Saturday, 30 June 2018

Conversations with Coco


It is with great wonder that I read or hear about the cute conversations people have with their kids. I too have plenty of them with Coco, but due to the lack of a script writer, they border on mundane to silly, unlike in movies where kids say timeless dialogues. I know, life is not a movie, but what does it take to say something like 'I'll bring the moon for you mommy' , as one of my friend's kid told her. I wondered as I read her facebook post about this particular talk and prayed for anything remotely as cute and intelligent coming from my prodigal son who has a talent of ending every conversation into a disappointment, although comical.

So, I felt elated when a couple of days later, he asked me, 'Mummy, I want to be highest. Should I climb a chair?'

Finding a great opportunity to finally unleash my worldly knowledge, I told him, he could climb Mt. Everest to be highest.

His eyes widened with pleasure at the prospect of such an adventure and he exclaimed, 'Wow!' Then after a pause asked, 'Will I be so high , I can touch clouds too?'

Pleased at the direction this conversation was going, I smiled and nodded vigorously, already picturing fleecy clouds floating around him on top of the Everest peak.
'Will there be birds around?' He further asked, and overwhelmed by his intelligent questions, I replied affirmatively.

And then came the inevitable reply that ruined the entire thing. Scrunching his nose, he whined, ' Nooo... I don't want to climb Mt. Everest.  The birds will poop on me!'

Now I am scrunching my nose in disgust as the great mountain climber that couldn't climb has left me flabbergasted, in search of another vocation where there's no chance of poop. 😣

Thursday, 31 May 2018

Close The Gates!

Past few days have been difficult for Army Cantonments. The defence ministry has ordered all the cantonment roads to be opened to general public and all of us fauji wives can't stop worrying since then.

I found the following post on fellow army wife and blogger Neha's facebook wall: 

In the last 7 n half years of my married life to the man in uniform I have
- lived in 8 houses.. temporary and permanent, some good some bad
- my kid, just 4 and half years of age, has changed 3 schools in 2 years of schooling
- everytime we shift she cries for her school, for her house, for her friends
- I have learned to be brave and take every moment as it comes, learned not to get attached to things but just love the people
- I have lived in 6 states with varied climates and temperature and diverse cultures
- I have forgotten about my career and decided to stand for my family while he is away
All this to provide support to the "man in uniform" and help him serve the nation..
But if the nation cannot take care of us .. I think it all goes in vain..

It may be Neha's post, but the story is same for me too and for almost all the army wives, only the numbers may change depending upon years of marriage. The sentiments ring true for most of us.

Somehow, I find myself on both sides of the cantonment gate. This is a matter of deep concern for an army wife as well as a civilian.

Amid scorching Indian summer, this burning topic is keeping fauji wives uneasy (though 'uneasy' is an understatement!). If you are a civilian reading this, you may not be aware of the turmoil that we are going through, 15 to 20% of you may even be in total bliss, enjoying a little detour through the scenic cantonment in your city, now that all the gates are open. I am saying unaware because, none of my civilian friends, not even my family members are talking about it. There is a complete absence of any activity in this regard on social media, nobody seems for it, nobody seems against it, whereas every army wife is talking about it on all the platforms.

I am not saying all of these things as an army wife who wants to save her idyllic garden from prying eyes of people. Trust me, this is coming from someone who has been a civilian throughout her life and still is. Me and my sister studied in a school situated inside a high security Air Force Station 5 kms away from home, and we never faced any difficulty going to school, along with scores of other civilian students from neighborhood. The cantonment in our city is an open one, which means all the areas that a civilian needs to visit are open. A cantonment may house both faujis and civilians. This is true for most of the open cantts. It is a matter of common sense that sensitive areas should be kept closed for non concerned people in national interest. Here are some of the reasons why certain areas should be kept closed:

Opening all roads effectively makes army facilities and families sitting ducks inviting terror attacks, unwanted attention of miscreants, weakening the spirit of the soldiers who guard the frontiers without worrying about their family's security and safety back home.

I hope you understand that this is not a fight between army and civilians, this is an issue between policymakers and public. If the lawmakers want to compromise national security and peace, citing lame excuse of public inconvenience, then its their failure, their poor urban planning and execution, showing their lazy and corrupt ways and their shortsighted vested interest. They cannot make us (public) suffer for their failures.

Give it a thought.. does this issue only affect army wives? Should you be so quiet about an issue that might have serious implications on YOUR national security? Are we not a part of your society too? You, who change your profile picture and burn candles for women's safety, is your convenience suddenly more important than our lives? The ministry has issued a foolish order and you, blinded by the worthless sensation of a victory, are rejoicing, not understanding that this is a live example of how politics divides and rules! That a wide gap has been deliberately created where there was just a line, that this one order has brought out palpable hatred between army and civilian communities where there was none! This petty victory may cost you your future wars!

(Please excuse for a badly written post, there is so much to tell, I could write a book on this. Hope to share more on the topic soon.Thank you for your patience.)

Monday, 30 April 2018

May Be!

The picture above sums up my end of April.  Sick(say the neem leaves), bored out of my wits(says the book which is beyond my league, more suited to literary choices of my husband) and braving the famous scorching summer of North(says the A.C. remote). What the coconut says is an entirely different twist though. The book title and the words 'survival, resilience, redemption ' below the title are just what I need to be reminded right now to keep going.
You might be wondering about this plaintive tone which I rarely have, especially here. You have always heard colourful crafty stories and seen flowery landscapes here on my blog . But sometimes dear people, one cannot help ranting when difficulty level keeps increasing. Though the gardens are still beautiful, the occasional thorns have to be weeded out before one can enjoy the beauty like before once again.

It seems like ages ago when the weather was good, the landscape was picturesque,  and one had the time and inclination to appreciate it all. But calendars change and so do times. Difficulties occur, problems happen, life happens! When a day becomes unbearable, one just wants it to end and pins their hopes on the next day! So here's hope that it may be beautiful again tomorrow.. let's hope and pray for a great May..the month of possibilities.. when all that the heart desires just may be!

Take good care people. Have a great new month ahead.

Saturday, 31 March 2018

Love From Dhaka



I have a penchant for stories but telling a story is not my cup of tea. Storytelling is a great art and anyone who can tell an engaging story earns my deep respect instantly. My grandmother is an excellent storyteller and she did a good job back when I was interested in bedtime stories. She can describe real life events in such a manner that they sound like fantasy stories. I still love stories, but now I would rather read them than hear from someone.
This notion changed when I heard a great story on last year’s battle honour day of my husband’s unit. Though it is a true incident, I would like to call it a story, because the way it was told, it has risen to the status of a story. An incident is what a newspaper reports while a story is a work of art. Some stories stay with us forever. This is one of them, always bringing back lively images of that evening to my mind.
On the eve of battle honour Day*, while all the unit ladies were eagerly waiting for the veterans to arrive in the unit’s mess, we shared anecdotes of shopping and vacations. As we were deep into conversation, someone announced the arrival of a veteran couple and soon we were queued up to meet Retd. Col. and Mrs. Kundu. The elderly couple arrived holding hands and smiling. They met everyone warmly and before we realized, the gathering separated into two groups. All the officers were huddled together around Col. Kundu while all the ladies had pulled their seats close to Mrs. Kundu, surrounding her, curious, anxious and yet keeping quiet out of sheer respect. Mrs. Kundu with her big red bindi and warm smile, instantly became our center of attraction. After initial round of introductions and other formal exchanges, our first lady asked Mrs. Kundu to share her ‘telegram wali’ story and the way Mrs. Kundu pulled her shoulders together and nodded, reminded me of my grandmother’s story sessions where she used to sit in the middle on a cot and three –four of us children surrounded her, staring at her face in admiration and wonder.
Then Mrs. Kundu started telling the story.
In 1971, when the Indo-Pak war started, Savitri and her newborn daughter stayed with Savitri’s parents in a Rajasthan village, while her husband, a young army officer, left for east Pakistan front.
Savitri spent all her waking hours in wondering and waiting. Wondering what the coming months brought for her and waiting for her husband to arrive, any news to arrive... but you see, in those days news travelled slowly, letters took months to arrive and telegrams, which were the fastest mode of information often carried bad news, and their arrival was a harbinger of fear and death. So no one really looked forward to a telegram.
Her only hope was the radio, and being the village Sarpanch’s daughter, she was rich enough to afford her personal radio. But instead of giving her any relief, the news jangled her nerves even more. Finally she gave up listening to news on radio and tried to focus on her tiny daughter who needed her constant attention. But she was unaware of the real drama unfolding behind her back.
It all started when her father received a telegram.
The telegram was addressed to Savitri, but it was delivered to Sarpanch ji, for that was the way in those days. The village postman dared not look into his eyes and quietly kept the folded slip on his chauki with shaking hands. He also knew well what that telegram could mean for Savitri bitiya.
With the arrival of the telegram, every activity stopped in and around the house. Sarpanch ji could not gather enough courage to open it, let alone reading it. He knew too well that a telegram in times of war could only mean one thing. And he was not ready to accept or acknowledge it. Sarpanch ji, his wife, his servants, villagers, everybody was under a pall of gloom these days. Everyone wondered how would they break the news to Savitri.
Soon the news of the telegram spread like wildfire and people from other villages started visiting Sarpanch ji. Nobody discussed this matter. All they did was sit quietly for some time, shaking their heads to express their sadness at such terrible fate. There was no end to the sorrows of Sarpanch ji. Whenever he saw Savitri’s face or heard the cooing of her daughter, his heart skipped a beat. He felt as if his heart was a wild raven, fluttering its wings and hitting with its beak from inside, hurting him immensely. The old man was drowned into worries of Savitri and her daughter’s future.
It was almost a week now since the telegram arrived, the war was over and he worried that soon Savitri would know. What will happen then?
However, Savitri had not failed to notice the difference in her parents’ demeanour. She also observed that a lot more people were visiting nowadays. She asked her mother first and when she could not get a satisfactory response, she confronted her father who was sitting with a couple of village men.
Beti, I have received a telegram,’ he replied when he could not bear it anymore.
‘And...?’ asked Savitri, arching one eyebrow.
Sarpanch ji held his head in both his hands and sat down on his chauki. Tears of grief and helplessness rolled down his cheeks. The village men were astonished at Savitri’s innocence, ‘poor girl, she doesn’t know the meaning of a telegram.’
‘Where is the telegram?’ she demanded, ’what does it say?’
‘I don’t know bitiya. I haven’t read it!’ he took out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Signs of the past week’s struggle were plainly evident on the telegram.
Breathing heavily, Savitri held out her hand and took the telegram. With a heart thumping loudly, she opened it and read. The villagers were impressed, ‘bitiya knows angrezi.’
 A soft smile broke out on Savitri’s face which soon turned into an ear to ear grin. ‘Tch, tch. She has gone crazy with grief,’ one of the villagers whispered and the other approved.
‘What happened Savitri?’ asked her father, bewildered at her reaction.
‘All is well Babuji. He has reached Dhaka and sends his...um...best wishes,’ she carefully rephrased the three words written in the telegram to suit the old man’s senses. She ran to her room clutching the telegram before anyone could notice that she was blushing.
The telegram was composed super-economically, with three words announcing love, well being and victory. All it said was LOVE FROM DHAKA.
I am glad I didn’t read this story somewhere but had the privilege to hear it being told by the heroine of the story Mrs. Savitri Kundu herself.
--------------------------------------------------------------


Wednesday, 28 February 2018

मीठी बेरियां, मीठी यादें

Greetings from the lazy woman and her peeps. We all are enjoying sunny February days, with a variety of fruit trees and a few blossoms in a yard the size of a farm. The blossoms are actually very  few and what you are seeing above is one slightly better corner, photographed at a tricky angle to appear somewhat like a blooming garden. My parents are here for a few months and I am getting the best kind of pampering and 'Ma ke haath ka khaana' (mom's food) after so many years. Not only that, my mother and I try to stay healthy by walking within the compound and doing a few breathing exercises.
During one such walk, we went to one far end of the yard where wild plum (ber) shrubs grow. I squealed with delight at finding the ripening wild fruits, instantly remembering my school days. My school was in an Air Force Station, surrounded with forested area. Outside the school gate, there was a small clear area where we used to wait after school for our school rickshaw or bus to pick us up. Some of the adventurous kids would utilize this waiting time by finding these 'ber' shrubs which were all around in abundance, and would venture deep into them to pluck these fruits, braving the thorny bushes, wasps, insects or occasional snakes even.
I had joined this school in 4th standard and most of these kids had been there since beginning. Being small and new, I used to accompany these adventurers sometimes or stay back with the sensible ones on some days. Though, sometimes a parent or teacher or a 'parent who is a teacher' would surprise us and on such occasions, the adventurer kids would run for their lives. (I used to thank my stars for staying back on these occasions) Some of them would be caught and their 'bers' would be confiscated. The fruits turned out to be mostly small and unripe, plucked in haste and greed. The lectures/admonishing/scolding that they would get used to be harsh. So much trouble for such little 'fruit'.

Looking at this large bowl of wild plums and remembering... those naughty adventurer souls, those studious 'didis' who would warn them, those inspecting parents, that rickety rickshaw that would show up an hour late, those thorny scratches, those bulging pockets full of green wild fruits and those victorious smiles of the wanderer fruit gatherers... oh! Come back you scoundrels and I would give you this plate of plums, this whole bowl, those entire shrubs even... if only you would bring back those precious childhood days once more!

(It might look strange that the topic of this post is in Hindi. I could not find any words in English that would express the underlying sentiment like these words do. Thank you for bearing.)

Saturday, 27 January 2018

What's New?


New year and a new post! After all my aspirations, trials and tribulations I am here again finally. These past few months have kept me occupied in various things, craft being the chief one of them. More than anything else, I hone my photography skills(however insignificant) on my crafts these days. So dear reader, you can expect most pictures in my posts related to my crafts. Please bear with them.


Now, lets come to the main subject. I mean Coco. As expected from the son of a strict mother, he is turning into a fine gentlemanly boy, who tries to be of use by putting spoons back in the cutlery stand after licking chyawanprash off of them! Thanks to my keen eyesight and 'Vyomkesh Bakshi' like detective spirits, I spot them right away. So, you can come to my home and stay assured of being served with clean cutlery. Almost always. :D 



Oh, by the way, we have moved into a British era bungalow, that comes with a defunct fireplace et al. But, unlike the good old 'foot of the Himalayas' days, I am yet to discover the joys of staying here. The elaborate engagements of social life and personal matters have kept all of us too busy to look around and smell the flowers. Literally!

But, one can always hope, right! 

Read on for picture descriptions. It might be interesting, I promise!



The topmost picture is of two dreamcatchers out of which the white one is hanging one one of my living room walls delicately. The multicolored one is made on order for someone. It might be interesting for you to know that the rings for both of them come from a large embroidery hoop, that couldn't serve its intended purpose. It hung inside my closet for many years, until one fine day another purpose was found for it. Destiny!

 The second image is of few cards that I made for someone on request. They might look ordinary but they are the fruits of a couple of hours of painting, measuring, cutting, gluing, babysitting, snacking and homing in general.

Then there is one corner of my living room which I tidied up hurriedly before clicking a decent enough picture for the blog. 

The last picture is of Pink Pitari's jewelry, that was lying in separate mounds of necklaces and earrings while I was clicking their pictures for promotions. 

I think this is enough for the first post of the year. Hope to be here more often. 


Monday, 31 July 2017

Rainbows And Paper Boats



As we have settled in yet another cantonment with renewed enthusiasm, things are taking their own course in a much satisfying way. Craft is happening, Pink Pitari is going on and Coco is growing up to become smarter and sharper, with a million questions ready in his arsenal. Amid pouring rains, the lazy woman is making her crafting time worthwhile with lemon tea, the teabags for which were carefully packed back in April when we were moving from the tea-town. It proves that I can only plan in advance if it involves tea or craft!

It rained cats and dogs on his supposedly first day of school, and he was home, playing with his toys in the veranda, when I started telling him how we used to make paper boats during rains as children. He laughed at the idea that his mother could ever have been a child. And then it struck me...isn't it better to make a couple of boats for him rather than telling him stories of a time he can hardly imagine. Out came a few sheets from his old notebooks and the boats were sailing in the temporary lake formed outside our house within next five minutes, bobbing up and down, chasing each other.

While the usual bringing up Coco is happening, I always keep pace with my craft projects, and to be true, it is becoming quite a passion for me. Though it is difficult to find good quality craft supplies in the new town, the lazy woman has resorted to online shopping of the materials and is churning out heart stealers on a regular basis. 


To sum it up, life is good wherever you want to make it good, and it is good here too. Another house shifting is coming up soon as we will move to a nice bigger house, and the stories of crafting in the garden will resume soon. Like the old, old times you know!