Dear Mama and Tatu,

Today would have been your 64th wedding anniversary. I do not know why after so many years I feel like writing to you. It has been more than 2 decades since you left me and there has not been a day when I have not missed you. It is strange how we miss those we loved more after they leave us. I guess as long as you were there one just lived by the day and never saw things in a larger perspective.

When I was a child Tatu you were the one who always stood in the way of my wanting to fly on my own wings bet it an invitation to spend the night at a friend’s house or go on a school trip, and when I was older to go out dancing or just hanging with friends. I must confess that I learnt to jump the walls and sneak out every night. Today I realise that it was because you loved me so much. You would have got the moon into my room if that were possible, but could not live a minute without knowing I was safe. Your safety rules were very restrictive and incomprehensible at that time and led to many banged doors and tears but then how can I forget the gentle knock on the same door that always followed and the super treat that you then cooked for me to the dismay of the kitchen staff, as they were not used to Ambassador Sahib whipping omelettes for his rebellious child. How could they ever imagine that all it took was a banged door and a fluffy omelette to set things right between an adoring father and his adored child. As I said, those were days when we lived one day at a time, and sorted our problems one at a time. And if your brand of safety did feel almost abusive at that time, today it seems it was the only way you knew to express your love. That is only one side of the story. There is another when you and I seemed more like partners in crime trying to hoodwink mama. How can I forget the innumerable dinners for two you and I shared as you instilled in me a love for gastronomy even before I could walk or talk properly. I remember dining with you at Maxim’s. I could go through a 4 course meal without a problem while having to be propped up on several cushions to reach the table. But that is not all you taught me. I think the biggest lesson you taught me was that of compassion and humility. Yes I was the spoilt Ambassador’s brat, but you sent me to neighbourhood schools where I rubbed shoulders and made friends with regular kids. You taught me respect for the other, no matter who the other was. I remember how on each and every Diwali celebrated in faraway lands, you ensured I touched the feet of everyone older than me, be it the cook or the housemaid. And I never resented it as you had instilled into me that it was the right thing to do. As we both grew we may have drifted apart but I can tell you today that there was only one place I felt safe and that was in your arms. 

If I am profoundly Indian it is because of you Mama. The very first word you spoke to me was in Hindi and you carried on doing so until the day you were sure that Hindi had become my mother tongue. I remember being shocked when I realised that you spoke other languages! It is at your knees that I learnt about my land and its beauty. You shared storied of your life that were imbibed with India’s fight for freedom and though you never believed in ritualism, you celebrated each and every festival in all its minutest details to allow me to make my own choice when time was ripe. Both of you never stopped me from participating in any religious festivities of friends and encouraged me when I wanted to fast with my Muslim friends or attend Mass with my christian ones. I guess this is why I accepted Hinduism as it felt like a religion that was all embracing. It breaks my heart to see what is happening today in the name of religion.

Mama you also gave me another lesson that I am deeply grateful for. I remember when during school holidays you would insist I learn to cook, sew, iron clothes, wash clothes, clean the house and help the staff. There were times when it did irk me, but today I realise that you were teaching me dignity of labour. It is something that is truly lacking in today’s India. 

I grew up in many countries but both of you ensured that I knew who I was and where I came from. My education was westernised but it never came in the way of my Indianess. Actually it enriched me in more ways than one and allowed me to be a better person or so I would like to believe. I could go and on as my memories are filled with exceptional moments I lived with both of you. Let me just say that if I am who I am today, it is because of the two of you.

But today is your wedding anniversary and I find myself writing about me! I guess this is part of the only child syndrome. Today I must talk about your incredible love story that few know. 

Mama you had resigned yourself to being an old maid as you had made a decision of not marrying before India gained its independence. You were quite a gal as you drove your own car, lived alone in Delhi under the watchful eye of one of your father’s client who had been accused of some horrible crime but has been acquitted thanks to your father’s pleading. He owed his life to him and thus protecting you was sacrosanct. He was a true Cerberus. 

Papa you too were living a lonely life in Mauritius though professionally you were at your zenith. You were a judge at a very young age and had even been  one of the youngest recipient of the MBE. I have your medal safely tucked away in a drawer and a yellowing picture commemorating the event. You told me you had once been engaged but the marriage never took place because of your mother’s demise. I guess you were both resigned to your lives. But someone had other plans.

Ma, I remember you telling me that when you had got your father to accept your decision not to marry in an enslaved India, you had also promised him that if you were still of marriageable age at India’s Independence you would marry anyone he chose. You must have been around 30 in 1947. It was an age when women were considered old maids. But your father remembered the promise and was on the look out for a suitable ‘boy’. Destiny took over and a common friend of both families suggested Tatu for you. I guess loneliness had got to you Tatu and your needed a wife on the new career you were embarking upon as you opted for Indian nationality and were to join the Indian Foreign Service. You were an odd couple: the highly educated Gandhian small town lass and the westernised bon vivant. It could not have been love at first sight for you Mama because as you told me once, when you first saw Tatu you thought he was the father for a prospective bride for your brother!

Tatu had been posted to Prague where he was meant to open the Indian mission and had a few days leave. He decided to woo you in the only way he knew: the western one. So there he was taking you on tonga – horse carriage – rides to the Lodhi Garden which was then almost on the outskirts of the city to buy you roses and then to Hamilton, the jewellers of the Brits, to buy you an engagement ring. You followed him wide eyed and totally in love. The only one who was not happy was your Cerberus!

I found a bundle of letters that you wrote to each other during you courting days. I must confess that I only gleaned through one and could gage how much in love your both were. I could not read those letters as I felt I would be prying in a space that was yours. Maybe my children will read them one day!

Your love story is not the kind you find in books and novels. It is borne out of your desire to reach out to the other in ways that were unique. Mama you had to get rid of your nationalist persona as you were  now the wife of a senior diplomat and embrace a world of luxury so alien from the one you knew as the child of a man more often in prison then at home. Papa you had to learn how to please a woman who tastes were so incompatible to yours. In communist Czechoslovakia you had to conjure green vegetables for the woman you loved as she was not one to share your taste for scoops of caviar or an orange duck. But mama you were to the manor born and all through your life you performed like a star.

When I came into this world and was old enough to understand things, both of you always seemed the perfect couple and incredible parents. It is only when I read one of your diaries after your death mama that I realised that there were problems and that you had handled them with such dignity. Tatu your jealousy and possessiveness was almost psychotic. You were unwilling to share the woman you loved with anyone, even her own family and siblings. You resented the time she spent with them in the most childish manner. Mama you were able to look beyond the petty attitude of your husband and realise that it was just his way of loving you and you accepted it without a sigh. I could never have done that. But this was your way of proving your love and I hope you understood it Tatu. You know that this incredible woman whose child I am so proud to be learnt French just for you, as French culture was engrained in your soul and she wanted to share what you loved best. 

But I think Mama that the best proof of how much Tatu loved you was in the last year of your life when you fell ill and lost part of your recent memory. You had cancer, but no one was supposed to utter the C word. You refused treatment and wanted to live life till the last breath. How difficult it was for you Tatu to see Mama wasting away and not accepting any medical help. But you did what she wanted and found ways of easing her pain. You had a hairdresser come almost every day and a beautician take care of her at home. You took her for lunches and to the theatre or concerts, even if you did not like Indian music. You had read somewhere that fish was good for her condition and Mama you ate that fish for him even if I know you threw up after each meal. Wow you guys were something.

In your last days you refused to sleep Mama and would only accept to do so if Tatu sat next to you holding your hand and waking you up every 45 minutes and he did that night after night without a word of murmur of protest. There are so many incidents of those days and I will not recall them all but there was one that particularly moved me. When you had completely lost your recent memory and could not remember what you had done the previous day, Tatu would make you write a daily diary and if someone came to visit you, you would quietly go into your room and read the relevant page and then act naturally. This was his way of protecting your dignity. 

I sit today remembering both of you and wondering whether I have been able live to your expectations and to the quasi impossible ideals you set as an example. I can feel your presence in the home you built with so much love.

Today I too have been thrown a challenge that will test my ability to rise to the heights you did and prove that I too can love in the exquisite way you showed me. 

I miss you Mama and Tatu.

Your child

Anou

For the past months I have been terribly stressed. The reasons are many, some personal and some professional. This cocktail has been a heady one and needs immediate first aid. The normal remedies do not work for me for several reasons. I find it hard to meditate though a friend recently told me a form of meditation called gibberish meditation that seems compatible with my personality. It is called gibberish meditation and goes from singing la la la to the sky to talking nonsense non stop and even jumping and rolling yourself on the floor. The trick is to go on for 20 minutes! I have not begun yet as I am still trying to find the appropriate time and space to ‘meditate’ without having my household think that I have had a meltdown and lost it! But I do intend starting this very soon.

Sometimes the Gods do decide to smile upon you and they did. With stress mounting by the minute, I knew I had to find some outlet I had to find some relief and it came in the most unexpected manner. You know how much I dread Utpal’s holiday homework as it is always a battle royal to get it finished. Most of it is quite inane and makes me wonder what the child learns. It has been, for the past years, a bane that spoils the holiday mood as most of the time one is hounding the child to write his daily page or do the annoying sums. But this time, when Utpal landed and showed me his homework he was all smiles and ready to take on the homework challenge. More so because he wants to finish it by the time Agastya my grandson and his pal land early next month. So we attacked the homework head on.

I took the printed sheets and worked out a plan. There was some research to do and I began in earnest and found myself enjoying every minute of it. So for the past days we have been collecting material, making posters, making charts and colouring them. Harvest festivals, malnutrition, antonyms and synonyms, proverbs, environment is what has kept me busy and stress free, at least for a couple of hours a day. I have been having a whale of a time doing things I did when I was young and loving every minute of it. Handling glue, colour pencils and crayons. Sharpening pencils and drawing straight lines with a ruler are things I had forgotten and like Proust’s madeleine brought back memories of happy yore years.

So till I find my space to scream and shout, holiday home work is my all new stress buster.

When I started Pwhy I did not know that my life would change surreptitiously in more ways than one. Till then I had been a rather private person. Perhaps this was because I had grown up as an only and lonely child with no moorings as mine was a nomadic life courtesy my father’s profession. Like all only children I had my set of imaginary friends, talked to myself and dealt with my good and bad moments alone. My adult years also were somewhat solitary. Friends and colleagues remained at a distance. After the passing of my parents I found myself slowly turning into a recluse. It became my comfort zone.   The children had grown up and found their wings. My imaginary friends mutated into books. But this was all about to change in a way I could never have imagines.

When I first thought of setting up a organisation, it was primarily to perpetuate my father’s memory and to pay back a debt. It was never meant to allow anyone into my private zone. But slowly things changed and I found that the gates and doors I had carefully placed around were soon to be blown away. You cannot set up an organisation teeming with children and people without opening your heart as wide as possible. It was the most rewarding and humbling experience and I felt blessed.

The life of a lone wolf is lacking in events that affect others. They mostly trouble you and it is up to you to sort them out or simply live with them. But once you open yourself to the world round you, particularly to those in need, then you become responsible for each and every action you do. Some can be quite devastating, but you have to take them on no matter what. A friend told me somewhere along the way that the best way to deal with your lapses and wrongdoings was to be candid and share them with one and all. I followed that directive as best I could, and have often found sharing in my blogs personal failures and gaffes. You always need to take responsibility for every action you do or word you utter.

Today is one of those moments.

For the past months now I have been walking a tight rope because of some personal issues and it has taken a huge toll on my nerves. I know I am at the end of my tether and have been very concerned about breaking down. I only did not when it would happen and who would be the target. Sadly it happened yesterday and the victim was none other than my most beloved Utpal. As every afternoon, I went to see him in his room to cajole into doing some homework. I found him in front of the TV munching biscuits. I must admit I was a little cross but still in control. As I sat down to straighten some of the mess around, I saw a huge plastic bag filled with cookies and biscuits. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I just lashed out, venting all I had been keeping inside for too long. The poor child was confused and then broke into tears. He could not understand why a few biscuits could unleash such reprimand.

His tears called me to order and I took him in my arms and told him how sorry I was. How could I explain to him that the words addressed to him were actually a meltdown. And how could I have forgotten that biscuits were his comfort zone as that is what he connected with his mother who always bought him biscuits! I was ashamed and not proud of what I had done.

I know he has forgiven me and moved on. But I cannot forgive myself and did not like what I saw in the mirror today.

Why is it that it is always children who are the target of our own frustrations!

Life has its own uncanny way of calling to to order, particularly when you have sunk in a comfort zone and feel that everything is on course. Those are times that you feel your master of you destiny. You even become hubristic! You believe, however erroneously that nothing can get you down as you can take up every challenge thrown your way. For the past months I have been dealing with the health issues of a dear one and until yesterday thought that I would be able to find the right solution and set things back on course. Did I not have an array of options be they as zany as astrologers and their remedies or as logical as the medics who have healed you till now.

Yesterday my entire coping strategies turned out to be a house of cards. All the carefully laid plans, the painstakingly created network of all possible experts one may need in life and the fastidiously drawn out list of all that could possibly go wrong and probable solutions for every aspect of one’s life came to naught. I was suddenly faced with a situation for which I had no ready solution. The ones available were not up my street. I found myself lost on a road I did not know existed. Suddenly all beliefs that seemed so true faded in the face of a situation that concerned a loved one. Oh it is so easy to pontificate when the circumstances concern others or are hypothetical. But when reality hits you a blow in the guts then you realise how fragile you really are.

I have spent the whole day, aided by an army of well wishers to find two mere units of a certain blood group. It is unbelievable but true that you may have all the resources possible be it money, education, contacts et al and yet fail. We were only able to get one unit. How lost and vulnerable you feel. And there you were once thinking you could conquer the world.

But that is not all. The recent events I have experienced have once again brought the fact that our life is ephemeral and we are in no way masters of its duration. One has to keep this in mind and tie all the loose threads before it is too late. Never have I felt this as poignantly as today. So over and above doing my best and more for the one who needs me, there are two things I need to do before it is too late. One is to register my will, something I have been wanting to do for quite some time, and the other is to start a Trust Fund for   little Utpal who has no one but me in the whole world and who would be lost forever if his Maam’ji does not set things right today.

So help me God.

Note: I hope some of you will come forward and participate in Utpal’s Trust Fund that will help him get  a solid higher education and thus a  profession and help him settle in life without being at the mercy of others.

I start blogging in April 2005. That makes it 8 years and almost 1500 blogs. It all started like this. It must have been circa 2003 when I realised that the proverbial ‘pockets’ I easily dug into whenever    extra funds were needed were emptying at the speed of light or even faster. All the people one knew had been tapped and thus it was time to seek new pastures. At that time I was slowly discovering the magical word of the world wide web and it must have been around then that the first pwhy website went on line. Actually 2003 was quite a fateful year. It was the year when Utpal fell into the boiling cauldron and entered our lives; when two of our creche children died in strange circumstances and we discovered the apathy of the police who never wanted to register a case; when we were successful in raising funds for Raju’s open heart surgery. It was also the year when we were at the top of our page 3 days and the darling of many who organised stunning evenings and balls to help us raise funds. It was also a time when we were at the height of our fairy tale existence. It was also at that time that someone suggested I join a social network called Ryze. I must confess that I had a tough time building my page and it looked very puerile. But I managed to get quite a few contacts and thus began the pwhy network that is so precious to us today. We had a website that was not quite what I would have liked and I realised to my horror what the cost of maintaining would be. I had 2 options: not to have a site at all – not really an option -, or learn how to maintain it myself. I cannot remember how many nights it took to learn a new language – HTML – but I did. The other things I began doing was sending individual emails to all the people I knew. I had not yet discovered mass mailing or just BCC option. That is when a kind person – God bless him – suggested I start a blog. It would change my life forever.

It was a hesitant beginning but I had a forum where I could share the life of pwhy, the stories of our kids, the little things that happened everyday. I thought of it like a sea captain’s logbook that would preserve the chronicles of pwhy. True it started being just that but somehow mutated almost insidiously into a record of happenings in India viewed through a different prism: that of someone passionately in love with her country and often at a loss in comprehending the stark inequalities between rich and poor, the hidden agendas and corrupt games of the powers that be, the dignified and touching survival modes of the poor. The project why stories took on a larger meaning and I found myself writing about issues I felt important. The tone became harsher, the criticism more acerbic and the mood somber.

Simply making a difference in the lives of the hundreds and more children who came to project why was not enough. True it was important as it was tangible and thus valorising but I felt the need to add my voice to those of others fighting for causes I empathised with. And slowly the fairy tale like stories of project why became far and few. There were more important issues to address.

For me this became a platform to share my thoughts, my anger, my distress, my anguish, my horror and my opinions to aberrations that seemed more the rule than the exception. I wanted to be heard.

In 2009 I began writing my second book. This one was about the project why story. Once I again I opted to write it in the form of letters to a child and entitled it Dear Popples II. The bye line was ‘then project why story’. I wrote about 100 pages without any problem in a very short time. And then one day I simply could not continue. The story stopped circa 2004. It was a strange writer’s block that refused to go. I tried many times to pick up the threads but to no avail. I decided to let it be till the time was right.

It is only a few weeks back that I found myself opening the abandoned file and reread what I had written and see if I could move on or if not at least figure out what had happened. It took me some time to realise that my pen had stopped at what I call the fairy tale years and that somehow the approach that seemed right for the first 100 pages did not and would not work for the remainder of the story. The bye line could not be ‘the project why story’ but had to become something like ‘India song 20??-2013. I had two choices either rewrite the whole book or make it in two parts. I opted for the later as only this way will the reader fully appreciate the dynamic and organic nature of project why but also share the changes such an experience has on a human soul. For I cannot shy from the fact that I am in no way the same person I was when it all began. Have I changed for the better? I do not know. I do miss the naive and trusting being I was then and something do not like the bitter and splenetic woman I sometimes seem to have become. Maybe the truth lies in between the two.

Even though I will have to sneak time to write the book, I will continue to blog, as blogging is an immense catharsis for me and I need to rant and rave or else I would blow a fuse, but I what I would really like is people to react to what I write. Sadly my 1500 blogs have only 800 comments!

It is not always easy to pass on the mantle and yet that is what I have been trying to do for some time. The reasons are many: creaking bons and dwindling eyesight reminding one that age is catching on; the one woman show syndrome which may look attractive and inspiring but makes the entire structure rather shaky and fragile, and above all the seemingly forgotten mission that set the ball rolling: empowering people to keep the show on the road. I have been making myself as scarce as possible even though I must admit I more than anyone else miss my earlier persona and role. However and no matter what anyone else says, the experience has been positive as the project had been running like a clock work orange. project why needs another face, and the one I would like to project is that of my A team: namely Rani, Dharmendra and Shamika. Somehow I feel that as a crew they encompass most the qualities I have. I know that there is still the fundraising issue but given time I know that they have the ability to overcome the challenge in their own way.

This morning the children had to perform in front of a large group of expat spouses in a very posh hotel and the performance had to be preceded by the much dreaded speech. I must say that Rani made a wow speech in front of the same group at their Annual meeting some weeks back. So I had decided to let them go without me and repeat the performance. Yesterday I could see that the girls wanted to say something but did quite get to it. I stood my ground and repeated that I was not planning to go as I had other things to do. Imagine my surprise when I switched on my computer this morning and found this message: The office does not feel the same without you in it! You are our support, our strength and our energy! We still are very raw in doing stuff! We get very inspired by you. You are a great mother and a wonderful boss! We are very nervous about the event tomorrow  and don’t want any thing to go wrong. I was touched and a tad  cross at the same time. There I was trying to make them stand on their feet and gain confidence.

I was funny that my daughter chose to send me an email from her room within the same house. I guess this is modern communication that I still have to get used to.

I read the message a few times and realised that I had to act in the right way, and the right way at this point was to accept to go with them and hold their hands. The game of passing the mantle has to go through many twists and turns, and you have to play by the rules or else everything may crumble like a house of cards. I also realised that though my A team was doing great, they still needed to be helped and I saw my role like the prompter on a theatre stage: remain invisible but be there when you are needed.

I will be there till I am needed to make sure that the show goes on but I know that the day will come when my team will have the ability to write their own lines and perform them with aplomb.