….but you do bring me flowers. One of two ain’t bad, no?
Hands up those who can name that song!
Oh, and Navroze Mubarak, lovely people. There’s a spring in my step and you’ll soon know why.
[Credits: OJ and her Olympus E-PL2 DSLR. And the Boy, for providing the subject.]
This piece was commissioned for the Business Standard in Bombay, but due to a change in editors, fell through the cracks and did not get published. I am posting it nearly two years after it was written, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.
***
Everything you hear about Ireland is true. It is primarily emerald-colored, with friendly folk, free-flowing Guinness and locals leaping at the chance to fiddle for you. But you won’t see it with a guidebook and set itinerary. A locally-born islander is your only way into the true heart of the land of lochs and bogs and I very conveniently happen to be related to one. My uncle, in all his wisdom, picked an Irish partner, and it is to Aunt Margaret’s aga-warmed and patchwork-quilted family home in Glenfarne village, County Leitrim, the Republic of Ireland, that we headed, 48 precious hours in hand, in the hope of ale and leprechauns.
Flying into Belfast from London’s Stanstead airport was exciting for entirely unexpected reasons. How often can you sing a song about a city while hovering 15,000 miles above it? Wouldn’t you sing Boney M as loudly as stiff upper lip decency permitted? The three-hour drive to Southern Ireland was quick and painless. With an open border and no checks, you’re likely to notice you’ve switched countries only if your eyes are peeled. First stop, J. McHugh’s pub.
No ordinary watering hole, this. In our case, it’s all in the family. Owned and run by Aunt M’s sister and brother-in-law, generous pints of Guinness were pulled, passed around and refilled until the darned Super-ego clobbered the Id on the head and banned more drinking before lunchtime. In a village where half the homes are occupied by blood relatives, you only have to cross the street to a family fiddling performance. Celtic music came alive in a cozy kitchen containing a blue checkered table cloth and its owner with a matching apron. Much clapping and tapping was interspersed with stories about upcoming dances at the Rainbow Ballroom, a large shed that doubled up as the dancing barn where local lads and lassies meet, marry and contribute to another generation of beer-guzzling fiddlers.
Warmth must be the Irish national policy. Where else do you get offered free membership to a public library within 10 minutes of walking in to check email? Ladies and gentlemen, I have a card from the Leabharlann Chontae Liatroma (Lietrim County Library) to prove it. (And of course, all the Gaelic around the place exists only to charm the pants off you as you walk out feeling like a four-leafed clover just graced your life.) Driving toward Sligo, the nearest big town and home to Yeats’ resting place, a brief stop at the Glencar Falls and Lake provides an opportunity for photography. The deep shades of blue sky and lake, emerald grass and snowy sheep are a postcard you want to capture and mail home.
Sligo, dotted with bars, bars, more bars, Yeats’ building and, interestingly, a Poppadom Restaurant, bustled with a population grateful for the rare sunshine. You’ve brought the Indian sun, I was told. You can keep it, I smiled back. Next stop, Yeats’ grave. Or so I thought. An exciting antiques shop derailed our journey and while my uncle and aunt checked out the clocks and gramophones, I did the same with the owner (who was, praise the Lord, considerably younger than his artifacts). Beauty appreciated, we crunched into a church yard for a meeting with Ireland’s poet laureate in his “country of the heart”. Too bad he wasn’t likely to reciprocate our delight. We rounded a corner and there he was. William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939, instructing us to
“Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by.”
Recounting our first memories of his work, we chose to linger, loath to leave a man whose words had nestled in our 13-year-old hearts, but when forty-eight hours are all you have, ‘what’s next’ is a perfectly valid question.
Bundoran is a seaside town from a 1920s American movie. Craggy cliffs, dashing waves, vanilla ices, amusement park rides and seaweed baths provide a delightful alternative to modern-day foreign beaches with tanned bodies and a pounding nightlife. A stroll on the seaweed-laced beach and a steep climb up to a cliff-top later, we enjoyed the salty north Atlantic breeze that showed all the friendliness of the land with perhaps a little less warmth. In the summer, carousel music and the shouts of children will compete with the roar of the waves, but for now, in mid-May, they reign supreme.
Ireland lives in its lochs and bogs and a brief visit to both followed. Every home in the county is assigned its own plot of land on a peat bog. It is here that families come up the hill to harvest peat that will warm their homes through the year. A naturally occurring fuel, peat is an accumulation of partially decayed vegetation and is readily available and widely used in this part of the country. The harvesting process itself can be back-breaking if one isn’t used to it. Sometimes a shortage of time turns out to be a good thing! Loch MacNean appeared out of a clearing in the woods, a magical blue with picture-perfect ripples. All was calm, all was bright and I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I live in Bombay.
More family visits followed, with exclamations about how perfect the weather had been, though I noticed that didn’t stop cozy fires from roaring in their grates. Much Irish stew and many potatoes later, I hauled myself back on a flight to England. The heart, however, decided to stay. I’ll have to go looking for it sometime very soon.
Last weekend, the Boy and I drove to Mt. Diablo State Park for some photography and rambling. Armed with cameras, hats and enough water to drench Nevada, here’s what I did with my afternoon:
Meet Bushy. The squirrel with an attitude. “I charge, you know,” he said, before deigning to pose.
I love roots. Especially mine. 
These aren’t too shabby though.
Clearly, I was barking up the right tree.
This one made me think of ‘The Woman in Black’. And that creeped me out.
So I moved on to brighter subjects. Like this web in the sun.
Before branching out into Creepsville again.
Hello, smiled the solitary ornithologist. And disappeared into the trees.
So I busied myself with more available men. One, to be precise.
And got distracted by the most breathtaking visual of the day.
~The End~
[Credits: OJ and her Olympus E-PL2 DSLR, with a 40-150mm zoom lens, and art filters. Yeah, I’m fancy like that.]
Sometimes I make you repeat lines that are a comfort to my aching heart by pretending I didn’t hear them.
What was that again?
First,
pour the milk,
frothy and warm.
Watch its
whiteness bubble to
hug the sides of the cup.
Scatter strands of saffron, red
flotillas of poetry, they seep
into verses by Rumi and Hafez.
Slip in the almonds, soft, blanched,
they descend to the bottom and
strengthen the brew.
Next,
sprinkle sugar, top it off with
cardamom, a splash of
vanilla, then gently stir.
Let sit the
quietness, the comfort, the
potion;
it awaits its
recipient,
eager to serve.
I awoke on Monday morning to the blinking light on my phone, telling me an email had arrived. Groggily, I reached out, half-knowing what to expect. “She’s dead,” I said to the Boy, and buried my face in his chest.
It was another email that had arrived the previous Wednesday that started it all. Noorjehan, said the subject, and I wondered what Mum had to say about our maid of a few years. “You remember her, don’t you,” she asked rather unnecessarily, for Noor had shared the story of her young life with me while she swept the floors of my parents’ home. In the blur of lines that followed, Mum wrote that Noor had been set on fire and was in a trauma ward with 92% burns. She had visited her and Noor acknowledged her presence by moving her lips, though no sound emerged. The prognosis was poor and her fastest relief, according to the doctor (whom we know personally) would be through death.
What followed was an interminable week of communication, police statements, counter allegations, accusations of murder vs. self-immolation, testimonies supporting both sides, and a veritable he said-she said circus as a charred woman lay in agony, waiting for death to claim her. I will not go into the details of the case here. They have made headlines in the Times of India, the Mumbai Mirror , the Indian Express, the DNA, and the Hindustan Times already. What I will state is how wretched and helpless and horrified I felt and still feel that a woman no older than 27, a mother of four children who was married when she was a mere child herself, lived a life of subjugation and want that ended in this ghastly fashion.
I prayed with a doggedness I am surprised to discover I possess. I resented my comfortable Californian existence that has me so far away from being any use. I sobbed at the memory of that frail, dark woman in the burkha she was forced to wear, even as I waltzed out of my home showing bare legs and open tresses. I am startled at how gutted I feel. How shaken to the core. Most of all, I am angry at myself for making this about me. And I ask you to turn your attention to her and think of her kindly—Noorjehan: self-immolator/burns victim, tired mother, unhappy wife, polite domestic, half-hearted duster of furniture, occupant of a small life few will notice has evanesced.
Rest in peace now, Noor.
Your death has brought me one degree closer to life as it can be.
She climbs into my lap and reaches for my under-chin. Chubby fingers, sticky from unknowns, prod the softness, demand all of me. My arm winds around her waist, chubbiness stacked on chubbiness, firm, plump, with all the resilience of the Fearsome Fours. Our heads meet, mine crowned with sleekness, hers buoyant with curls, and we breathe the breath we once shared, tucked away in primal spaces, in a bubble that was fiercely ours. “I laau you, Mamma,” she murmurs into my folds, “and Mamma loves Baby,” I croon back. And all around us, the universe echoes, the rocking, the touching, the exhaling of need, for surely no mother and child, and every single one, mirror these crannies between us.
[This one was written for an adult audience. With language modifications, it can work well with ages 4 and up.]
It’s been a while since we visited our friends in Sascha’s bathroom, hasn’t it? Them of the bottled feelings and mostly well-meaning hearts, they’ve lived through arrivals (hello, Hair Serum and Lotion,) and departures (adieu, Baby Powder!) as Sasha lopes eagerly toward teendom. Now a tall, long-limbed girl with blue-and-brown glasses, she undertakes athletics training at a neighborhood track thrice a week, and comes home all sweaty and red in the face. On one such evening, she bounced into the bathroom, humming a tune that the bottlehood had heard before. It was called Favorite Girl and a boy with irksome hair sang it on the telly. Peeling off her sportswear, she tossed it into the laundry basket, proceeded to shower, and hurried out when done.
All was quiet for a while. The family was in the dining room, Nanny was folding laundry and the maid worked in the kitchen. Then, in the growing darkness of the advancing evening, Condi, Shampoo, and their friends heard sniffling. It came from a far corner of the bathroom and they strained to listen. There it was again, two muffled sobs this time, and a sigh. Emboldened by his last act of bravery, Condi spoke up. It couldn’t be a burglar again, he reasoned, and this sounded like someone in distress. “Who’s there?” he ventured, glad to have Serum and Lotion by his side. The crying stopped. For a full minute, the room listened intently, and they were soon rewarded with a tremulous answer.
“It’s us,” ventured a voice from the laundry basket, “we’re Sascha’s socks. She calls us Floppy 1 and Floppy 2 because we can’t hold up,” and it broke into fresh sobs of pain. “There, there,” whispered her twin, and leaned toward her, trying to put on a brave face. The bottles saw them in the dim light, two soft ankle socks, dull white and sorrowful, huddled atop orange sweatpants. “Don’t be sad, friends,” chimed in Lotion, who was as shiny in her heart as she was outside. “How can we help?”
They shook their cotton heads and more tears spilled over. “It’s no use,” said Floppy 2, “Sascha’s tired of repeatedly pulling us up.”
“A day or two and we’ll be gone,” Floppy 1’s voice trembled.
The bottles took in this news silently. No one knew quite how to make the Floppies feel better. They all dreaded the day they would be declared redundant and have to say goodbye to the security of their bathroom world. As they stood under a pall of gloom, a throat was cleared on the top shelf.
Starchie McStarcherson was a big, tall bottle with an officious manner and deep voice. He took his job very seriously and had no time for the likes of Shampoo and Bath Salts, whom he thought frothy and irreverent. Older and aloof, he lived with his old pal Detergent on the top shelf while the rest of the bottles camped on the window ledge. The newer entrants to the bathroom kept out of his way, knowing well enough to lower their voices during his nap times. Starchie modeled himself on a butler he had once seen on telly, while working in Sascha’s parents’ bathroom. He had been watching the unfolding dilemma with remote interest until a bulb went off in his wise old head. “I can be of assistance,” he boomed imperiously, as the bottles all craned their necks shelfward. Quickly taking charge of the situation, he crystallized a Plan.
The action began at midnight, when Sascha was safely in air-conditioned slumber, the bathroom door firmly closed. At a signal from Starchie, the Floppies flung themselves off the laundry heap into a waiting bathroom pail. “We’re in,” they called up, rather unnecessarily, for their every move was being watched by the entire bottle sorority. Next up, Tap did a little pirouette, dribbling hot water onto them until they were submerged. Her number done, she added a curtsy for effect, and turned the other way. Now, it was the Big Moment.
With Detergent holding on tight, Starchie leaned over the shelf. His positioning had to be precise, or else he’d tip over and ruin Operation Stop-the-Flop. He leaned. He leaned further. Then he leaned some more. And then some more. “Steady on, old boy!” grunted Detergent, acutely aware of the dangers of being carried off by his bulky friend, and struggled to keep him grounded. Starchie looked below him. And then regretted it. A wave of dizziness hit him hard and he keeled. The shelf slipped out from under him. He heard a collective gasp from the window ledge. His life flashed before his tightly shut eyes, slow-motion and everything. It had been a good life, he concluded, one rooted in duty. He could’ve been friendlier with the bottles, he realized, even as the thought surprised him. Next thing he knew, he felt determined arms yank him backward and landed with a thump on his rear end.
“What…??” he cried, disoriented and embarrassed. Detergent was holding on to him for dear life, and the bottles looked delighted! “Want to look down again?” teased Detergent kindly, and when Starchie mustered the courage to do so, he saw the Floppies floating in a starch-water mixture, looking up at him in gratitude.
A cheer went around the room. Bath Salts and Shampoo bubbled with delight. Condi showed off his smooth moves. Lotion sparkled in all her pink glory and Tap did several pirouettes until an annoyed Floppy 1 asked him to quit. The bottles let out hoorays for good old Starchie, and Detergent thumped him on his back. “A million thanks,” called out the Floppies, who were now delightedly doing flip-flops of their own. “You’re welcome,” Starchie acknowledged stiffly, and managed a little smile.
When Bai found the Floppies late next morning, she hung them out to dry. Their moment in the sun had arrived and soon they were crisp like soldiers headed to battle. Sascha wore them on numerous occasions, and fleetingly wondered where her old socks had disappeared to, but you won’t tell her, will you?
A rechristening is in order: Now that they aren’t Floppies any longer, they’d love another name. And you who shared in their story are invited to chime in. Starchie will be the Master of Ceremonies, so I’d advise no late arrivals; and yes, do hazard a glance at your own socks before you come in.
Have you ever wondered what it’s really like for me, living with the Boy? How we are at home when there’s just the two of us? Who cleans up, who takes out the trash? Whether the toilet seat is left up or down, and who obsesses over micro-particles of dust?
If you haven’t, clever you. But if you have, here’s your chance to find out.
Amrita, from the now sadly silent Indiequill, asked to take a peek inside my marriage of 13 months and got me talking about what it is to like to live with The Modern Indian Man.
In one word: socks.
For more, head to http://www.womensweb.in/articles/modern-indian-marriage-1/ and listen to Episode 1 of the Modern Family podcast.
I love how sane she’s made me sound.
Maybe someday I’ll even believe it. 😉
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi