A TALE OF SALT AND SUGAR…..

                                     Once upon a time in a land right here…


By  Anjali Mehta



It all started with a promise and a series of wails. The promise was to my daughter to get her brother and her a little pet dog . However, astonishingly, getting a white pomeranian home did not result in smiles. Instead, it generated a lot of wails. Sugar, the puppy, wailed the whole night as he missed his mother and siblings and my daughter wailed the entire next day as she felt sad for Sugar. My son wailed in affirmation. Overwhelmed by the increased tear levels all around, we went and brought Sugar’s brother to our home too . Peace was restored. Somewhat. A friend asked me recently what bringing up two small pomeranians was like. My reply is that it is rather like a fairy tale. Here’s why :


The elves and the shoemaker :  This story is about a shoemaker whose work was finished by industrious elves at night. In our home too, there is tremendous nocturnal activity. However, our two little elves seem to have a different brief - instead of fabricating things, they disfigure anything they can lay their little teeth and paws on by tearing it down into its constituent parts. They are quite relentless in this mathematical pursuit of subdivision. Almost everyday we wake up  to find the room strewn with small bits of paper and little pieces of once identifiable objects. One of our daily morning chores is to see what all we can salvage from the mess and to determine if we are still financially solvent.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Sleeping beauty: A princess is woken up from her sleep by a health and life-giving kiss from a prince : Ever since our dogs have acquired the ability to jump up on the bed, we are subjected to sudden early morning kisses. I am not sure of the quality of royal kisses but the ones we get are dribbly, slurpy  and delivered by hairy jaws teeming with  germs. Though the good intentions of the little princes are never in doubt, the combination of the sight of sharp teeth and the foul breath make for an electrifying kiss, especially in the slightly defenceless state one finds oneself in the morning. We leap up wide-eyed and put  the princes down back on the floor , all the while encouraging them to save their kisses exclusively for each other.


Rapunzel :The princess used to let down her hair from the tower for the prince to climb up: This story gets enacted out when I am sleeping with my head near the edge. The dogs creep up nearby and pull at my hair by the jawfuls. The end objective is not clear here though. I am not sure if they want to climb up or just make me bald.


Beauty and the beast: Belle, the merchant’s youngest daughter is given daily gifts by the beast in an effort to win her over: I, the beast ( devoid of advantageous assets like fur and whiskers, what else could I hope to be ? ) find small gifts near my pillow when I wake up in the mornings. One day the little beauties left some soft coir they had pulled from the mattress near my pillow. When my hand sleepily felt it , I naturally assumed it was my hair and imagine my horror when I discovered it was not connected to my head! I put on the bedside lamp and the horror intensified as I discovered that the colour was also different !In my not yet alert state I thought I had acquired some dreaded hair disease during the night. It took a cup of bed tea to clear the fog, identify the coir and put life back in a happier and truer perspective. Other, less alarm generating gifts have included half chewed artificial bones and filthy treasures from dustbins…..


Hansel and Gretel : The witch in this story lives in a house made of chocolate which is completely edible : Salt and Sugar suffer from the delusion that our house is edible in totality. Right from the chair, carpets, mattress to our clothes and belongings -they simply like to sample everything. All I can do is play the role of a harried witch rather than a hungry one !
    

All in all , we are in a strange and messy wonderland….with Tweedledum and Tweedledee keeping us guessing what their next scheme is going to be…..

Letter on Corruption: from the Common Man to the PM June 10 2011

Dear Dr Manmohan Singh,

You are one of the few persons we still trust, hence this letter. The matter of black money stashed abroad affects all of us citizens in one way or another. The desire to see justice done is near unanimous, with exceptions being those who actually have the ill-gotten money in overseas accounts.

Much has been written and highlighted in the media and followed with a keen interest by most. As a concerned citizen, I would like to speak out and share my thoughts on this with you.
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The two people who are seen to be leading the anti-corruption movement are Mr Anna Hazare and his able team and Baba Ramdev and his supporters. I find Mr Hazare’s work commendable in that he has actually taken concrete action (fasting and protesting peacefully) rather than just indulging in semantics. His team has a well| thought out plan on steps to be taken and have tried to proceed in a decent  ,organized yet firm, manner. They are trying to engage meaningfully with the government.

Other people have also tried to make a similar point as Mr Hazare but in a different manner. Sadly, things have degenerated into a bit of an incoherent mess. The way Baba Ramdev and the government have engaged with each other makes for a bizarre tale. Everyone is debating the legitimacy and qualification of Baba Ramdev as the frontman for the corruption campaign. He has been irresponsible in some of his proclamations and the Government in some of its behaviour.

Sir there is no doubt that the man best qualified for the job is you. Please wrest the initiative back from the Baba and reach out directly to us citizens. The Baba woukd not feel compelled to tread in your domain as he and also all of us would be secure in the knowledge that you have taken over. Baba Ramdev could go back to his area of expertise; his contribution has been immense. Never has the nation taken its breathing or health as seriously as it is doing now and a huge share of the credit for this goes to Baba Ramdev.

What we expect from you sir, are the following simple steps:

1.    Declare that you are attending to the matter of black money on a priority basis and convene an urgent meeting to formulate an action plan. Set a time target for this matter to be sorted out. Invite some eminent opposition members and non-political experts as discussants in this meeting.

2.     Outline to the public the action plan that you have now formulated.

3.    Engage meaningfully with foreign governments and Interpol on this issue. India enjoys a fair amount of clout and respect in the world . Use it.
4.    Give transparent monthly updates to the public through your press spokesman as to where the process has reached in that month.
5.    Have a respectful dialogue with Mr Anna Hazare and his team and give them a patient hearing. Try to move beyond one or two sticky issues. Realise that both sides are acting out of concern for democracy. The issue about the PM being under the purview of Lokpal stems not from a disrespect for you but a genuine fear of what will happen if an elected person with a criminal record gets your chair in future. After all, even presidents can be impeached should circumstances deteriorate. Convince or be convinced. Either way, move forward!

We are priviledged to be led by a charming, affable Prime minister with a brilliant mind. The fact that you are a good man is well established. Please sir, be a good leader too. We, the people, are with you.

                                                                                    Yours sincerely,
                                                                                   Dr Anjali Mehta, citizen

A Wartime Family Tale

Dr Anjali Mehta






Republic Day preparations bring to mind the great valour of all our soldiers. What is not remembered are the smaller but equally heroic struggles of their families left to fend for themselves while the men are at war. A superb book I read “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” highlights the trials and tribulations of war–impacted civilians in a very elegant manner. It also brings a generous dash of humour to the rather morbid subject of war. I was reminded of my mother’s delightful wartime routines during the battle of 1971 as my father fought at the frontline. Sample this:





As in all wars, accidental civilian casualties were a common occurrence. So, a safety drill had been put in place for the families stationed in towns along border areas. Whenever any siren sounded, people were to quickly run out of the house and get into pre-dug trenches in the gardens. The sirens signified that enemy aeroplanes would soon fly overhead and could wreak havoc.





The instruction, seemed easy enough to follow, but not so in my mother’s case. In fact, it often proved to be a fierce battle (amongst the backdrop of the larger one). The motley group of which she was in charge consisted of : her five year old daughter, a six month old son, her pet pug named Moti, my paternal granny and a female neighbour who lived alone.





The moment a siren sounded, my mother would first gesticulate dramatically to granny (who was hard of hearing) to get into the trench with me, and then hand us the baby. Next she would go back for her beloved Moti who would invariably be cowering under the bed. My mother would get down on all fours near the wide bed and make attempts to swoop on Moti from different positions much like a snooker player seeking the right angle to pot a ball. This ‘ball’ however, not being inert, retreated to the farthest corner and so proved difficult to ‘pot’. All through this game, Moti, anticipating his inevitable capture, would keep up a furious barking. As if on cue, the baby would also start wailing loudly from outside. The siren, the dog and the baby formed a loud, discordant and deafening battle orchestra. By the time the portly Moti was hauled out by my mother, it was difficult to determine whether victor or vanquished was more physically exhausted. My granny, being hard of hearing, smiled serenely through all this cacophony!





Now the second part of the saga would begin. The neighbour would refuse to get into the trench with Moti citing reasons of discomfort at having to share a small intimate space with a hairy beast with bad breath. Having barely recovered from the physical labours of hauling the portly and wriggling Moti, my mother had now to engage in mental war games. Her tactics included oscillating rapidly between cajoling and threats. She hoped a judicious balance of the two would get the lady into the trench. The neighbour, however, would take her time weighing the risk- to-benefit ratio before reluctantly and cautiously sliding into the corner farthest from Moti. My mother would sigh in relief that her life had not been cut short by a non-dog-loving neighbour’s indecision.



After finally shepherding the entire group safely into the designated pit my tired mother would wonder if this is what ‘field exercises’ and ‘war games’ meant.



It is not difficult to guess which “warrior” was the keenest that the war should end real soon!

Indo-US Ties: Perspectives from a Mofussil Town

 (middle, The Statesman)

Dr Anjali Mehta






President Obama’s current visit has sparked off considerable discussions on Indo-US ties. Many years ago, I was stationed at a small Indian town, where I witnessed a small scale attempt by the locals to strengthen Indo-US ties, which inadvertently went awry. The local club members had organized an exchange programme with a sister club in America. The invited delegation consisted of two knowledgeable (and coincidentally, beautiful) lady American psychologists. The locals were enthralled by them and wanted to give them a special send-off at the concluding dinner.





The club members specially procured some bottles of expensive red wine as a treat for their guests. This decision had some path-breaking social implications. Consumption of alcohol by women was socially taboo in this town, so none of the local women drank (if we discount the sorority’s secret imbibing in glasses camouflaged with opaque napkins to disguise contents).





At the farewell dinner, the two ladies arrived, looking glamorous in short dresses. A small group of club members walked up to the Americans, welcomed them, and enquired what beverage they would like to drink. The hosts were dismayed when the foreign guests said ‘water’. They then produced the trump card, announcing with a flourish, that they had very tempting fare which would surely make the ladies reconsider their choice. Their mispronunciation of the wine’s name (‘chateaux’ sounding like ‘chat ox’) took away some of the sheen from the offer. This got restored by the wine’s vintage. To the men’s astonishment, however, this new input did not bring about the desired result.





The hosts, overcome by a compelling sense of duty, used every form of verbal persuasion to prevent the ladies from making what they perceived to be a serious error of judgment. The foreigners, however, stood by their original choice. “Why are our ‘no’s’ not being taken at face value?” they wondered, greatly baffled. “Are we missing something here?”. Their life in America had not equipped them to deal with a situation where even multiple refusals did not have any effect whatsoever.





The two sides having reached an impasse, one of the club members resorted to a bit of emotional blackmail, indelicately hinting to the ladies that that he had gone to great trouble to procure the wine.





In light of this disclosure, one of the foreigners (who was suffering from a runny tummy) felt obliged to explain their refusal more fully. “I have a bad stomach” said she.



“Of course not!” suggested the leader of the delegation with a leery twinkle in his eye, “your stomach is very good and shapely.”





The American gasped in shock; no one had flirted so outrageously with her in a formal setting. She flung an angry stare at him.





With complete disregard for the nuances of the situation, another bold member of the delegation declared firmly, “I am getting the wine for you anyway.”





The now furious psychologist threatened the man “Bring it and I will pour it in your pocket!”



The male delegation had no idea what to make of this statement, though they realized from the tone that things were not looking bright. Some members of the delegation privately compared her to the goddess Kali during a phase of wrath. Some others, who had more common sense and a well honed survival instinct, prevailed upon the others to leave the foreigners alone.





For the rest of the evening, the American ladies kept largely to themselves. The ‘vanquished’ delegation decided to drown their sorrows in fine wine (with soda and ice added for good measure!) and for them the evening passed in a pleasant vintage-wine induced haze.





The lovely foreigners left for their country the next day having tasted Indian hospitality, if not the wine!

An unusual friendship….

  (Middle, The Statesman)

Dr Anjali Mehta




Friendships happen in different ways - a chance meeting with a kind stranger, work colleagues discovering they have even more in common than just their targets or boss, parents whose children attend the same school and so many others….

I reflected on some unusual starts to my friendships :



In our student days, we would sometimes be made to stand in the corridor outside the classroom as a punishment for various little misdeeds . While serving one such sentence, I noticed a skinny, timid looking boy also standing outside another section in the corridor nearby. Feeling rather maternal and wondering how on earth he fell foul of authority, I went across to cheer him up . A half hour later, I was in a mild state of shock - it turned out he was a corridor “regular” and even my mischief paled in comparison to the range, audacity and repertoire of misdeeds recounted by him. Awestruck, I vowed never to judge a book by its cover. Our friendship grew over the next few months as we happened to get punished often together and he became a sort of “naughtiness consultant “ to me in school.



In medical college , we had just begun to form a loose knit study group of girls who used to sit and study together in the hostel balcony at night. To try and enhance our beauty along with our brains, we would apply colorful mud and vegetable face packs. One night, an intruder jumped over the compound wall and we heard his footsteps in the dark below. We all crept to the edge and peeped down. We found ourselves staring into a man’s face. On catching sight of our bizarre facial colouration, his own face drained of all colour …he simply fled in shock (we never saw him again !) The incident led to a lively discussion on topics such as beauty masks, intruders (anything other than medicine) and the ice was beautifully broken amongst us all.



The most unusual for me however, has been a friendship forged from the labour room! Eva (name changed) and I were admitted to the same hospital on the same night for onset of labour pains. Her pains quickened before me and her loud groans attracted the attention of my family members. Feeling fairly underutilized as far as I was concerned, they went to her bed to soothe her . My pains, on the other hand, froze my tongue with shock and no sound emerged. Time passed. Eva continued to cheerfully yell the place down while I remained dazedly silent willing to expend my energy only on bare necessities like breathing. My family was largely focused on comforting Eva, believing her to be in greater pain (though any good medical book and life’s experiences will tell you labour is painful without exception and shouting is an inaccurate barometer, being personality based and not pain based). Meanwhile, her family watched me with increasing awe. They thought I was the epitome of dignified, silent suffering and came over to congratulate my parents on harboring such a seemingly stoic being in the family.

I think in our lucid moments , Eva and I felt cross with each other. I felt she had garnered all the sympathy and she felt I had garnered all the admiration. We delivered within minutes of each other.



Over the next few weeks we met at common vaccination dates. We saw a relatively more glamorous version of each other (a human shape rather than balloon shape) and were exposed to facets of personality other than reaction to pain . It was in these visits that the friendship blossomed….



I have learnt that in any of life’s little twists and turns..there just may be a new friend round the corner…

Early morning dilemma : to swim or to walk ?

By Anjali Mehta




We are fortunate in having a huge, lovely park in our colony and on the days on which I can’t swim in the nearby pool, I walk around there.

I tried to reflect on which of these two activities I enjoyed more….



Swimming, apart from being an excellent all round exercise, also has the great psychological advantage that one is actually lying down (in a manner of speaking) while exercising. Also, minor personal embarrassments, such as a rather ample paunch can be concealed under the water while one goes about the task of getting them into shape!



The vibrant park environment has beautiful surroundings, friendly birds (who occasionally gift droppings from above), small animals, and also a human spectrum spanning all ages. Apart from walking, many older people are still able to contort their aging bodies into impressively difficult postures on the grass – truly a yogic triumph of mind over (resistant) matter! Sometimes I find an older lady dressed in a sari for her morning walk. In the vast sea of casual sportswear, it is quaint and strangely comforting as it somehow projects a seamless continuity between the generations. The tee-shirts of teenagers have funny sayings over the front. Sometimes I am able to just glimpse half a line and have to wait for a couple of rounds to get the full message in surreptitiously gleaned bits (given the poor social graces involved in staring at peoples stomachs). I specially enjoyed “I was an atheist till I realised I was God!”

The laughter therapy group often catches you off-guard making you jump out of your skin by suddenly erupting into loud laughter. It’s delightful to watch the effect of this on little kids nearby – they roll helplessly on the ground in mirth all the while pointing at the laughter group. The group’s objective of spreading happiness is clearly achieved!

Sometimes while walking, you feel many people are craning their necks this way and that to glimpse you better – it feels like a good antidote to your midlife crisis, till, on closer inspection, you realize that neck exercises are being performed.. Occasionally, a group of people walking by tell an interesting story loudly and one just has to resist the temptation to match one’s pace with them just to find out how the story ended !



In contrast, the swimming pool micro cosmos is more homogenous with a Marx-like socialist feel to it, consisting of a large and fairly uniform group of partially submerged bodies in a big water body. Identities also get concomitantly submerged as individual recognition clues like hair, eyes and body shape are obscured with cap, goggles and water..

This is the place to enjoy a spirit of collective belonging with fellow humans much like a school of fish swimming synchronously together. The interaction with nature can be stark – (all of) you and the sky directly above - a powerful experience.





What seems to emerge is choosing between a bracing environment with pleasant diversions vis a vis the enveloping, secure feeling of surrounding cool waters… best to wake up each day and decide what the need of that particular hour is…

Vignettes of fatherhood – as seen through a mother’s eyes

 (middle, The Tribune)




I read an interesting article by a friend on types of fathers. It made me think about fatherhood generally and specifically about us as parents. I remember when we were growing up, the sentence “I will tell your father” held a great significance and threat value – fathers were relatively more shadowy and so quite feared. Now, since fathers are in constant proximity to the children, almost as much as mothers, any mystery element is gone and the kids have them figured out completely. The children are fairly confident that fathers can be wound around their little fingers with perhaps greater ease than even the mother.




My husband finds fatherhood a very enjoyable and positive experience. There are however moments when I have found him feeling severely challenged….

.

He had once gone to a birthday party to pick up the kids who were there with their new nanny. The hostess told him to wait just a little till the khoi bag was over (a bag filled with sweets and small presents is broken at a height and children scramble to pick these). When the sweets were scattered, he found to his dismay that the nanny was also going enthusiastically after the prizes. He realized that being a new girl from the village she did not know that the game was only for the children. Embarrassed, he wanted to somehow tell our nanny to refrain but thought that calling out to her may draw further attention to him (the absolutely last thing he wanted ). So he did the next best thing- retreated as far away as possible so as not to be identified in any way with her or this occurrence. He has never been able to forget the pure horror of the moment when the nanny, spotting him far away, yelled out to him and advanced right up to him, triumphantly holding out her treasure trove of prizes. He wished the ground would open up before him! He has since been very adamant about not going for birthday parties as much as he can possibly help it.



We had taken the kids for a swim and it was time for them to come out of the pool. My son was being particularly recalcitrant about coming out of the water so my husband decided to be a little firm and told him that he had no option but to step out of the pool. His efforts were rewarded by a loud wailing on the part of my son and out of the blue the unfair verdict “you are the worst papa”! Everyone in the pool looked at my husband to see who had earned this title. He became beetroot red …..



We had taken the kids for a Dhrupad (it’s fairly serious, slow, timeless classical music) recital and they were reasonably lukewarm about this style of music. They were both fighting for the chair near me before the show and it was decided that it would be half and half time each. An hour later, my son decided that it was now his turn to sit next to me and asked my daughter to exchange places. She refused. Whereupon his face became set into the expression which comes on just before he is about to begin wailing loudly. I can never forget the look of pure terror on my husband’s face as he urgently took my arm and whispered “I think he’s about to cry!’. He had visions of our son’s loudly familiar wail drowning out the concert completely and thought that they both may well make it to the next day newspapers entertainment section, for the wrong reasons. I somehow managed to save the situation. Kapil never recovered fully - he is always very uneasy when taking the kids anywhere though they sit very nicely through most performances now and keeps searching the children’s faces for status checks during the programme.



My husband has reached the universal conclusion “there is never a dull moment….