MONKEY BUSINESS...


Being a hosteller at AIIMS, New Delhi, there are some things you get used to ‘living with’. Literally. And monkeys are one of them.

It was a fine day, sorry evening, during the November of 2005, and I had just returned to my room. I’m not very sure where I had come from, but it must have been home. A first-year girl student of very average physical attractions doesn’t really have much choice of places to ‘come from’.

I knelt on the floor, and after much poking about under the bed, managed to lay my hands on the broom (There! Since I was thinking of cleaning up, I have to have come from home!) and brought it out.

Then having first dusted my forearm of all the dhool, and then the broom of all its share of dhool, I proceeded to sweep the floor.

Not much of floor to sweep really. I mean, a hostel room is not much of a room to begin with, and then I had conveniently laid down a gaddi on most of the floor remaining between the fridge and the table and the rack and the bed.

Scientifically, I concluded that no dust could possibly have come under the gaddi, and there was no point in disturbing the dhool under the rack and the bed. So, a cursory flick over a rectangle 1m by ½ m – and easily 50% of the dhool I finally swept out of the room had come from the one I dusted off the broom initially.
Goes to show how thoroughly I had cleaned the broom. Or how dirty the floor under the bed was.

Anyways, the jhadu job done, I slid it under the bed once again with a superb Michael Owen low cross-shot, and turned to settle the table.

But first my keen gaze fell on the socks I had thrown about the room.
The blue ones on the rack, the other blue ones on the table, and one green one on the fridge. The other green one was presumably giving the broom company under the bed.

So, in an effort to prevent the room from smelling (mind you, the socks were at least 3 days old, since I had gone home and come back), I decided to air them on the stand outside in the corridor. The stand was convenient that way – anything which had no place in the room could go on the stand, and then stay there – till my mother came to visit.

So I picked them up, and stepped out of the door, leaving it ajar, walked two steps to the stand. Having hung them, I turned around – and stood.

Exactly – you got that right.
Just stood – for the room was no longer unoccupied.

In front of my very own eyes (my very own, I’d like to emphasize) a monkey calmly strolled into my room, twice as large as life, and twice as scraggy as any street mongrel I’d ever seen. Without even a flinch or a casual glance in my direction.

‘Hey you! Hush now! Baahar chal! Abey!’

And then quiet.
For I could see it climb atop my little bench, and then mess about with the gaddi. And I could just visualize how much disinfecting I’d have to do immediately after divesting my room of accessory primates (I hadn’t even started to think about how I’d do the actual divesting bit).

I stepped into the room, starting to feel a little scared now, then stepped back. Man, his guy had amazing ‘room presence’. I mean, he didn’t even notice me earlier, and now was positively ignoring me. And anyways, I had no idea how to get myself in and the monkey out of a tiny room with an even tinier door with absolutely no forcep or scalpel in hand.

So I just stepped off the scene, having conceded defeat at the hands of a veteran star, and shut the door.
At least it would stay in the room, and no more superstars would arrive to overshadow him (or me) with their glamour and persona.

Then, I looked up and down the dimly lit corridor – most people were in their rooms, and the ones who were, were 9th semester students, studying hard, not deserving to be bothered about a starry aired monkey.

But….
I swallowed, and then knocked on Puja’s door.
‘There’s a monkey in my room. Main kya karoon?’

Puja smiled. ‘Is it still around? Go down, get the guard.’

‘OK thanks.’

I rushed down the stairs (my room was on the top floor) at a dangerous speed, and then skid and slipped my way down the corridor, finally drawing up to the gate, panting.

‘Bhaiya, there’s a monkey in my room.’

The guard slowly looked up. ‘Bandar abhi bhi hostel mein hai? Accha, ek minute main bulata hoon…’

He turned towards the other gate on the other side of the hostel and yelled.

‘Arre Murari, Bandar phir kamre me chala gaya!’

Now, this Murari was evidently too interested in picking fruits from the tree above – so it took two yells to bring him to consciousness, and then two more to make him understand what the problem was – five long minutes. And all I could do was stand and wonder at what all the monkey would have sullied with his sullied paws.
Damn! I couldn’t possibly sleep in my bed that night – he might have done the tandava on that too. That bench would have to be sold – I’d never be able to disinfect it properly ever…

The guards, meanwhile, turned out to be superstars in their own right. Slowly, they did the groovy walk down the ramp – oops I mean the corridors and up the stairs discussing the intricacies of this monkey business, even as my imagination of the monkey trying out my freshly starched shirts from home almost drove me to tears.
Finally, having proven their abilities equivalent to any Muzzamil Ibrahim or Milind Soman, they managed to scale Mt Everest and reach my room, and I opened the door.

I stood back.
And then the fun began.

Murari banged his stick about as the monkey, finally recognizing a showman better than himself gave up on the boiled egg he was eating, and came out of the room, and up the stairs to the terrace.

Boiled egg…I almost screamed. I had forgotten about the fridge. The little devil had muddied its door with his stupid paws, then finally having figured out how to open it, had laid his hands on the first thing he saw.

Which had been the dry fruit jar. And since its lid had been too tough a nut to crack for the monkey, he’d next attacked the oranges. And then the last two boiled eggs…
The dry fruit loss was OK – actually good, as it meant less calories being taken in, and the oranges were also conveniently uneatable, but the egg – I had my eye on that egg. And that stupid monkey ate it. Bad monkey…

The monkey meanwhile was proving to be quite a test for the guards – he’d gone up onto th terrace door, and was refusing to come down. And that huge stick was becoming ineffective by the minute…

Quickly, I shut the door, then called my mother. I needed to know how to go about getting my room whitewashed. The bed would have to be replaced; I’d have to wash the fridge inside out; goodness alone knew how much of the grime on his grubby hands would have found its way onto the blanket… the little imp...

‘Beta, don’t be silly! Just lagao pochha once with Surf, then once with plain water, and wipe the door of the fridge – he wouldn’t have got onto the bed, there wasn’t enough time…’
Slowly, as I listened to the plan of action, I got my perspective back. Ultimately proper cleaning would have to be done, including the dhool under the gaddi, no matter how unscientific it was.
In addition, I’d have to lagao pochha and disinfectant.

So, does this remind you of a proverb?

Think, think hard – finally the broom would have to be retrieved and its purpose justified.

And finally that sock would be found.

Yes, you got it – a stitch in time saves nine.

Or rather, a swish in time saves nine.
(And saves you the ignominy of being ignored by a monkey.)

PEOPLE...

People. Indefinite, yet so limited. Undescribable, yet so specific. Varied, yet so obvious.
Difficult, yet so simple...

And the issue that I've puzzled over infinite times, and am still as confused or as clear as I was at the start - how does one deal with them? What do they deserve from me? What do they demand of me? I never thought I'd ever have to decide stuff of this sort - it was always very easy for me to give back just as bad as I got.
Till it became worse. And worst. Nt that it was hard to retaliate - in fact it was the easiest to do. But it was difficult to convince myself to be bad. Rather, that bad.

I guess, there's two ways to deal with people - and both provide sufficient material for argument.

One, to treat everyone asthey treat me. To let my temper do the talking, to be just as good or bad as the next person, to be as my heart drives me to be at that instant, with that individual.
Sounds great - makes me appear free-willed and direct and spontaneous...blah blah blah...
But who decides who is nice and who is not? For that matter, who decides what is the functional definition of 'nice'? Am I not being highly subjective here? Choosing right and wrong at my own fancy, and justifying everything I do on the wholely baseless excuse that thats what other folks did?
Infact, aren't I being the very opposite of all the free-spirit I was supposed to be endorsing?
By letting others' behaviour determine my actions, haven't I just handed over the reins of my life to the very people who I categorize as wrong or bad? Because its the wrong I do that turns my life, and the dark that determines the colour of my existence...
And I'm not sure if I'm ready to hand over that control over to people...

Second, to treat everyone the same. To base my life on a set of principles and stick by them - a set of principles that I formulate, based on all the good or bad I've ever faced. So effectively, an evolving set of principles - but the same for everyone, in one reference of space and time.
Though this approach does reek of 'moral science' and 'saint-hood', and does seem impractical to follow at all times, and appears to stifle my spirit and portray a very artificial picture of me...but is that better or worse than letting the world decide what I do? Especially since its a world that is not sound and sane all the time?
So basically - I am nice, polite, kind, helpful - to everyone. No bias. No matter that they aren't always the same to me. Atleast I don't try to whiten the black or beatify the wrong citing the world as a precedent - and atleast, I do, with my life, what I have to.
Another, less saintly, way of looking at it - being vindicative or retaliatory, aren't I serving the very purpose the other person set out to achieve? And won't my response with a smile and a helping hand, to some extent, upset them a bit?

And see?There I go again, letting others control my approach, my smile, my life...

And so I'm back at the bifurcation - what price people? What price my values?
What price my life?

Two years ago, it was all so simple - live free, live direct, live unique - and now today...
being direct was never more complex...

MEHNDI...



'25 rupaiye ka haath, bhaiyaji...' Niti looked at the man sitting on the small plastic stool in the busy market of Yousuf Sarai, as other shoppers brushed past them, in a hurry, least interested in the transaction being sorted out.

Bhaiyaji looked at Niti, a forlorn look on his face, then turned that look onto the other 3 girls standing there. I tried to bury myself into my cellphone, messaging intently - I was sure she was going to break into a giggle. I don't know why it happens, but I have this awful tendency to giigle at all the wrong times. And I have a hopeless market sense - and therefore am a very very bad person to have with me when trying to strike a bargain. I am what dealers call a weak target - easy to fool.

Smriti, on my right, turned on her worst 'Oh my God' look - she is awesome at that. 'Bhaiyaji, 20rupaiye me lagvayi thi agli gully se...' Never mind that the gully we are standing in is the last one available to cite, never mind that she has said the very same thing at every previous gully, never mind that the last time any of us had got mehndi put was 2 years ago in Shimla. And that that 'any of us' was me.



Nitika rolled her eyes - she is such a pro at that. 'Arey bhaiyaji, medical se aaye hain, kya fizool time waste kar rahe hain. Paanch haathon pe mehndi lagni hai - jaldi kariye, 7.30 ho chuke hain...'



I don't know how she does it - but thats what convinced bhaiyaji utimately. And he set put stools for each of us, and sent his sidekick, who had been picking at his teeth all this while, to get his partner in mehndi application from the neighbouring chai-shop. Nitika always managed to win things for us. God bless her.

By the way, it was till just 7pm.
AND bhaiyaji also had a watch.



Anyways, we sat down, and stretched out our hands in front of us - Smriti and me the first ones. I wanted mehndi on both hands, everyone else only on one - the left one, for convenience.

As bhaiyaji and his partner in crime started, giving the little vial containing the colour fixing-oil a rough shake before opening it, I crinkled up my nose.
And then crinkled it further as they started the actual application of mehndi.
And smiled.

Smiled mentally ofcourse. Nothing ever comes of smiling at stranger roadside bhaiyajis who have your hands in theirs. Especially since you intend to take it back from them in around 30minutes, and wish those 30minutes to be - well - hassle-free.

It is this very aroma of mehndi that just gets to my brother's nose. And my father's. And my friend's. Ofcourse, all these people refer to it as 'smell'. Or 'odour'.
Their favourite argument - 'Itna hi shauq hai chitrakaari ka to kaagaz pe karle, haath kharab karne zaruri hain?'
And, in my brother's case, this one - 'Kriti, please, mahndi lagani hai to ghar vaapis na aaya kar - mujhe saans aana band ho jaata hai.'
And other such insane logics.
Silly people.

And thats what got me thinking - why do girls want to put mehndi, and guys absolutely hate it? Does the swap of an X chromosome for a Y change mental setup so drastically?
Looking at it objectively, it is equal to drawing on your hands. Which is something I distinctly remember being sent out of the class for, once upon a time. And this is worse, because the colour takes several days to come off.
Ofcourse, we have tradition to fall back upon. And the fact that we have been brought up seeing women put mehndi, and liking it. Maybe because its one of those things like a sari or sindhoor, that sort of feminity. Or maybe because its another of those things that women can do to feel good about themselves (nothing wrong with all that - accepted all the women impowerment lectures, but there's no need to man-ify women, really). Or maybe because it is artistic and delicate, and the more intricate the better...
Maybe its because its one of the things only women are socially 'allowed' to do, and as much as they might want to experiment, no man worth his Y chromosome will put mehndi. Or maybe because, like so many other things, it needs patience to get the results, and women, not men, can stay still for that long. Or maybe because its one of those little joys of life that women discovered, and chose to cherish, instead of discarding.
And men, mentally not quite there yet, and for all the above reasons took the approach they always take - branding it 'silly'.
'Childish'.
'Just so girl.'

Correct. 10years from now, I wouldn't remember when and what sort of mehndi I got put. And for how much. And how long I waited for it to dry. Or how I sat handicapped for hours, unable to touch anything, unable to get up without help.

But what I would remember is Trisha in Shimla, spoon-feeding me rajma chawal, as I waited for the mehndi to dry, my fingers chilled to the bone as the moisture evaporated.

And the pure happiness and thrill on our dhobhi's 5-year old daughter's face as she, clad in an old several generations old dress, scraped off the dried flakes of mehndi, and discovered the glorious pattern in tan-brown her hands bore. And then rushed to her mother, hands held out in front of her, and fell into her lap, both gushing over the result, mother as happy as daughter.

And my mother, making the sugar syrup and lemon mixture to darken the colour my hands would ultimately be, never putting any mehndi herself, so that she could help me make mine beautiful.


And I'm pretty sure these are moments other girls remember too.

Forget 25rupaiye - I would probably give even more money for the mehndi. And so would Nitika and Smriti, I know.
The bhaiyaji, the aroma (ok, smell), the stickiness of the syrup, the incapacitated state of hands, the wait - I'll take it all.
For those moments of unadulterated joy, those memories of things that are nice and sweet, those smiles and laughs - each of which made my life more beautiful - and the sheer simplicity yet absolute uniqueness of it all...

(And to all men - SOUR GRAPES!!)

SHOLAY...

“Oye there Sir! I am SUPERMAN!”

‘No you are not! Jai – I tell you, come down this instant!’
A grey haired pinstriped suited tiny gentleman – Mr. Seth- stood at the bottom of the large red secondary block building of the school of ‘Dur Gaon’, of which he was the principal.
And he was, by all appearance, in a rather excited and hyperactive state

And he had every right to be – for at the top of the building, a rope in his hand, all set to swing across the 50 meter gap between the primary and secondary blocks stood 14yr old Jai, waving to the crowd of students gathered at the building.

‘Someone tell him… Mr. Prakash, go and fetch him down this instant!’ squeaked the principal quite beside himself now, unable to handle the situation.

Mr. Prakash shook his head and pointed to the primary block windows, at each of which stood a wickedly grinning student
‘They have threatened to throw all the desks out of windows if any faculty moves even an inch.’

Mr. Seth’s already blanched face lost even more color. “What? Blackmailing the teachers? Have they lost their minds? Where is the head boy?”

The Vice Principal Mrs Rachna shook her head. “I am afraid Veeru is rather indisposed at the moment, sir. He is in the Chemistry Lab, deeply engrossed in making a potion to make things fly. And to ensure he is not disturbed, he has made a rather explosive arrangement – if we open the lab door, a circuit will be completed that will not only blow up the physics lab , but also sink a moat all around the periphery of the school complex that ….’

The further details of the moat no one knew – for Mr. Seth had had enough. His constitution for such acts of blatant terrorism and shameless attack on authority was rather weak – and it had been unable to bear any more.
So, having been swaying on the spot for some time now, Mr. Seth collapsed and all the teachers rushed to attend to him.

Above them Jai smiled with glee. The teachers had moved.

Behind them, there was more glee. And then huge crashes of breaking furniture – even as Jai swung successfully across the basketball court, over the heads of the teachers.
And then to top it all – a huge blast, as the world lost a physics lab. And gained a classical and rather immaculately designed moat.

***

‘Students – please for once in your lives maintain some resemblance of silence Today is a rather special assembly…’
Poor Mrs. Rachna was having a rather tough time at the dais, as she addressed a mob whose only claim to being students were their school uniforms. In front of her, students broke out into impromptu jigs, the daredevils described marvelous stunts on their skateboards, while the artists sprayed the most unimaginable of slogans on the school walls.
“… first we have Jai Kumar here to apologize for his behavior last week … Jai please.”

“Thank you ma’am.”
Jai took the mike off its stand and, without the remotest bit of repentance about his ‘attitude’, groovy-walked his way to the front of the stage.
‘I’d like to apologize to Mr Principal Sir for not listening to him last week. I just kept saying I am Superman – he told me repeatedly that I was not. He was right. It’s amazing how much grownups know about all this. Actually, I was Tarzan. Sir, I am very sorry.’

And the school- which had been absolutely silent while their hero spoke -now broke out into cheers, even as Jai handed the mike back to the rather stunned Mrs. Rachna, and made his way back to his friends – even as Mr. Seth swayed on his seat. He wished Mrs. Rachna would hurry up with it all.

Gathering her wits Mrs. Rachna continued “Thank you Jai – and now school, I’d like to introduce you to …………
Her speech was interrupted by a loud thundering of hooves as several armed men on horses raced into the school premises clearing the moat cleanly, & galloped up to the stage area.
And leading the gang was a tall well built bearded man, dressed in black.
Pulling up to a rest, the horses reared up, as the leader held up his gun and fired several shots into the air.

And the school finally - recognizing authority - fell silent.

And Mr. Seth gave in to his constitution and finally – fainted.

‘ ….. your new principal, Mr. Gabbar Singh ...’


********

‘But Kalia this is perfect nonsense! Absolute grade-A rot!’
And Gabbar Singh slashed his dagger across the file in front of him.

The papers presented had dared to suggest the disapproval of the school regulatory board over Gabbar Singh’s proposal to demolish the principal’s office.
“I mean – the outhouse is where I should sit – I have to guard the school, Kalia! I am responsible!”

‘But Sir …” - Kalia was trying to gather the remains of the file on the table while at the same time avoiding the dagger that his boss was flailing around wildly in his anger.

‘No buts, Kalia - tell the Board to go boil their heads – go take a nature ride. Do their fat paunches some good too!’

“OK Sir. And Sir, about the Biology teacher - ” - Kalia did not dare to put the file on the table for the fear of another dragger execution.

‘What about him? He deserves that pay cut – in fact, I‘d pay him nothing at all! The students know nothing about horses - they can’t tell a horse from an elephant, I think! I mean…’

‘Yes sir ….’ Kalia did not have time to listen to a biology lesson – he needed time to figure out how to get the Board’s acceptance for Gabbar’s sensibilities.
But Gabbar Singh was not to be put off – he had just begun to warm up to a topic that was close to his heart.
“I mean why do they dissect earthworms and frogs? They should work on horses instead! Important animals - plus the fact that all their organs are so much bigger and easier to identify! I have never seen such ignorance about horses in my life!”

Gabbar paused to take a swipe at the curtain with his dagger, and then continued
‘And these Physical Education classes? Ridiculous! No horse riding! We have to purchase more horses for the students! And more land to graze them! And a landscape artist to make a simulation of rocky hills and things – horse riding is important!’

‘I am sure, Sir – and now Sir, about the renewal of contract of the school buses for the Gulmohar Tourists and Travels.”

Gabbar pounced on this opportunity. “What renewal? Cancel it outright! Tell him to go tourist and travel somewhere else! The students will come in horse carts! Tongas! Jai Hind! Save fuel! Green peace!”

Kalia rolled his eyes and turned to go. In his mind, he could picture what would happen in the near future. The already worked up Gabbar would get on to the table, and act like he was riding a horse. Then his hand would go to his holster – there’d be shooting, slashing, stabbing – and Kalia might be saved the trouble of calling the bulldozer to destroy the office – Gabbar Singh would do it himself!

‘Wait! I am thirsty – I want water!’

Saying that, Gabbar strode out of the room, dagger in his hand, picking up the rifle from near the door as he walked through.
Then he stopped, and turned to Kalia. ‘Lead me to the water hole!’

Kalia tried to restrain Gabbar Singh, and fill a glass with water at the same time – a Herculean task every way you saw it.
‘Sir, this is a school – there is no water hole here – here. Sir, take this glass of water…’

Gabbar stopped dead his tracks, turned slowly to look at Kalia, an incredulous expression on his face, a hurt look in his eyes.
‘No water hole? No water for me? Is the Thakur in the school regulatory board? What glass of water?’
Saying that he took the glass from Kalia and threw its contents smack on his face and then replacing the glass in the hand that had filled it, he strode out into the great exteriors.
Leaving Kalia standing in front of the school reception very angry, very embarrassed and very wet. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face muttering under his breath all the time. He was loyal to his chief- and he knew the one and only solution to the whole problem.
Turning on his heel, he strode to the reception, and picking up the phone, dialed a number he now knew by heart.
“ Hello- Regulatory Board?”
***
“Oh man! This is the limit! Our principle is definitely totally bonkers!”
“Yes- not a single circuit in that short wired, cross connected brain of his is normal!”
Jai shook his head, and continued shoveling the horse dung out of he make shift enclosure that had at some time in history been the Physics Lab. Veeru meanwhile carried on his musings on the intricacies of the mental electrical arrangement of their new Principal. He was finding it several hundred times more interesting than the essay on equine neurology that he was supposed to be writing.
“ Oh heavens! Stand still can’t you!” a girl standing nearby was losing her last bit of patience with the horse she was supposed to be grooming. She stamped her foot hard. “I’ve never spent so much time and energy on my own hair, and here I am, dressing up a horse!”
“Oh well Basanti, at least you’re not having to polish guns and knives- oh man! The stink to almighty, I’d say! And I feel like I’ve been swimming in this oil for weeks!” Another girl standing nearby rubbed her hands on her tunic-it was oily enough already; another smudge would make no difference. As it is, her mother had grounded her for two months for making such a mess of her clothes- last week she’d been lifting rocks for the landscape artist- another month hardly mattered now. The 4 of them were serving punishment for not finishing their homework for a whole week. “Really these punishments are ridiculous. Why can’t we just write out 100 lines or something?” Jai threw down his shovel in disgust.
“Or maybe we could just settle down and be you know- I mean, the past month I’ve been much better behaved girl than ever- and I seem to like it!” Basanti leaned against her horse.
Veeru scratched his chin. “Basically, these few weeks we’ve been doing enough mental and physical exercise- and we do new stuff everyday. So our neural faculties don’t find the need to jump off buildings or break furniture to feel utilized properly.”

Jai looked at him skeptically, then nodded slowly. “You’re probably right. But this guy’s definitely off his rocker! 100% Agra material. If we could get someone more er… um … civilized as principle with some good innovative ideas- we could compromise on our activities, I guess.”
The 4 of them fell into deep thought, while at the top of the moat, lying stomach down on the ground, in as un-principal like fashion as possible, Gabbar Singh smiled. Then he got up dusted himself and started to walk towards the school building.

He knew he was essentially an inhabitant of the great outdoors. He couldn’t sit in offices and look after kids- he wanted to sit in caves, and look after nature…
He had been appointed to this school for a special purpose- and that, if Jai and Veeru’s conversations were anything to go by, had been served. He hadn’t been brought to make any wholesale policy changes- and his way of work didn’t really resonate with what the board felt. And the fact that the 21 gun salute to honor the board members on their visit yesterday had resulted in the dropping of several fruits on their heads as the bullets had whistled through the trees had done nothing to endear them to Gabbar Singh.

He knew Kalia had called the board- Kalia had probably realized that the school was no place for his chief. In all the urban planning, Gabbar Singh would just feel sad and discontent, missing his proximity to nature. And now it was time for him to leave.
He took one final look at the school as he gathered his dagger and his rifle-some of the changes he had made were good.

Of course, the board would have to appoint a suitable candidate to be the next principle… Someone who knew his horses, who knew his guns and knives, and who knew his neural circuitry. Especially how to exercise it well in all directions.
He looked at his well polished rifle-the girls had done a good job. Now, all he needed was a visit to the Board, he thought as he got onto his horse.
And if needed, some more visits, with more of his men and more guns and more horses- after all, he was Gabbar Singh-to see that his successor satisfied all conditions.
Especially the one about horses…

SHOCK AND AWE...

Surgery posting at a medical college in India is always an experience of shock and awe...

Shock at the things OPDs serve up to you, awe at how the patients respond....
Shock at the sheer neglect of their own bodies, awe at what the doctor still manages to do in such cases....
Shock at what gigantic proportions sheer denial can achieve,awe at how the doctor explains it to the patient without sounding accusatory...

A patient comes, along with her daughter.The daughter is welldressed,looks educated, seems sensible. You extend those qualifications to the mother as well. I mean, she is her mother afterall.
'Haanji, kya taqleef hai?' you hear the doctor say.
And the mother uncovers her left forearm. And you can just gawk. Shamelessly, unblinking. For you have never seen something this horrific before.
The skin of the entire left forearm is coming off in large thick flakes, like bits of the bark of a tree. The skin is dark brown, green in some areas, yellow in others,with islands of white separating the layers of flake.
You swallow. And ask the one question that has been hounding you. What you are internally agonizing about. 'Dard hota hai kya?' It seems so foolish...the skin is detached from all underlying tissue...you can see into her arm...there a million different type of infection there...

'Nahen ji, dard to nahen hai...'
And the answer is as pitiful as the arm in front of you. As you imagine what would have happened...

The mother, at home in the village, doing some work in the kitchen garden or the field....a slip of the hand...a gash on the arm...a slight cry of pain, mentally muffled by the attempt at foolish bravery, and to show that she is not weak...a brush at the wound, a cursory attempt to clean it, maybe not even that...ignoring the wound's existence, she carries on working...after all, she has a family to look after...

It doesn't take much for a wound to get infected...or for an infection to spread...

Unfortunately it takes way more than she can manage to come to the doctor...she covers up her wound all the time...maybe taking some superstition-defined concoction...but mostly, just ignoring it, telling herself its just a cut, will get ok...no pain, even if there was any she would ignore it till humanly (or rather womanly) possible...no need to leave the home for that...who will cook when she is gone? and anyway, who will take her to the hospital...No, why bother so many people, it will get ok 'by itself'...

And now, the doctor takes one look at it...looks at some investigation she had before being referred to the tertiary care providing institute you are standing in...'Necrotizing fasciitis hai, lets see kya karna hai...'

You remember the book you read the other day...you know possibly kya karna hai - all the infected tissue has to be removed....and that was going to be a huge amount...and if the visual state of the arm was anything to go by, she would probably lose her arm....

'Abhi tak kya kar rahe the?' asks the doctor, as he fills up her card with recommendations and advice. He is not laying blame - he knows it is nobody's fault. He understood that whole story the moment he saw the arm - and it is pointless to scold her now. She doesn't mind the question, she just smiles.
'Gaon me the, Doctor sa'ab'...she trails off. The doctor nods.

You look on in shock and awe. Shock at what you just saw. A dismal hopeless picture you would think. And awe at how it all ended. With a smile on the face, and hope still strong.

She would lose her arm...and all she would worry about would be who would cook for the family...

Our second name-game...

I was almost 3 when Vidur was born. Well, he was born 'Krita' because noone knew what to call him, and I was already Kriti, so Krita was the painfully obvious, tyically Punjabi, hopelessly narcissist (if you can call it that), low IQ, zero creativity choice you could expect my strange Punjabi family to come up with...
He then went through stage of being called Kaka (which I think is sort of mandatory in all Punjabi families), and then finally, after the naming yagya, got a name fit for civilization.

And there's a story about that too..
Turns out - and all this is as per family lore, no evidence for it but hearsay, and in family matters, I have learnt by experience, most hearsay is as accurate as anything else is likely to be....apart from being more fun to narrate...
Anyways, turns out that the noble priest who had the misfortune to have to pick out a letter for my brother's name - I maintain to this date that the only name fit for my brother is 'Gadha', and the priest probably had to break his oath of truth and honesty etc when he had to keep his hand from choosing the letters G, A, D, H, A ...well, the priest picked out two innocuous letters - A and V.
'Bad choice', said my dad when he heard the news. I am sure he had been attending to some call from the ICU at the time and my mother had had to repeat what the priest chose twice to him. Anyways listen to why he thought it was a bad choice - 'Any name starting with A will be right at the start of the roll call in his class, and V will be the last - what are we to do...he will suffer all his life...'
Wow...how full of concern and love...

Poor mama, she must have viewed tearing her hair out as such an attractive option on hearing these touching words...And I'm sure she had a major role to play in preventing my dad showing the preist what he thought of his letter-choosing prowess (unfortunate actually, because then I would have another of my family annals to talk about).Anyways, the wonderfully resilient and patient person that she is for putting up with my lost scientist-cum-workaholic dad for over 20years, she persevered, and instead of giving in to weird ideas of 'Krita' and 'Happy' and whatever else my folks could have thought of, and choosing to NOT consider the anti-priest approach and pick a nice middle 'M' or 'N' as the letter, she called him Vidur.

'Oh no - thats at the very end...all the examiners will be sick of candidates by the time they reach to interview him...thats a hge disadvantage', frowned Papa (I wasnt there, but I'm sure he did), as he rushed to get to the phone to ask his darling JR how the case was doing. Mama sighed. I think we both wordlessly agreed to take t in the light that Papa was a great man for lookign ahead and foreseeing problems...
And Vidur soon got a new name - Anant.
And he was Anant Vidur Puri - living up to the family tradition of all guys having a middle name...living upto the priest's choice, Mama happy because she'd chosen names that were sufficiently rare, and Papa, as usual, whining because now Vidur would have to give all vivae first, and he would get grilled to death...

Of course, there was the problem that Vidur got shortened to Vidhur...and that in hindi means a widow...unfortunate...but we loved Vidhur too....and then there was Vidu...which means 'moon'...which is ok except that its for girls...which was ok while he was a kid...but now, at 17, he has major issues with it...obviously.....and these dats, he is 'Vidur yaar'...because he is almost 6feet tall, and NOT thin and tall, but pretty big all around... and Vidur is too small for a giant like him....anyways we didn't mind any of it...because used in the right situation, it was always just ideal for my brother...maybe because I didnt know what Vidhur or Vidu really meant till I was around 12...and by then, Vidur was more Vidur than anything else, so couldn't start trying to change it...

We did get some damage control done at school, where he was always Anant...and ofcourse, Anant whenever Mama was scolding him...or whenever Mama wanted to call him urgently..Vidu would just not have the effect of stopping him eating mud-ladoos that Anant would have...

Anyway, teenage came...an all-boys school ensured that Anant Vidur Puri became AVP in no time. And boy, does he love 'AVP'. The hero that he is, he thinks it sparkles of attitude and masculinity. Whatever.

And the more his person takes the final touches that will define his character, I see his name come true - literally - infinite intelligence, fried in oil....

BEFORE....


Why do I think so much? About what I have done, or might have done?Is it changing things, helping me, sorting out my problems, making my life better?
Its NOT - then what is the matter with me? Why do I always repent what I've done - why is everything that I 'should' have done but didn't the better choice?

Help me please - I"ll go mad living life in retrospect...

Why do I feel I'm stuck in the wrong place?Trapped in a zone of no hope?Stranded in a land of no return?
Is it because my expectations have been left sorely unfulfilled, and that I refuse to accept that I was wrong in expecting too much?Because I hoped for something, but what I got was just not it, any which way?
That I was, retrospectively, yet again, wrong in doing what I did?
And that what I feel now stems from my refusal to resign myself to conformation and society?That it is, all in all, a case of sour grapes?

Why do I feel abandoned, in the ‘big, bad world’, no one behind me, all alone? Why do I feel that I am not being allowed to do what I want to? To achieve what I dreamt of? That it’s a world of the ‘big’ and the ‘powerful’, and that ‘I’ just don’t matter any more? That being individual is a crime, that relationships suddenly have new, vastly different definitions? That I should just go with the flow and forget my own direction, regardless of where it lands me? That society has a role determined for me, and it might just be a no-role? And that, even in that eventuality, I have no say in the way my life is being run? That my self-esteem is my biggest vice, and my faith in myself my most disreputable aspect? That it is outlawed to believe you can do something different from what ‘they’ have envisioned for you and your like?

Is it that I have too many people telling me what to do, and too little maturity to understand any of it all?
That my life is a rope torn in two opposite directions, the only possible result being a break right down the middle?

Will there be no peace any more? Will I be hounded for my 'deeds' for as long as I exist, regardless of their trivial nature? Irrespective of the fact that they were not such issues after all? Or is this forced ignominy just ‘a passing phase’? Just as the 'big' pass on, and the buck of 'power' changes hands?
Or will I have a past without ever having one?

But first, someone please - WHERE EXACTLY AM I GETTING IT WRONG? Am I really suffering or am I just making it all up? Is it a case of self-infliction, or just a case of excess self-pity?

Is it really them or is it just me?