The Crow and The Pitcher
November 15, 2011 at 2:15 am (General Nonsense, Memories)
Tags: aesop fable, exam, hindi, the crow and the pitcher
I was 8. The second language at school, Hindi, had begun its journey away from my cerebrum, down towards my Achilles heel. I remember going home after struggling through a particularly stressful Hindi exam with my tormentor – the question paper – safely clipped to the exam pad. I also remember explaining, very nonchalantly, to my mother that I had answered only one question from the entire question paper. And then we parted ways – she to the kitchen, and I to my room. In silence. I may have heard a sigh of relief emanating from the kitchen a little later, but I don’t recall clearly. Even if I did, a little information on my preparations for the said Hindi exam is essential before you can conclude on the (seemingly) high coolness quotient of my mother.
I had spent the greater part of the night before the exam, in stentorian memorization of a single question-and-answer pair which I had carefully dissected from the entire syllabus. The pair was from an Aesop fable called ‘The Crow and The Pitcher’. I found the story inexplicably intriguing, and only one answer from the question-and-answer assignment on this story, worth mastering. The exact reason behind this choice remains a mystery to me to this day. It was probably the negligible level of difficulty involved in learning that one answer by rote, or probably the rhythmic sounds I made as I chanted it over and over again in the wee hours of the night. Reasoning swept aside, I firmly ignored all the other question-and-answer pairs which ominously stared at me from my ‘Class Work’ book and decided to stick to just the one which had caught my fancy. By the next morning, my entire family (of 5) was privy to my focus point for the exam :
Q : Kauva kya chahtha tha ? (What did the crow want ?)
A : Kauva paani peena chahtha tha. (The crow wanted to drink water.)
I left for school that morning, pushed out of the house by unseen pairs of hands, some of which had expectantly left their place on the owners’ ears, and the others which had plastered pillows on their owners’ heads to get them through the night. I was a picture of confidence in the exam hall. Until I was handed the question paper. It was panic time. 6 out of 11, and I thought I could get away with 1? Suddenly, all my physiological functions seemed fully autonomous – I was drenched in sweat, tears, whatnot. Gathering the last bit of strength that I had not imagined to find, I scoured the paper. I found my hero nestled somewhere in the middle of the eleven villains and I nervously serenaded him.
‘Kauva paani peena chahtha tha’
The only predictable aspect of the whole episode, of course, was the result of the exam. And for the torture I had inflicted on my khandaan, I spent many years suffering musical renditions of ’Kauva kya chahtha tha?’ in various ragaas. Uggh.
Living Lives, Seducing Memories
November 3, 2011 at 3:14 am (Life in General, Memories)
Tags: alps, delhi, jungfraujoch, switzerland
I have often wondered why certain sensory perceptions from my past have been indelibly (perhaps) inked into this fascinating fertile ground called ‘memory’. And why memories, seemingly involuntarily but ever-accurately, stir-up the exact original feelings that prevailed when the event occurred, irrespective of its time-stamp.
I must explain. Seeing a picture, video or word that says ‘Alps’ or any other remotely connected mountain range brings a deep sense of loneliness in me, even when am I with superlatively interesting company (a.k.a husband). This is where the theory that I put forth in the first paragraph comes into effect. The background behind the making of this particular memory hereby follows.
Jungfraujoch at 11,332ft, the highest point accessible by railway in Europe, is a strip of the Alps mountain range that belongs to Switzerland. On a sincere summer morning, fluid-smooth, pristine white glaciers flow endlessly among the mountains while grand Alpine peaks rise up like freshly sharpened pencils pointing at the blue skies, making the entire surroundings a visual spectacle. I know, I was there. And it was on one such summer morning, almost a decade ago. I rummage through my memory now and recall admiring the vista which seemed to me then, newly exposed as I was to original European art, like one giant Medieval painting. I was on the trip with two colleagues from office, one of whom I barely got along with, and the other, recently married, returned the same feeling with ease as his whole world started and ended at the daintily-colored chubby feet of his lady love. I was single, and the only people who persisted in communicating with me (a.k.a parents) were several thousand miles away. Yes, such sadness can be precipitated in a world that was yet ignorant of mobile telephony.
So while fellow tourists ooh-ed and aah-ed at the ethereal view the summit presented, my eyes kept wandering to a small stone slab embedded within the snow. The slab had the word ‘Delhi’ inscribed on it, along with the distance to Delhi from where we stood on the joch. That there were names and distances to a few other major cities in the world on the same slab, is a point of low significance to this incident and apparently to my memory as well, as the only name I recall from the slab in focus, is ‘Delhi’. My mood ? I was literally on top of the world, but felt utterly lonely.
And interestingly, neither my parents nor anyone I knew at that time, lived in Delhi. Hmmm.
Non-sense
October 17, 2011 at 3:41 am (General Nonsense)
When somebody says “Oh, I don’t know…”, what it really means is that they clearly know, but you are the last person they would ever prefer to reveal it to.
So just grow up and move on.
Late night rendezvous
September 14, 2011 at 2:11 am (Just Like That)
Or should I actually call it ‘early morning’ rendezvous considering it is the wee hours of the morning – 2AM to be precise?
A Bollywood channel which normally carries juicy tidbits from star-lives keeps us company with divine Hindi melodies from the 70s. Watching the drunk Rishi-Neetu Kapoor duo running around in broad daylight screaming “khullam khulla pyar karenge hum dono”, or the modest Amol Palekar-Zarina Wahab pair crammed to comfort in a jeep as he cooes “aaj se pehle aaj se jyada”, somehow seems a great way to end the day. Or to begin a new one.
What I like at school
August 12, 2010 at 10:33 am (Chikoo, Humor)
Me : Chetu let us count the number of blocks you have here.
Chetu : 1, 2, 3, 6, 1, 5, 9.
Me : Chetu, have they taught you counting at school?
Chetu : Yes.
Me : Do you enjoy it?
Chetu : No.
Me : Hmm, then what else do you enjoy at school? Drawing..?
Chetu : Yes, I like drawing. Drawing, yes.
Me : Then, what else do you like?
Chetu : (Pauses for a few seconds and then replies) Tiffin.
Me : What?
Chetu : Tiffin, tiffin, tiffin. I like tiffin at school.
The next few minutes has both of us on the floor laughing and crying. Simultaneously.
What’s in a name?
May 28, 2010 at 11:45 am (Chikoo, Humor)
It was bedtime. I had just read out to Chetu from his favorite story book, and switched off the lights in our room. As we continued talking in the darkness (Chetu, mostly. Only grunts from me) he asks “Amma, when I pressed that number on the telephone this morning, did it go to the police station?”.
Background. That morning Chetu’s again meddling with the telephone. He manages to dial a combination of numbers which, this time, results in a valid phone call. I am in the kitchen, blissfully unaware, getting lunch ready in a hurry as I am expecting my parents to drop in. Chetu comes running to me and holds out the phone (he has managed to activate the loudspeaker on it as well!) shouting, “Amma, I am speaking to Dada (my father) on the phone!”. I hear a male voice – so exactly like my father’s on the speaker – saying “Give the phone to Amma”. And I reply to the voice “Appa, where are you?”. The voice responds rather gruffly, “I am here only. What do you want?”. I reply, “What do I want? I am waiting for you guys to turn up, why are you taking so long?”. My “father” replies “Amma, this is the taluk office at Hoskote. Why are you eating my head? What do you want?”
I take one mean glance at Chetu who is still exulting with his “I called Dada on my own, I even put on the speaker!” and apologize to my fake “father”, hurriedly disconnecting the phone. It then takes me almost half-an-hour (in vain) to convince Chetu about the concept of “wrong numbers”. As I watch him again trying to make his own calls with the telephone, I make up the story about the police station. “Chetu, your call went to the police station, do you know?” I ask. And that’s the first time he listens intently. Immediately drops the phone to the ground as if faced with hot embers. He refuses to touch the phone again.
Cut back to present. I reply to Chetu’s question in the affirmative and again try to explain the concept of phone numbers. While I am on the topic, I tell him that every phone company delivers a book (telephone directory) where the phone numbers of people are listed. I say “Chetu, that’s the book where many different phone numbers are listed so that we always call the right people. Now what’s the book called…Let me try to remember…”
Maybe Chetu realizes at that moment how dumb his mother is to forget such a mundane thing as the telephone directory, and he chips in saying “Facebook…?”
Stranger anxiety
May 15, 2010 at 11:55 am (Chikoo)
Little Chaitanya has a mind of his own when it comes to social behaviour. His reaction to “strangers” ranges from complete cold-shouldering of some, totally adoring a rare few at first meeting, to hurling abuses at the unfortunate others. While many of these little incidences have been tough for me to handle – popping eyeballs is not exactly my preferred way of mutual reciprocation while acknowledging people – they have also brought me the closest I can be to the utter honesty of an unconditioned mind.
Here are some situations that have occurred in the past year (in no particular order) that have left me feeling…oh well, confused.
Situation 1 : It is early evening. Chetu and I are playing a game of racing cars on our balcony.
Neighbor Aunty : Hi paapu, did you finish you afternoon siesta?
Chetu : Spit, spit in the lady’s direction. Which clearly indicates it is no coincidence and he is not doing it to get rid of a fly that suddenly flew into his mouth. Then does a kick-boxing action, again in the same direction.
Me : Sorry Aunty, he hasn’t slept too well today.
Neighbor Aunty : Exits. Sports the same sheepish grin as mine.
Situation 2 : We bump into old colleagues at a restaurant. We are meeting them for the first time since Chetu was born. Chetu is in his father’s arms, happily munching on the last mint candy his father bought for him.
Colleague : Hi Chaitanya.
Chetu : Ignores. Continues munching the candy and meddles with the candy wrapper in his hand.
Colleagues Wife : He (Chetu) must be keeping you really busy eh?
Chetu : Suddenly wakes up from his day dreaming. Throws the rolled-up candy wrapper in the wife’s direction. It just misses her by an inch.
Me, Hubby : Gasp in disbelief.
Me (to Colleague’s Wife) : Sorry!
Colleague, Colleague’s Wife : Sporting similar sheepish grins and promise to catch up with us soon.
Situation 3 : I am hunting around for a new housemaid. Two ladies have arrived at my doorstep for an “interview”.
Me : (After our discussions are complete) So when can you start work ?
Chetu : (Before the ladies can reply) Amma, we don’t need them! We have Renuka (my old housemaid) working in our house no?! If they come home, I will lock them up inside a jail.
All of us laugh, for reasons not expressed.
Situation 4 : It is late evening. We are with a group of other people at the Ramanashram in Tiruvannamalai, listening to bhajans. Chetu is frisking around, looking for his favorite peacock feathers. A wizened old lady suddenly shuffles up to him and touches his cheeks. She then rummages around in her bag and takes out a few pieces of rock sugar which she offers to him.
Old lady : Take these few sweets dear, it is all I have today.
Chetu : Looks at me and replies – “Amma, we have lots of rock sugar in our house, no?”
Old lady : What does the little one say?
Me : He says he likes rock sugar very much. Thanks Aunty.
Situation 5 : A Tamilian friend of hubby’s comes home. Chetu is meeting him for the first time. Friend doesn’t speak Kannada, which happens to be Chetu’s only language of communication (atleast, we had assumed so!)
Friend : Hi Chaitanya!
Chetu : Silent. But we can see he really likes this friend of ours. He first parades all his favorite books to indicate his feelings. Then somehow realizes that the gentleman does not understand Kannada. So the little one slowly ventures out and talks to him the whole time – in lovely, broken English. Incidentally, that was the first day we heard him speak English.
The young protagonist of this story is all of three years old. Nevertheless, he carries such strong ideas, likes and dislikes that I sometimes end up having grown-up conversations with him. And that is when I have to remind myself to stand back and watch him discover the world around, on his own.
Protected: Fiction : In sickness and in health
February 28, 2010 at 2:32 pm (Fiction)
Tags: short story, swine flu
