Love rectangles

A friend likes another friend, but that friend hates him. Another friend likes another friend, that friend doesn't hate him, but doesn't love him either. A third friend loves one but seems to like many other friends too. A friend of a friend who patched with her bf also has a gf.

Life, did you have some fixation with screwing everything up?

LOL

At least I have a good laugh

Dasvidaniya

Ten reasons* I liked the film:

1) It make you think about how we assume the things that need our immediate attention are as mundane as faulty geysers, buying vegetables for dinner

2) It brings out beautifully well the breadwinner's struggle at a day in a busy metro. Sweat, shoves, queues, snub

3) The pang of unexpressed first love

4) Childhood friendship

5) Death, and the opportunity it brings so that we can live to the full

6) The line, 'Zindagi kitni khoobsoorat hai'

7) A mother's denial (i.e. the quack) and acceptance (i.e. the lift) at the same time

8) The film repeats the most spiritual cliche of all times ever-- to live your dreams--- beautifully

9) The thing about gifts.

10) The fact that Dasvidaniyan is predictable and yet it's something a good movie buff shouldn't miss.

* There are so many wonderful films I have decided to write about here, but haven't done so for want of time to put a 'proper review'. From now, I am going to blog about ten reasons I loved a film. That should be short and doable. One request-- please share your reactions to all film reviews w/o revealing the suspense as far as possible. Or give a SPOILER warning. :)

CAST and CREDIT

Banner: Lemon Tea Productions, One More Thought Entertainment Pvt. Ltd.Producer Vinay Pathak, Azam Khan

Director: Shashant Shah

Star Cast: Vinay Pathak, Ranvir Shorey, Rajat Kapoor, Neha Dhupia, Saurabh Shukla
Gaurav Gera...... Vivek, Suchitra Pillai, Sarita Joshi...... Maa
Suresh Menon, Purbi Joshi...... Garima, Joy Fernandes...... Savio Sachin Khurana...... Varun

Singers: Kailash Kher, Sonu Nigam, Paresh, Naresh

Lyricist: Kailash Kher

Screenplay, Dialogue, Story / Writer: Arshad Ali Syed

Bell Bajao

Talk about advertisements that touch. Public service/ awareness campaigns are powerful tools to reach the masses. The Bell Bajao campaign is one such.
I saw the advertisement for the first time today.
The message has been cleverly depicted. Dialogues are almost non existent. A bell, a look. That's all. An intervention that says a lot without saying anything.
Those who ring the doorbell to interrupt an episode of domestic violence ask nothing more than a cup of milk, or a cricket ball. And yet, they convey such a lot. Perhaps, even put an end to something that could have ended up in a suicide, a burn case, a grievous knife injury. These are not far-fetched ideas, no. Just read your news briefs more carefully and you will realise how sadly common it is for such misfortunes to happen in homes that are caught in domestic turmoils. (And you know what, half such news doesn't even reach you. It dies a sudden death for want for space.)
Bell Bajao. As long as there are people who are sensitive enough to give importance to such seemingly trivial, but indeed quite vital issues, there's still so much to feel good about. This is a wonderful, wonderful campaign. Hats off to the ad-men, script-writers, directors, producers et al.

Cliched but true is only an excuse

I had asked a question about cliches on Against the tide. While a complete post is awaited, here's what I got as a quick reply:

Cliches from Associated Press Guide to News Writing, Rene J. Cappon.
The link: http://cliche.theinfo.org/

awkward dilemma | brutal murder | close proximity | end result | entirely absent

exact counterpart | future plan | general public | gory murder | grateful thanks

| gruesome tragedy | lifeless corpse | mutual cooperation | new record |

original founder | patently obvious | personal friend | personal opinion |

present incumbent | sworn affidavit | surrounded on all sides | true facts |

ultimate outcome | gave permission to | held a meeting | proved of benefit |

to put in an appearance | reached an agreement | submitted his resignation |

take into consideration | established | conclusive evidence of | take into custody

accommodations | approximately | assistance | commence | finalize |

implement | in consequence of | initiate | methodology | motivation |

objective | purchase | remuneration | substantial proportion |

underprivileged | utilise | armed to the teeth battle | royal |

beat a hasty retreat | beyond the shadow of a doubt | bite the dust |

blessing in disguise | blissful ignorance | burning issue | club-wielding police |

colourful scene | conspicuous by its absence | coveted award | dramatic new move

dread disease | dream come true | drop in the bucket | fame and fortune |

gentle hint | glaring omission | gory details | grief-stricken | hand in glove|

hammer out | happy couple | head over heels in love | heart of gold |

heavily armed troops | iron out | intensive investigation | Lady Luck |

lash(|ed|es) out | leave no stone unturned | light at the end of the tunnel |

lightning speed | long arm of the law | man in the street | marvels of science |

matrimonial bliss | meagre pension | miraculous escape |

Mother Nature | moves into high gear | never a dull moment | Old Man Winter

paints a grim picture | pay the supreme penalty (price)

picture of health | pillar of society | pinpoint the cause

| police dragnet | pool of blood | posh resort | prestigious law firm | proud

heritage | proud parents | pursuit of excellence | red faces | red-faced |

reins of government | rushed to the scene | selling like hotcakes |

spearheading the campaign | spirited debate | spotlessly clean |

sprawling estate | spreading like wildfire | stranger than fiction | storm of protest

| supreme sacrifice | surprise move | terror-stricken | tie the knot |

tip of the iceberg | tower of strength | true colours | vanish in thin air |

walking encyclopaedia | wealth of information | whirlwind campaign |

last but not least | beck and call | bits and pieces | very unique |

clear and simple | death and destruction | each and every | fair and just |

few and far between | nook and cranny | pick and choose | ready and willing |

right and proper | safe and sound | shy and withdrawn | smooth and silk |

Annapurna Tiffin Service

Food. Mortal existence essentially revolves around what we get to eat and how. The fortunate ones elevate the exercise of eating to exotic levels of culinary perfection. The less bestowed ones get something to eat only after a day full of rigid toil.

My being a foodie has a lot to do with my family, like I have said in this post. My parents are people who enjoy a simple, home cooked meal with humility and zest.

My earliest memories are playing about with my sister and cousins at my nani's house. Every festival meant going there. My nani would sit down in the kitchen, frying jalebis and malpuas, with the gas cylinder creepily close by. On festival days, she used two gas burners, instead of the usual one on the kitchen platform.

When I grew old enough to be scared of fire and the possibility of a cylinder blast dawned on me (children become aware of dangers sooner than us these days) I told my nani how risky it was to fry mal-puas thus. Everyone in the kitchen laughed me of. Food never fell short in that home. Go there at any odd hour and rest assured, you will find either a complete meal, or some filling snacks coaxed down your throat.

My mother had her mother's passion for cooking. And my father, never failed to appreciate her art. Each morning and each night, he sang passionate praises of how wonderfully she fed us all. He would only get cross if something fell short. Thankfully, it never has. Aaji has to ensure that the quantity is just right, for if rice or dal falls short, my Baba has this indignant fit of anger. He can praise rice gruel as if he's eating Biryani, but he pouts like a child even if a spoonful falls short.

While I am nowhere close the diligence of either my mother, or my aaji, I have inherited the appreciation of good food from my family, and a certain amount of whimsical fancy for cooking. Whimsical, for as my aaji says, only she is a good homemaker who boils her milk every day and makes ghee at the end of the month.

My father has immense respect for anyone who feeds him one complete meal. He says those homes are blessed where kitchens are always full of women happily churning out delicacies for their families. He calls such homemakers 'Annapurna', after the Goddess that ensures bounty of food in any household.

Some days back, when we called many to our home for dinner and I planned a menu so ambitious that even surprised me, Baba was overjoyed. "I am glad you take joy in cooking," he said. "You should take immense pride that you can feed someone. Don't turn out to be like those feminists who take pleasure of renouncing the kitchen. It's not a chore, but a privilege to be able to cook elaborate dinners," he told me.

When I didn't study, my father would chid me and weave this fantastic future scenario. He said if you don't study, the only resort would be to start Annapurnaa tiffin service, and jump up the bicycle wearing a ghaghra to go from door to door to deliver lunch boxes. But no sooner had he said this, he always added, "But I don't even mind if you do that. An honest and cheap restaurant business is a kind of social service."

The laughs we had when Baba started his Annapurna tiffin service story came to my mind when I was reading this blog sometime back. People from all over the world read and try her recipes. Their jubilant feedback after trying some item, even for a third person like me, is heartwarming. Ah, the joy food can spread...

Hail George Orwell

In an age of politically correct writing, even gearing the subconscious in a politically correct mode of thought, George Orwell's writing reeks of candour to the best possible level of journalistic perfection.

While you may freely disagree with his views, you must read his essays, just to learn with what clarity and simplicity it is possible to put your thoughts across.

I have read, re-read, and plan to re-read his essays.

Last night, I found an amazing online collection of almost all his essays. Some, which I had not even heard of before. I feel it my duty to pass on the link here, and hope that at least few good readers here would find time to read this master wordsmith.

My favourites are Shooting an Elephant, A Hanging, Books v. Cigarettes, The Prevention of Literature, In Defence of English Cooking, Why I Write, Some Thoughts on the Common Toad. Even his critique on Gandhi is an interesting read. For that matter, each piece written by Orwell is special, sensitive without being overtly emotional. For example, Looking Back on the Spanish War.

The direct link of the entire list is this: netcharles.com

Orwell is worth investing time in.

Cold spell rant

A bad cold has left me feeling miserable. This is not a worthy topic for blog space, I know, but just once in a while I allow myself to use the blog as a ranting machine. In my cold spells, the anger I otherwise keep under a tight tab slips out on its own. All my silent, rather acute Virgo criticisms effortlessly fly to target the cause of my irritation. Under normal circumstances, I am satisfied by speaking only when necessary, or when I feel like doing so, or with people who happen to be within one hand's distance provided my mood is right. Then, I don't need introductions or familiarity. For a brief five minutes, I might just catch you and share with you any thought that passes my mind at that moment, however ridiculous it may be. When this happens in office, I have seen that people frantically start scouting for some work to keep me occupied. For my quips can be quite random- I know, I know. :(

For example: The other day, my usual herbal soap was finished and I had to use the Dettol menthol body wash (the one which comes in a blue pack). People, don't ever, ever make the mistake of buying this product. It is one of the most ridiculous toilet items ever made. It's a yucky experience bathing with this psychedelic bluish gel. It's exactly like bathing with colgate gel toothpaste. If you don't take me seriously, and dare to try the Dettol bodywash, you shall remember my blog while trying to wash that horrible, artificial, cold, 'minty' sting off your body and bitterly regret not heeding to this cold-spell-rant.



A scribble which turned out to be what I see as a House-fly...

Learn while you can

It’s difficult to get good teachers, the real kinds.
Who, with their very passion, can make learning a joy. In their presence, syllabus escapes out of the boredom of books and starts dancing merrily about you. You catch all their words awestruck, sometimes not without a dumb reverence for which friends chide you. Many teachers shaped the course of my life in their own special ways. Like my aaji, or Fr., or Ishwarbhai or Joseph Pinto.

Of the two years I spent in Pune, I owe a lot to his teachings. Pinto has decided to take his experience beyond the restrictions of a classroom. He has started a blog where he intends to discuss what his students and friends wish him to. But he has a condition.

In his own words:
You will have to ask. As the good man says in the good book, "Ask and you shall Receive. Seek and you will Find. Knock and the Door shall be Opened."

Be it editing (how to write a crisp copy), features (typical blog material), reports (the nearly extinct species in newspapers today), or media ethics (a classmate declared journalism selfish- "I write about the ill and poor, get a byline and forget,” she fumed. Pinto called her to the dais, applauded her and talked about journalism activism) --- if you have a question related to journalism, drop in a comment on his blog, Against the tide.

Recalling my student days, Pinto thundered with a fanatic insistence on how words should be used and we wriggled uncomfortably initially. He was unpredictable in his insistence for accuracy. One day he would rip us apart while discussing reports- get furious on seeing any adjective or adverb thrown in a report. The next day, in a feature writing class, he would censor the staid language, lament the loss of imagination; the extinction of innovative adjectives to describe a situation. We thought the man a tad too eccentric when he insisted 'write it down' in response to any raised hand to answer a query. Here's a chance, for everyone to benefit from the expertise of a seasoned editor, a real teacher. Learn while you can.

Cuisine, Celebrations and Communalism

Of late, fundamentalism- from all possible sides of the faith divide- has marred things- all over India and perhaps more specifically in the city and state I so much love. Bomb blasts in Delhi, Gujarat, Maharashtra, Bangalore caused an unprecedented unease and cast a shadow on the Navratri, Durga puja and Eid celebrations. I wonder why mindsets cannot gel as easily as cuisine can.

I shall talk about Cuisine, Celebrations and Communalism, the things that occupy my mind more prominently at this point of time. However diverse be the faith we follow and the beliefs we believe, all of us converge at one single melting point without exception- food.

All our ambitions boil up to roti, kapda and makaan. For most readers here, the quest may not be so simplified and the march to luxury must have set quite high standards on all the three fronts. For example, I pay my house-help some INR 775/- per month and the cook another 700/-.We don’t bat our eyelids to spend the same amount- their entire month’s salary- on a single evening of eating out. It is precisely for this unfortunate divide, that each one of us needs to be truly grateful for the sumptuous food we can afford to eat.

I grew up to shouts of ‘don’t waste food’ from my Aaji. Her kitchen was, and still remains, an epitome of hygiene, economy and taste. ‘Eat what is made or go hungry’ was a common diktat. Her fanatic exactions have made us respect food even if we cannot measure up one-tenth to her standards or style. It is for her that my taste-buds are not fussy today. Saying no seems awkward and wasting means guilt.

My Aaji is an open-minded person. So while no one at home was allowed to cook non-veg, she didn’t stop us from trying out. ‘I feel it wrong to kill to eat when you have such abundant options. But the decision is yours,’ she says. Her disapproval is subtle and democratic. It is with such a background that I not only grew up to be a first rate foodie, but also tolerant and receptive to different cooking styles.

Like I learnt to appreciate the classic Malayalee cuisine at my friend’s place. I first tasted fish here under the watchful eye of my Baba. ‘What if the bone gets stuck in her throat. She eats way too fast,” he said and seriously believed. But aunty just laughed this out. She took the piece bits by bits and literally fed me my first mouthful of fish. Since then, be it Onam or Christmas, I would go there and hog away all the mallu preparations with glee.

Post Eid, I got to sample the most amazing bowl of sevaiyyas at the house of our Urdu teacher. I still remember the breath-taking taste of the spoonfuls of chicken biryani another Muslim classmate’s mother had made.

And how can I miss the kesar-dhoodh aaji boils to perfection for Kojagiri poornima? Or the diyas she makes out of chana-dal for the ‘Jeevti’ puja on the Friday of the Saavan month? Or the Pooran poli for Sankranti?

Cooking is a major part of all festivals and cooking is what has the potential to bring people from different walks of life in one happy union. When we can sample delicacies of different castes and communities with fervour, why can’t we be tolerant to the different modes of thought? Why are we bent on seeing things in black and white? Why is it that a viewpoint has the scope only to fall in two extreme categories today?

I am scared that the way things are going in India, a migrant in Mumbai would soon be forced to eat nothing but pithla bhaat and a north-Indian techie in Bangalore would have to learn and write in Kannada before he ventures out for a job. Only the masala dosa has become ubiquitous. It’s high time that familiarity leaves the boundaries of kitchen and paves way in the minds of people.

One can think right only with a full stomach. All of us here have the good fortune to eat without a worry for tomorrow’s ration. Let us all be a little more broadminded in wake of the recent spate of tension all over the country.

When the Parsi community first landed on a shore in Gujarat, they dissolved sugar in milk and said they would mix with the native population just as easily. The community has remained true to their symbolic word of promise. I suppose it can’t be that difficult for each one of us to follow suit.

-Gauri Gharpure

This article first saw light of the day on Internations, thanks to Hans' prompt kindness, and recently, on Sailaja's excellent food blog. Many thanks to both. If you like it enough, feel free to reproduce this article on your blog too...

Nano behind my house

The site chosen in Gujarat is as near as it can get to our home... When we shifted there some 15 years back, the area was fields and jungle, mango, mahua, jamun trees, hares, partridges and jackals and what not. We had a time of our lives for about a decade, but then, highways cut through, multiplexes came up, areas underwent a massive (and rather haphazard) construction spree. The face of Bopal changed. Farmers became millionaires overnight in the neighbouring areas and very slowly, a little grudgingly at first, we adjusted to the change that development brings.

I was jubilant when M messaged that Nano is now to be in Gujarat. Being in Kolkata though, this seemed the wrong emotion to express. People were still stung and sulky, and a beaming face was misfit. :D I don't know the nitty-gritties, but Baba's happy voice was enough for me start smiling.

Gentleman bids goodbye

Friday, October 3, 2008
Kolkata: It was in a rich baritone, with poise and dignity, that Ratan Tata announced the decision to move the Nano small cars' project out of West Bengal in a press conference post the meeting with the chief minister today evening. He was appreciative of CPI (M)'s breakneck efforts to retain the company in Singur but remained firm on his stance. He strived to assure one and all of no hard feelings, either with regards to the state infrastructure, its people or its governance.

In his farewell speech, Tata reiterated his dream to usher in industrialisation in the state. "We have taken a very regretful decision to move out. We came here two years ago attracted by the investor friendly policy of the current government. I personally had a great desire that this part of the country, that has been ignored, should be developed and we should be a part of that. I still exceedingly confirm that this is a very investor-friendly state. We are leaving not because of the governance, but because of the agitation of the Opposition led by Ms. Bannerjee. We continue to be bullish and enthusiastic about what can happen in West Bengal. I just hope that West Bengal can be the state of huge development and not a state which stands only for agitations, strikes, rallies," said Tata.

Asked why he did not accept the government's offer to provide foolproof security to ward off the agitators, his response was very unlike a baron who means nothing but business. "The meeting took a long time because he (the CM) was very persuasive in his desire that we not move. I had to explain to him that the well being of our employees and contractors happens to be my responsibility and that's something I cannot pass on to him. Unless there is a congenial environment, we cannot stay. Please understand also that you cannot run a pant with police protection," replied Tata.

When asked that wasn't the decision to move out against Tata's legacy, he crisply replied, "I am the wrong person to ask this. I am not leaving Bengal on a whim or a fancy. You better ask this to Ms. Bannerjee."

Tata's commitment to professional ethics and social responsibility is unparalleled. This post, may seem contradictory now. While the way land acquisitions are dealt with in the country are quite an issue of debate, for this one case, something has really gone amiss. Lord not propel leaders like Mamata Bannerjee to associate with issues as delicate as these.. Yes, leaving Bengal seems a sad, sad thing.

There's a man I love

There's a man I love. He is mischeivous, he calls people names, he winks. His ancient blue kinetic survived a bad accident. He also survived, btw. Came out of the neurosurgery cracking jokes to be precise. He is eighty and he has more gusto than you and me. For my sake, and for the many others who adore him, I wish him many many more birthdays.

Mumbai Meri Jaan

Yogesh Vinayak Joshi, the writer, must be someone who has genuine empathy to understand different lines of thoughts and consequent actions. He refrains from passing judgments but lets the movie send a message through its subtle dialogues and amazing body language of the characters. Of course, for this, the credit must be shared with co-screenplay writer Upendra Sidhaye and director Nishikant Kamat.

Mumbai Meri Jaan brings to you five very humane characters: Tukaram Patil (Paresh Rawal), Suresh (Kay Kay Menon), Nikhil (R. Madhavan), Roopali (Soha Ali Khan) and Thomas (Irrfan Khan). These are people in whom you may recognize the hawaldar standing near the pan shop, the youths drinking tea and biscuits at a kitli, your well-earning thoughtful friend with a clear set of rights and wrongs, an ambitious young media person and the roadside tea vendor you seldom look at for more than thirty seconds. They all come alive and confide in us with a touching simplicity in Mumbai Meri Jaan.

The film follows the lives of these five characters beginning the morning of the blasts to a week post the havoc of death and doubt. But in the end, the things discussed in Mumbai Meri Jaan are simple - how a man grapples with his way of life in an age that is enveloped in prejudice, doubt, inequality and extravagance?

These questions become all the louder after the Mumbai train blasts of July 11, 2006.

Paresh Raval is brilliant. His gentle, prodding good humour is delicately dressed with irony and sarcasm. His portrayal of a senior constable is perhaps the voice of many like him who slog in government services, become part of the red tape and have their own bitter regrets and reasons for the same. Kamat, plays his underling who is a green horn in the bureaucratic juggernaut and finds it difficult to digest the senselessness of it all. In his patient, good humoured chaffing of the young constable, Raval conveys many a poignant things in a tone that is unjudgemental and rational.

Thomas, the coffee-vendor played by Irrfan Khan conveys it all with his eyes. There is a blatant contrast between his frugal existence and his mute witnessing of the splurge of excess. His matter of fact resignation brings on screen a sense of disquiet, perhaps even a taunt to the well-fed multiplex audience. Thomas is the face of the vast divide of Indian economy. Watch out for his expressions when the mobile is thrown and crushed beneath the wheels.

Suresh (Kay Kay Menon) is a man filled to the brim with prejudice. You must have seen such people, you may be one of them. Though his reconciliation with secularism is a wee bit drastic, the story does its best to send across a message in the short time that a film offers. His character is detailed and sometimes his dialogues edge on dry humour. At least I had a good laugh at the Mohammad Rafi bit. The reason for his staunchness has been given cleverly in the scene where his father passionately discourses about Hinduism in their small flat.

Roopali’s character (Soha Ali Khan) has portrayed in precise words and scenes the irritation we all feel on the sensationalism of the Indian Television media. My rants in this post are now redundant. Mumbai Meri Jaan is dot on in conveying how mediocre television media has become today.

Nikhil (R. Madhavan) is one of those few young professionals who choose to stay back in India in the face of lucrative opportunities to rush abroad. His convictions falter after the train blasts. Perhaps the choice he makes is clear when he boards the train again.

Mumbai Meri Jaan is worth investing in a CD if the film is off your theatres by now.

-Gauri Gharpure
August 29, 2008

Mr. Crow and Ms. Dove

Read how they fell in love...

Ab ke bicchde to

Ab ke bicchde to shayad khwabon mein mile
Jaise sookhe hue phool kitabon mein mile...

Ahmed Faraz, who wrote these immortal lines died in Pakistan yesterday. He was 77.

Anonymous Smiles

The idea of Anonymous Smiles struck on one of my many day-dreaming phases.

The experiment is simple- I aim to gather addresses of people I don't know and send them one of my postcards.

If I happen to come across sketch pens when I am doing nothing, and if the mood seems right, this happens:



Sending a postcard is my version of leaving a message in a bottle in the ocean. How soon (or how leisurely late) the petite yellow card can reach its rightful owner never ceases to amaze me. I feel its potential to spread a moment of joy with colours and words has not been exploited to the maximum...

After playing with the idea for quite sometime now, I am taking the first step to further my postcard sending spree and see if I can spread smiles beyond my circle of acquaintances.

So here's what I have done so far to give my idea a concrete shape:



Now, as you can well see, I have more cards with me than I have addresses. Here's where you can come in the picture. If you know anyone to whom you would like to send one of my postcards, send me the complete postal address at anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

It could be your friend, neighbour, your parents or grandparents. It could be the address of people living in old age homes. It could be anyone whom you wish to send an anonymous smile. Even you, yourself. My interest lies only in seeing that the card is posted at a correct address and when it reaches, it ensures a moment of smile. This exercise will make me feel good about myself and hope its the same for you.

The blog http://anonymoussmiles.blogspot.com/ attempts to answer all the questions that you may now have about this idea. Please visit the blog and let me know your suggestions...

If you have addresses to share, please mail at anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

More memories of a deluge (Part 2)

When I woke up the next morning, the bus was still parked on the side of the highway. The driver decided to proceed after sometime. But the progress was slow and discouraging. The entire highway was littered with buses and people.

People were getting uneasy. Just like I couldn't stand the stuffiness of the train after a hopeless long wait, my fellow passengers in the bus were restless and discussed all the possible ways of reaching home. The problem was with a narrow patch of road a short distance ahead. Water seemed to flow very forcefully at this point and no one could quite gauge the depth. We heard that one bus driver who had attempted to pass that patch ended up with the bus dragged a good distance away. After this, everyone had taken cold feet, put the brakes on and traffic grew static. No driver would risk going beyond that point.

Incidentally, just beyond this patch, state buses were plying as usual. People had two options, to go ahead towards Kheda and cross the flooded patch somehow, or walk the way back to Nadiad and find a night's halt. Everyone was clear on one thing: Not to spend yet another night inside the bus.

Has it ever happened to you that someone asks you something extremely important but puts a cap on your thinking time. Something like, 'Do this and do this now or you are out'. It is not an exaggeration when I tell you that something happened in less than five minutes which made all the passengers throw their hands up and they started wading out of the bus, either towards Nadiad or towards Kheda.

I went to the two women and asked what they were going to do. They seemed already geared up to begin walking to Nadiad. I asked them to wait and let me figure out what to do with my luggage and how to convey the decision to Mitrajit, but they just wouldn't give me the time. So I rushed to the driver and asked if he assured my luggage would be safe. His answer seemed convincing enough. I was to collect my luggage from their office whenever the bus reached Ahmedabad. Everyone was doing the same and the bus was almost empty with the exception of a few passengers and the driver. He also let me make a call and all I could tell M was that I was leaving towards Nadiad and my luggage was in the bus. The women were getting impatient and I was afraid they would leave. So I conveyed just this and ran off to them.

One young man from Bhavnagar and another man from Junagadh also joined us in a minute. So after little time, I realised that here we were, five strangers who would be with each other for quite sometime now in this moment of accidental brotherhood. The road was full of people wading in knee deep water. The women took their shoes off and after sometime I realised that was the best thing to do. My shoes kept getting stuck in the mud and they would shriek me to hurry every time I stopped. There were hundreds of people wading along with us. This was the first time I understood the meaning of what people mean when they say that people come together in the times of calamity.

We must have walked some two-three kilometers when we got a lift in the tractors that farmers were plying to ferry the stranded passengers to and fro. We reached inside the town. Now ever since I got down from the bus I had started inquiring about the residence of a relative. Everyone seemed to know him by the virtue of his position, but my fair ladies got impatient every time I took a stop to inquire. Finally we reached this town square and I asked where the police station was. With the influence of that one name, I entered the police station along with the four others. Now, the policeman seemed quite doubtful, but he couldn't refuse us. I got to know that my relative's house was practically an island now and the area was inaccessible. I asked them to allow me to make a few calls and called home this time. Baba would know better how to explain the relation to the cops. Besides, he could contact my other relatives too.

Presently, we were given tea and biscuits and some nashta and the ladies were feeling really grand. They were like, 'So you really know someone!' After sometime, I was called in the officer's room. There was a call for me and my maasi was on line. She told me one of her relatives would come to pick me and that I stay with them as long as things are fine. (The officer seemed totally confused ever since I had entered the office, introduced my connections and conveyed telephone numbers to my family and phones had started pouring in). Next, baba called. His instructions were clear and to the point. "When the gentleman your maasi had told you about comes, introduce the people who are with you and take them home too. Say you cannot leave them". I was shocked and started contesting his order. "How can I? I don't even know him, how can I take four more people whom I don't know to his house?" He shouted at me and told me to do as told- I was not to be selfish to leave the people who had accompanied me this long.

I grudgingly admitted to myself that he was right. In less than ten minutes, Vinayakbhai came riding his scooty.

"You are Gauri? And these people are with you? Follow me". The women were chatty as ever and though all of the four strongly refused my suggestion that they come with me, I had to be firm for in spite of my doubts, baba's instructions were clear. We all went to his house. It was in the old city area and in a 'pol'. Now 'pol' is a typical Gujarati word, meaning a narrow lane on both sides of which are old houses, some often surprisingly huge and majestic. The lanes are confusing, with one mingling into another elusively so that a newcomer might just go round and round the area without a clue.

When we reached his house, which was very nearby, his wife was waiting at the door. She welcomed us in and talked about how rough the weather was and imagined how tiring the journey must have been. The couple was so generous, so natural that it put me instantly at ease. She didn't say it out of formality when she asked them all to stay with them. We had tea and hot snacks before us in no time. The men said they would rather stay at the railway station and were quite firm about their choice. They wouldn't even stay back for lunch. But Vinayakbhai's wife said they must at least freshen up and have tea before they leave. The two sisters said they had a relative who stayed very near by and would go and find them out. After tea, the men went their way and them sisters went to find their relatives in spite of our cajoling to stay back. The sisters came again in the evening to say they had found a place, chatted, had tea and left. I got a call from all of them in Diwali.

I stayed with Vinayakbhai till the next afternoon on July 2. He came to see me off at the bus station and I got home in two hours. They were more than happy to have me there. He talked a lot about his daughter who was settled somewhere in London and how he didn't like staying there in spite of having some solid visa permit. "We were there for six months, but I have to be back. We go for our daughter, but start missing this place in no time".

We talked on phone a few times. We couldn't meet as he had some wedding to attend. I sent him a postcard on Diwali. He called a few months later to thank me for it. He had again gone to London and had got the card only on his return. We sent him an invitation for our wedding, but he was out somewhere again. In another wedding this February, I got to know he had died of a heart attack.

In those four days I learnt a lot. I learnt how simple people can be if they so choose. And how open and how honest. I never met my four companions again, but I have the most fond memories of them. Hospitality is what I learnt from Vinayakbhai and his wife. They took me as their own with a warmth and simplicity that is peculiar to their community. I also felt how right Baba was and how selfish I must have regretted being if I had gone to Vinayakbhai’s house alone. Baba’s insistence was worth it for I came face to face with a couple who had the charm to welcome strangers in their house so graciously. I saw for myself how a host ought to be and how some strangers can find a permanent place in memories…

Handmade wonder...

The second (and better) lamp that I made after an entire day with scissors, glue and cloth... The first one was a result of impulse when I made the frame after battling with wires and covered it with an extensive cloth cut-work. But this one is real neat and a lot better than my first attempt...Our drawing room looks so good now. Chalo, praise me :D

A windy evening

A windy evening