I Cross the road to get to the other side

Growing up in a small town with few choices for higher education and career opportunities is not all that bad when today having moved to a city I see myself tied up in work from dawn to dusk; no friends; no neighborly chats and the ever busy streets that stretch on and on with vehicles in all colours and sizes screaming for space streaming in endlessly. And the result is that pedestrians are left behind. Crossing the road is an adventure. Every single day. Even after 20 years in the city for me crossing the roads is still an adventure. The traffic is not only congested but in total chaos because people in this city don’t care about the traffic rules. Traffic rules are not for us, Hyderabadis.. I remember those days clearly when I had moved to the city in the hopes of having a bright career. I did not own a vehicle and had to depend on public transport mostly the overcrowded buses or at times the auto rickshaws that refuse to run on meters. (I missed the small town with its tidy roads and organized traffic. No rush. No hurry. Everything moving at its own pace.) Well that was somehow the part I could manage – get myself to a bus bay and get into a bus (the right number after seeking help from others at the bay). The next was the part I feared most – crossing the road. I would wait and wait hoping for the vehicles to slow down and finally when they did; cross the road in a sprint. But often the waiting period cost me dear. I would be late for my workplace and cut a sorry figure. So the next option was requesting people who were crossing road to allow me to walk with them. Some people were really helpful they used to hold my hand and help me cross the road. But soon I realized they were not really ‘helpful’ they were just enjoying holding hands with a young woman while crossing the road. Ugh. I dint want that. I would cross the roads by myself I decided. No matter how much I steeled myself, I would get all jittery when I was on the road. Cars would screech to a halt or the bus driver would honk madly at me and those on the two wheelers were even more rude, they would shout, “ Aunty, marne ka irada hai kya?” I did not give hope. I observed people who crossed the roads. There were two groups. One that comprised of the brave confident people who crossed the road and the other comprised of senior citizens, the blind, small children and me – the not so confident group of people who also crossed the same road. After watching the group one for some days my confidence grew slowly and I learnt the knack of crossing the road at the right moment when the vehicles were thinner and correctly gauging the gap between the cars and my own speed of motion; to wait when there were heavy motors that could crush you; the safe moments to cross. It was all about timing. And after nearly 6 months (which I know is very long) I overcame the fear of crossing roads. And many times I recall the old joke: why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side, of course. It has now become one among the fears I no longer fear. Whilst there are still some fears I need to overcome. ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’ http://forum.blogadda.com/images/wowbadge.png This entry got me a WOW badge!

My Confidant

I took to writing diary from age 16 when I was in college and away from home. I was lonesome in a new place amongst new people and one fine day took up a note book and writing my thoughts. And soon it became a habit because every day after college I wrote down the date and shared with my new found confidant every little detail. It was like I was sharing everything with my folks the way I used to after coming home from school. And I finished notebook after note book. All these books were neatly piled in a corner of the shelf. And when I returned home for good a box full of notebooks were amongst my luggage. In fact the box was my most precious luggage. And my habit of writing diary continued and I never missed a single detail..not even when I was bad. I wrote down that as well. And when I fell in love and out of love it was my confidante that got to know every little detail in detail. I described every feeling, every emotion to my confidant which I would not do with any human being. My anger, my depression, my fear and sorrows, my dreams and nightmares..I left out nothing. Soon as my age advanced the number of diaries kept increasing year after year and there were two boxes full of diaries. And I kept them away in the attic. One in a blue moon I took out any of the note book and read a random page and it was like living that day of that year all over again because of the minute details I had captured in it. I was addicted to writing diary. A note book accompanied me everywhere I traveled. It was an extension of me. And I could not do without it. IF for a day I was not able to write I felt restless. One fine day it just occurred to me that I am way too much addicted to writing a diary. Anyone who read it would know me inside out. But then I thought after I am no more someone who read it would know me better after I was no more. But did I want people to know me in such details..some were just too bold. I thought I should de addict myself. Stop writing these diaries. Say farewell to my confidant of over 25 years. One night when it was quiet all around and I was alone at home I removed all my diaries doused kerosene oil and set fire to them. I watched in stoic silence as the flames engulfed the books…and as the fire raged…something inside me began to crumble. I thought I would break down and cry but I kept watching the fire. I could not turn my eyes away from the sight of the burning books. I kept watching although I was deeply hurt within. Finally when the heap of ash lay at my feet I sat down in a heap myself. And it dawned on me that I had lost my confidant of my adolescence and my youth. And now I was alone. Because I would no longer write a diary now. My relationship with my diary was over.

Another item added in my league of lost things. I finally let go of the tears that were struggling to come out. I don’t know why I did it. I only knew that it was time for this habit to go. But now I still think if I did the right thing. When I told my friend about it after a few months she told me that would have made a good data for your to write stories and maybe even a novel. What a foolish thing to have done! Well..well.. ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

The Rebel

We loved visiting our grandparents during our summer vacations as they pampered us to the core. During story time there was only one story we loved hearing again and again.

And this was grandma’s favourite story too. But wait it was not a story, it was something that happened to her during his childhood.

In the village where they resided grandma and grandpa were both lived in the same village in their childhood and were  buddies. But the older children in the village were bullies and used to wait near the big banyan tree for little children to come to the swings so they could bully them and extort goodies if they had any.

Little grandma was a rebel even then while grandpa was a timid boy. That afternoon Grandma had  sweetmeats made by her mom which she was carrying for her best friend – our grandpa. But she was bullied into giving it to the older boy who was waiting near the corner. 

She was livid with rage and flung a stone at the boys from afar. But the stone found its mark and hit the same bully on the head and he began to bleed. All the children panicked and so did little grandma.

Afraid she ran and ran away from their village and soon was lost. It was evening and it was growing dark. She was afraid and began crying but soon great grandpa along with the others found her.

No one scolded her instead they all pampered her and this made grandma happy.

And after that no one bullied grand ma and whoever happened to be with her as they were afraid of her.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.  

This blog got me the WOW badge. My 2nd one.
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An abandoned warehouse

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

There is an abandoned warehouse in our town and it always fascinated me. And I deliberately took that route while going to work though many avoided that narrow lane.

There were many stories regarding the old warehouse that after the British left India it was abandoned and later inhabitated by the people of the other world. While some said that it was used by the people of the underworld to hide their loot.

Whatever..I thought..as I gazed at the huge building in its dilapidated state, the huge wooden doors worn out and the locks rusted, wild grass around it.

I used to always try to imagine its past glory…how nice and majestic it must have been with activities bustling in it. What all goods must have been stored in it and from what different sources? What must have been the process of warehousing in those times?

How did the workers carry heavy loads? Where they paid well and on time? Or were the British were hard task masters and treated them cruelly?

I often parked my bicycle and stood gazing at the building wishing to go back in time and see firsthand how the warehouse back then functioned. 

This blog got the WOW badge

Washing clothes not a female domain

“I am joining the Ariel #ShareTheLoad campaign at BlogAdda and blogging about the prejudice related to household chores being passed on to the next generation.”

When I read about the Ariel contest on reducing gender prejudices and washing clothes my mind went back to my childhood when the ‘Dhobi’ used to come to our place to collect the laundry fortnightly and came back after 15 days to deliver the washed and pressed clothes. He and his wife took turns. It did not seem unusual back then that a man came to collect and deliver the laundry.  

And when we traveled past the river on the outskirts of our town both men and women could be seen washing heaps of clothes and drying them.

However when families became smaller and washing machines had not yet entered the household it was the mother or the ‘kaamwaali’ who washed the clothes along with the household chores which are considered ‘ womanly duties’.  And when the washing machines finally did enter the households it was still the women who did the laundry as with all the other chores. Even the ‘kaamwaalis’ were taught to operate the machine.

As I grew up I saw this transition and imbibed that indeed there are a set of different chores allotted to both men and women. I longed to outsource the laundry as it was time consuming and interfered with my free time. And I longed to go out with friends on the weekends.  But here I was stuck on Sundays with the cleaning and the laundry of the entire week.  

If I made any plans to go out with friends on Sundays I made sure I did the laundry on Saturday nights. (I work 6 days a week). It was always at the back of my mind that why the chores can’t be shared? Why these prejudices?

The society has defined separate roles for men and women and I learnt that these prejudices are imbibed and handed down from generations. There is nothing womanly about washing clothes and nothing manly about repairing the electric fuses in the house. These roles have been defined to suit the dominant ‘male culture’ with women at the receiving end. If my man washed the clothes it would not make him less manly. After all I go out and work.

And the Ariel share the load drive awakened my senses and I realized it’s time we women took up the challenge to oust these prejudices. There is no such thing as male domain and female domain.

Musings: DIGNITY

Musings: DIGNITY

DIGNITY

Grateful I am

‘Coz with dignity

I raise my children

So what

If my tummy rumbles with rage

And my legs wobble

When I stagger home

Grateful I am

‘Coz a job I have

So what

If lustful male gazes on the roads

And contemptuous female glances

 from the havens  

I have to ignore

Grateful I am

‘coz food on the table I can lay

And bills I can pay

So what if the fear

Of the morrow haunts

That with my limbs

My children too might fail me?

Grateful I am

‘Coz today I live in dignity

Roads- where dost thou go?

The highway roads

Long and Stretching

Far and Beyond

Never Ending

Always busy

Yet seem lonesome

Leading everywhere

And No where

  If they could speak

        Would they fore tell

          Destines unknown?

          Reveal secrets

untold and unknown?

  Disclose histories 

hidden and un witnessed?

 But the roads

Still and silent

Go on and on and on

Life ends

But roads do not.

School friends forever - Reunion

The year 2015 went by rather too soon. Like every year this one too had its ups and downs but one event that stands out and will forever be a thing of joy for most of us from the class of 1985 from St. Mary’s convent High School, Raichur is the formation of the group “school friends forever” on whatsapp. Even a critic like me has had to admit that technology is not that bad at all.

Old friends were searched through social net working sites, neighbours of the friends, friends of friends, through siblings and through all possible venues and added on the “school friends forever” group on whatsapp.  Each one of us was ecstatic to be in touch with child hood buddies who we thought we would never meet. And the conversations flowed round the clock. Whoever was online at that time chatted and caught up with each other filling in the details of the past years or reminiscing the good old school days, the pranks, the punishments, the laughter shared. There was so much to talk about..pulling each other’s leg, complimenting on the looks, discussing about shopping, sharing recipes, homemade remedies and what not.  Some were housewives, some had careers and some settled abroad. All of us were scattered and caught up in the whirlwind of life yet flocked together on whatsapp. We were miles away but on whatsapp all we needed was just a ‘tap on our touch screen phones’ to connect. And we would be instantly transported to a totally different world where we were like the adolescent girls walking down the familiar corridors of our alma mater.

Soon the topic veered towards having a get together of all the old friends -Reunions having become the trend these days. After much deliberation the reunion of St. Mary’s batch of 1985 was finalized for 10 and 11^th of October 1985. More excited discussion on finalizing the colour code for the 2 days. And even more discussions on the agenda for the 2 days. Each one of us had our own ideas and we were all filled with excitement.

The colour codes were finalized, the place of stay and the agenda also finalized because this was the discussion for one whole month. Votes were taken where necessary. Tickets were booked to avoid last minute rush. A majority of our class mates lived in Bengaluru so expected a decent gathering of at least 25 to 30 friends. But gradually other priorities took over and some of them dropped out of the reunion plan much to the dismay of the others.   But somehow the responsibilities are laden more on the women when it comes to children- their studies, health, nursing aged parents and in-laws.

The rest of us who were going were counting the days for the D Day. And finally it arrived. It was a warm sunny day the 10^th of October, Saturday in Raichur when 16 of us met at a common point dressed in navy blue and white - the colours of our beloved Alma mater. We were all talking at once greeting and hugging each other with ecstatic joy complimenting on how pretty the other looked or how much our friend had changed in appearances or not changed at all despite the years.  Selfies and group photos were in order. And then we took the path to our school as decided. Even on the way we chatted excitedly talking about the miscellaneous stalls just outside the school gate where sweetmeats, wild berries were sold and how we used to throng to buy them even though our elders and teachers were against it. We wondered if the vendors would still be there but when we reached there we were disappointed that the place was empty. None of the little stalls with the women vendors warding off flies were there. They were a thing of the past now. Children no longer preferred those goodies now.

In, the school gate we walked, remembering how as late comers we used to stand at the gate fearfully. And if there was a slight chance we would sneak in and join the last row in morning assembly. We met the present Head Mistress and asked her about our old teachers who were all retired and a few already in heavens. The Office room was also another place we dreaded because this was the place where we were called only when we had done a grievous mischief and deserved punishment from none other but the school head.

We walked around the school compound gazing yearningly at the primary section, the play ground, the water tank where we fearlessly drank water that was neither filtered nor boiled. The church where we used to quickly kneel for blessing to pass in the test had received a makeover and was prettier now.

At the exterior there were changes but those classrooms were still the same and our chatter and giggles probably still echoed in the memories of time. We gathered on the dais for photos, posed at the coveted piano in the school auditorium, sang the school song and other hymn at the very place where our morning assembly was held, had small talks with the present girls studying there, walked around the play ground and the grotto reminiscing those golden days of our school hood. We could just never have enough of it but we had to move on because that is the law for all living things – to grow and outgrow.

An elaborate lunch and visiting 2 of our senior teachers took place as planned followed by a noisy evening and an elaborate dinner.

In the nights there was much laughter, cracking jokes and laughing gleefully at the adult jokes like school girls sharing something private. We were seeing this naughty side of each other now after 30 years where the naughtiness in the school was something else. Maybe a trick played on a unsuspecting girl or doing something slyly to escape punishment. 

Day 2 was spent at a local resort singing, dancing, talking, laughing and posing for photographs.  And most importantly, catching up with each other. So much had happened with so many of us in all these years.

Photos, video clips were sent in the group to those who had missed out on the reunion.  Each place we went to was informed in the group so they too could actually get the ‘feel’ of being with us.

The 2 days with friends passed quickly and the time to depart arrived…one by one each one left to her place with a heavy heart but laden with memories that will be treasured.

There may be more get togethers in the coming years but this one – the first one will be the best one – I reflected. The year also saw its worst floods and some of our friends were caught up in the storms and they braved out of it. These two major incidents one that gave us a high and another low. There were many lows in the lives of other friends who lost their loved ones but life goes on and friends give us a all new high each time we log on to the whatsapp group.

Friends from diverse backgrounds, each having her own individual battle but when we are in the group everything becomes everyone’s concern and sorrow and each one’s happiness becomes everyone’s joy.

Girls who were brilliant and teachers’ pet and girls who were average and some even wall flies were all one now with no sense of insecurity or inferiority. Because today, each one of us has managed to garner her own place under the sun. 

The caravan of friendship never ends. It is indeed true that poor is a person who has no friends. And here we were rich beyond words because we had friends from our college days, friends from our work places, friends from our towns/ cities and best of all friends from childhood. We all owned the wealth of friendship and today are richer than any rich person in the whole of the world.

“Each friend represents a world within us” – Anian Nin. And so it was each one of us was similar to the other in some way and different in some other way and yet we were all one.

Those 2 days we re-lived the school days. And it was just not enough. There was a feeling of emptiness after we departed.

A friend of mine had written in my autograph book in school, the lines were something like this “Into that garden we shall meet where friends never depart.” Somehow I never found my school autograph book again but these words along with some others still linger in my mind.  

And I conclude this blog here with hopes of writing any more memoirs of moments spent with friends, with this quote found on the internet and which suits my write up aptly:

"I know we'll be friends for life, sharing our dreams together. As we walk down the road, we'll never think twice, these memories are made forever. And though we're off to different worlds, somehow we're together...because deep within our heart...these memories are made forever."
- Mystic Pizza -

PS: Friends o mine who are reading this especially who made it to the reunion, please suggest editions if needed. Will edit the blog and re post. JJ