life's a kick

  He doesn't look 40, does he? A couple of years ago, I picked up a renowned book by Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. I realized after going through the first few pages, that the book didn’t really offer anything new to me, courtesy my sibling teacher, my brother. What the book tried to teach in logic and words, my brother had taught me all along through practical demonstration. Almost all the good habits I have internalized so far, are owed to him. On his 40 th , it’s about time I pay my gratitude in ink. Let’s start with my first life lesson: Abandon labels In the 80s, even with limited access to TV for children of my generation, Bollywood faces were household names. Among them was the lesser known singer and widely popular actor-comedian, Tuntun. In those days, Tuntun was synonymous with overweight bubbly women. As the heaviest among three siblings, never mind that I was just five, brother chose to christen me Tuntun. It didn’t take any ceremony for the na...

  The village Chaandi was nowhere like its name in appearance. The Indian village, situated in a remote corner in one of its poorest states, translated literally to ‘silver’. Its fiscal status, however, did not make it any lesser for siblings Rashmi, Rahul, and Rama, all of 10, 8, and 7 respectively. For them, Chaandi was not just silver, it was the gold of their annual vacations. They came here every year with their parents, for this is where their paternal grandparents lived. The excitement would begin much before the journey did. They’d save money and buy their stockpile for months in advance. Jam-centred Jim-Jam biscuits, candies which could stand the sweltering heat of Indian topical summer, and the chief favourite of all - Cigarette shaped toffees. The toffees were bought with equal contribution and rationed out with exact accuracy. In their 36 hour train journey and two months of village stay, the trio would mimic smoking adults in all ways possible. Each trying to outdo...

With my original Durga This story dates back to 1997. I had turned 13, the year my periods began. Flashback: It had been four years since we had moved to Delhi. Coming from Bokaro, we’d still not warmed up to the national capital. The summers were too hot, the winters too cold, and no rains in between. There was no Bokaro Steel City Club to chill at. The parents of colony children were too strict with playing hours. Open spaces were too few and far between. English was too common, and the city’s fashion standard too pompous for our tastes. And then, as a 9 year old, I finally discovered something I liked about Delhi – the Kanjak Puja . Back in (the then) Bihar, there was no Kanjak Puja . There was only Dushehra, but it was celebrated with inimitable fanfare. We knew of only one Navratri that was celebrated in autumn, and all nine days were days of Durga. Of Kali, the eternal Shakti. The all-powerful goddess with 108 names. In my childhood memories, Dushehra, or...

“Auntie, where did you learn swimming?” Standing at the shallow end of the swimming pool, I was vigorously shaking my head to get rid of the water in my ears when this girl, around 10, approached me. “Sorry? You said something?” “Yes auntie. Where did you learn swimming?” “Umm…in a swimming pool in Dwarka.” “How long did you take to learn all the strokes you do. Especially butterfly?” “I took long. Almost two full seasons. Breathing and butterfly took the longest.” “So they taught you all the strokes there?” Asked the mother of this girl, inching closer, who was hitherto standing a few feet away. Her curiosity was piqued by now. On her shoulder clung her younger daughter. I had an audience of three. “My girls admire you. The way you swim non-stop. And also your butterfly and diving. So we wanted to find out about your trainer,” the mum added. “Beta, introduce yourself,” she chided her older daughter who looked at me with zero interest in personal introduc...

My mind has followed your words, to the last possible letter, from you I became this, for you I will become better. There doesn’t exist a dream, that doesn’t stem from you, it’s you who helps me be, to myself and others – true. Your art, your passion, your wholeness; your mindfulness and peace, you’re a treasure trove of wealth, I was born with Paradise’s keys For every good done by me, for every acknowledged deed my praise, my prize, my promise; belongs to my Papa, indeed.

Everything was okay in the life of 8-year old Prerna. Until her younger sibling was born. As an ebullient child with big eyes and continuous chatter, Prerna was a charmer, most of all for her Papa. As the first-born of her parents, Prerna was as much a mission as a gift. She obliged them as much as they doted on her. She did well at studies, at sports, and at general socializing with other children and adults. Her mom often complained about Prerna’s ‘endless’ energy to her father and others. “ So what’s wrong in that? It’s lack of energy that should be a concern, isn’t it? ” Papa would remark. Filling Prerna with a secret sense of pride. “ Stay like this ,” he whispered in her ears, hugging and cuddling her at the same time. Papa was her ‘bestest’ friend. Prerna and Papa were the centre of each other’s universe. When Papa was around, she cared for nothing and nobody else. Not her mom, who was in any case always busy with cooking and housework. Not for her maid Aparna aunti...

“Orphanage children restored to their families.” Makes great headline. No? The writer feels instant catharsis. The reader feels a warmth going down her legs. Allow me to replace the warmth of a garb with the chill of truth. Lakshya, 7, is an orphan. He was handed over to the police sometime after his parents died, by his own relatives. They admitted without qualms that he was a burden. The police assigned him to a care home where he was to be one among a hundred boys, aged between 5 and 18. Given his middle class background, fair cheeks and chubby appearance, Lakshya was immediately adopted as a Teddy Bear by one and all, who cuddled and spoiled him to no end. Never to have known such love (Lakshya was born to a wrecked marriage), the boy felt at home for the first time. He rejoined school, with ample seniors to help him cover a sustained gap owing to family turbulence. Four years in the care home, despite its due share of fights and constraints, Lakshya grew with love. A hal...