and a much loved friend. Its branches also covered the patch of garden next door and thus became a threat to the new structure that needed that space. The battle was unequal: the tree was destined to lose.

 From the very first day I lived in fear of the moment when the axe would fall wondering how many branches will be sacrificed to the alter of urban living. The dreaded moment dawned and as I write these words branch after branch are being felled mercilessly. It will stand mutilated, robbed of its majesty and grandeur. 

I lost a friend a dew days back. A human one. One I had know for decades. Today I lose part of another friend and I feel a pain I cannot describe. This tree has been witness to every moment of my life from the time I was a college student to the time I became a grandmother. It made me feel protected and safe.

I have often compared myself to a tree when I decided to lay down my hat for the last time. My rather nomadic life had left me exhausted and I needed to set my roots deep. Trees meant being safe, secure and loved.

That the tree is being truncated in front of my eyes brings to mind the ephemeral and transient nature of our lives and the reality that nothing is truly secure.

My tree will reinvent itself as Nature is nothing short of miraculous. It will probably looked skewed to many but to me it will be the indubitable truth that it won the battle.

Someone wrote: We say we love flowers, yet we pluck them. We say we love trees, yet we cut them down. And people still wonder why some are afraid when told they are loved. 

How true this is

Au revoir la haut; until we meet in heaven

Au revoir là haut Etienne. I would have much preferred have him say these words to him and yet it was not to be. Etienne left this world last Sunday leaving us stunned and lost. Etienne was my father's best friend's son and we knew each other from the time we were both in our teens. He was two years my junior. He often said I was a role model. I guess we both were rebellious and non conformists to the despair of our rather conservative parents. This was in the sixties and we were true children of the sixties. I had happily embraced the flavour of the times donning my torn jeans and flowered shirts with gusto, my fringe practically covering my eyes. We lived in Ankara and Etienne who must have been 14 came for a holiday. We bonded at once and spent hours listening to the Doors and Dylan and remaking the world. Whereas I would return meekly to the fold, Etienne the tall dark good looking man, with deep brooding eyes remained a free spirit at heart and would go on to conquer the world of music and showbiz with success.

We lost touch for a while but did meet again and each time we did it was as if time had stood still and we are picking up the conversation of yesterday. In 1985 when I made a short visit to New York, Etienne took us to a magical dinner at the Riverside Cafe. The memory lingers on and fills me with immense warmth as that was what Etienne was a warm and kind soul.

He lived his dream and lived life to the fullest, at times even recklessly. But could it be otherwise. That was who he was. You cannot contain a free spirit, the world as we know it s too small a place.

I woke up this morning feeling that somewhere along the way the tables had turned and the mentor had become the disciple. The lessons of freedom and liberation I had once brought to him had been not only learned but perfected and never abandoned. 

We talked sometimes and it was always a joy. In January this year Etienne took my grandson and the husband to a grand lunch in Paris. I was happy to know that they had met. 

I will miss him. I will miss his smile, his booming voice, his warmth and his presence. He was a part of my life, a kindred soul. No wonder his birth day was one day after mine.

Au revoir là haut Etienne

Th best place in Paris

It is always difficult to chose the one place one likes  in the magical city of Paris. The choices are mind blogging. For me it is often the mood and memories that decide the Parisian flavour of the day. I just follow my heart. Another little bloke did just that last week. The difference is that he did not hesitate one bit as I often do. My grandson spent his holidays in Paris with one set of grandparents. He dutifully followed them from parks to museums and went on long walks. He was to the manor born, a far cry from the bundle of energy running through our lives every summer! But all that would change as his other grandpa, my better half decided to go and spend a few days with the boy in Paris.

Plans were made by one and all though no one asked the two main protagonists. It all boiled down to more walks, this time along the favourite haunts of the Indian grandpa. The later even took his walking shoes! I guess the walking shoes remained in the suitcase as my two favourite lads had other plans.

When they met in the hotel room, no one could have guessed that it would become the best place in Paris for these two souls. Agy spotted the big flat screen TV and the deal was done. It would take a little coaxing and wooing to get mom to agree that this would be where they would like to spend time, the little dude with his cartoons and the old one veering between book and screen. So for the past 3 days, barring meals and a few visits that need to be made, granddad and grandson snuggled under the comforter in the cosy hotel room and indulged in their favourite pastime, one that is not on offer in the little one's home. I guess he is gorging on unchecked viewing. The next time will be when he comes home to us.

So for my boys the best place in Paris is the warmth of a comforter and the big TV.

Enjoy boys!