Dadi passed away today. I will not say she left us, because she will always be with us- forever. She will be with us in all the things she taught us, big or small. She will be in the legacy that she has left for us to uphold and carry.

Like all grandchildren, my brother Aniruddha and I were very fond of and loved our Dadi. We always will. Now that she is physically not with us, all the memories that we shared with her and that have shaped our lives come cascading down to me. Dadi was an excellent story teller. Sitting cozily around her, we could never have enough of her stories, kisse and kahanian. I can't even fathom how she had the patience to repeat them day after day, year after year! I want to now bequeath these to my son too and keep her memories alive, always. Dadi was fond of singing and kept an age old diary of hand written songs and poems and would clap and sing bhajans and songs from it everyday, almost till the very day she breathed her last. We will yearn for that resounding and discernible voice emanating from her immaculate memory. I wish I had learnt some from her.

She even taught me how to braid my hair. Barely 10 or 12, I would insist- "Dadi, aapki choti main banaongi!". She knew the hazards of letting me do it but never said no. Needless to say, she always had her plait crooked! The one thing I cannot forget about her are her hands- those small, soft hands that held ours whenever we sat next to her. Her gradually faltering vision was a casualty of old age, and as we sat next to her, she would lean forward and listen intently to us, holding our hands, patting them once in a while. She liked us to tell her the story of the movie we went for, or the TV serial we saw. She and my Nani would then discuss it as a matter of national importance for hours, discerning the right from the wrong, good from the bad! It made for some excellent overhearing! I shall miss all of that now.

This time when I go back home, nothing will be the same. The hug and the kiss on my forehead with an affectionate 'bitiya rani aa gayi' will be missing, the radio with bhakti songs wont be playing and there will be no eye drops to be administered. But, Dadi will still be there in the good memories that she has left for us, in the virtues she has imbibed in my parents and in the strength and fortitude with which she led her life.

As I was walking back from the dry cleaners close to my house today, it began to rain. It drizzled down bit by bit, and my speed became slower and slower. I love love love rain, but there is nothing I love more than getting totally drenched under it, down to the bone is more like it! What a feeling it is, is'nt it...to stand under the clear blue sky suddenly held captive to the beautiful, dancing grey hues....the vibrant sun swathed with pearly clouds ready to explode? As splashes of rain drops dashed on to my face, for a second I almost forgot where I was. I was suddenly oblivious to the world around me, to the sundry onlookers, to the screeching cars flashing by -totally unmindful of everything. I smiled to myself, and all I could feel was the rain cascading down my cheeks and the moist wind ruffling through my hair. I wished I could just soak up every bit of this liquid sunshine. I wished I could walk forever.

Proud to be Indians, are we? Well, I don't think if any of us deserves to be humans in the first place! Not if you see how our very creed behaved with a dying man! I'm talking about the policeman who was left bleeding to death on the road after being attacked and his legs chopped off by assailants. And left alone, gradually being stripped off his right to live by whom- our very representives of power- two ministers and the Common Man, not alone but in bunches this time. We don't know how to respect human life and this comes as a flagrant reminder of how sinister our indifference has now become. I have always been a stout advocate of my country and my people, but today, seeing those graphic and gory images of the man begging for life, I am disillusioned and feel mocked at. Mocked at for believing in these very people. Insensitive and cruel, thats what we are becoming. Two people, the apparant epitomes of power and responsibility sit back and watch, as mute spectators! Are these our representatives? Are we expecting them to stand by us- in life and death? Who are they claiming to represent when they can't do anything but twiddle their thumbs at the sight of a man, an officer of their own machinery at that, writhing in pain, death hovering menacingly over him? How can a man's consience not torment him for being a dumb witness to site as heart wrenching as this?? Or we talking about an emotion that never existed?

And there were many others too who just did what they're best at- who watched, and watched- as always. The Common Man has always 'imagined' himself to be chained and restricted by God knows how many 'imaginary' bondages, a perfect excuse for not waking up and acting. But this?? This was not an instance where you could go back to your reverie and imagine that it never happened- most certainly not when you see a man being mercilessly whipped- by Death itself. If someone breaks the queue we're in, we fight- fist and mouth with him with the 'how dare you's' and with every possible invective, seething with anger on the apparent violation of our 'right'. And how do we react to a man, amputated, in a pool of blood, imploring us to help, to save his right to Live, to go back to a family and children that await him? We do react. We react with apathy, alienating ourlseves not only from that terrifying cry of help, but from our foremost responsibility- that of acting like a human. But we are proud to be the most superior specie on earth, are'nt we? God, I'm sure, thinks otherwise. He probably weeps at the folly of his own creation. Perhaps the Devil also scoffs at us.

Hundreds of Gods. Millions of pujas. More often than not, one hears the abject "necessity" to perform a certain puja which will bring prosperity and well being. Then days later, one hears of another puja that proffesses to the same effect. Then another, and another. It is a viscious cycle that one finds being enmeshed in all the time. One is, but, forced to wonder. Are we really 'invoking' God to bless us with success or are we getting entangled in our insecurities? Is it the 'fear' of the unknown harm that might befall us if that one puja, and many, many after that, is not performed? More the unfounded fears, more the superstitions and false beliefs associated with it. More, and interminable.
What I would like to question is this- Is God really that ruthless that He won't wish his devotees their welfare by one sincere chant of His name, one prayer- unfeigned and earnest? Are those extensive rituals and innumerable ceremonies with their attendant paraphernalia the only way to please Him? Many of us,unfortunately, still allow ourselves to be swallowed up by such preposterous ideas, drowning deeper and deeper into the abyssmal pit of retrogressive and orthodox doctrines. When will we extricate ourselves out of it? If there ever is a right time, when will that be?

How much of his own self does a man own? How often does he have to surrender to the wishes of another for the fear of being mistaken 'impolite' or 'disrespectful'? How many times is wanting to be in-charge of domains that are exculsively his own misconstrued as indications of being 'stubborn' and 'self centered'? When is free will appreciated and when is it insolent? Devotion- must one be 'directed' to its hows and whens by the whims of society or should he be unfettered, to practice, preach and even discard it if he so desires for how potent will that prayer be that has'nt come from the heart, but has been 'instructed'?

It is a sad day today. My dog, Birdie, died. He had been with us for 13 years and was the fifth member of our family.
He will surely be missed-sorely.

Uncle Sam leaves you baffled sometimes. The country that to many is the epitome of the "place they want to be in", of course is benign to visitors and soaks them in like a sponge. And this is where one encounters the biggest contradictions of all times. American people are quintessentially different from us, Indians. Americans are different from us in their approach to people, in the way they perceive family and friends...and strangers! Go to any shop and u will find complete strangers, people you would never even bump into, not even accidently, giving you smiles and acknowledging you like they've known since eternity! And that is something I commend them with. They really are friendly. Well, most of them! We, in India don't do that. Smiling at strangers, particularly men to women, is offensive for us. We like to mind our own business when we don't know who we're around! And here lies the greatest irony of the two cultures. We are apathetic to people we don't know, but we love our kith and kin- without any strings attached. Parents walking into our rooms without knocking is 'not an invasion of our privacy', like it is, here, in America. We walk into a friends place when we so like- and we don't need an appoinment for it. We arrive an hour early for dinner and we don't hear "its rude to be early"!

Americans might lead a more priviledged life, economically, than most of us do, but we are happier, much much more than them, because togetherness is what makes us happy-happy and content. It is'nt a question of "we" or "them" really, its just how different two societies can be, and how different the roads they take in life.

A painting I made some time back

IMAGINATION

History fascinates me. And so do its soulful renditions in brick and mortar-the monuments, forts and palaces remnants of a glorious past, a tragic end or simply an innocuous existence. Each stone living and breathing, dying to tell a story. A story of the fair maidens and princesses that once pranced gaily in the labrynthines of its halls, chuckling and giggling, their resplendently colourful chunris flirting effortlessly with the wind. The clanging of the anklets, the splendour of their bejewelled forms. The innumerable court intrigues, machinations at their best. The chicanery of a few, the valiance of the many. The brilliance of an artist and the dexterity of his fingers, the turning of a desolate stone into a structure of arresting magnificence. The imagination that created this grandeur, and the imagination that still keeps it alive. My imagination. Your imagination.