HAPPY 2019

 Turmeric rhizome powder.

My maternal grandparents used to harvest tons of turmeric in acres of land in the small village of parimandal in today’s Nirmal district of Telangana.

The earthy aroma of the rhizomes while digging, boiling or drying them under the sun is nostalgic, still fresh in my memory.

As a child, I used to play around the multiple heaps of turmeric rhizomes arranged in the open field surrounded by a fence in the forest (the wall was protection from wild boars, which were very common.)

As a child, I ate less chicken and more meat of the wild boars big hearths made out of hearthstones, the large round, black bottom, thick aluminium boiling containers, the noisy hush discussions among the female farm labourers about the dinner And post-dinner activities, the men looking at the sky making predictions about the temperature or unforeseen rainfall.

The weather prediction was as easy as staring into the sky in all four directions with the palm horizontally placed between the hairline and forehead.

Every man was a weatherman, and all of them had a consensus in the prediction. Usually, one among them was a leader, and whatever he said was final, as his predictions came true.

 So, his opinion was always sought before putting the product to dry.

Childhood leaves many impressions on our minds. Those impressions will bring themselves to life when we are put in similar situations when we grow up.

Yesterday, while extracting, washing, and drying the rhizomes, I felt as if I was enacting the role of my maternal grandparents. I gave instructions precisely the way they used to provide them to their farm labourers.

My grandmother was so meticulous that she never allowed a tiny grain of any product to go to waste. Yesterday, I did the same, handpicking every piece left out of the mud.

I was making turmeric at home 30 years after I last watched it being prepared. It felt just like yesterday.

The past three decades couldn’t come in between my grandparents and me. Memory is so beautiful, and the mind becomes a valuable tool when we use it to store only emotions, making us feel happy, grateful, thankful and loved.

By the end of 2018, let’s leave all the trash and hurt in our minds behind and store only the happy, positive stories so that we derive strength and energy from them. Let’s build it on from here to a happy, positive, cheerful life ahead.

Creating good memories and impressions for the children moving around in our surroundings is very important. Our responsibility is to Set good examples for them to recollect and enact when they grow old.

If we can positively impact their minds, it will generate the most healthy, sound, and loving individuals in the future.

Happy 2019, friends.

This piece of the chronicle was long due from my end.

 This piece of the chronicle was long due from my end.

An ode to our friendship and our maiden holiday vishika, Preeti, nita, simmi, Renuka and Aparna.

We are a group of 7 friends, call ourselves saptarishis, seven stars.

Two of them moved to Kolkata by the end of 2018 on a job transfer.

Aparna's husband took charge as SP baruipur.

Colonel Renuka and her husband, Colonel Sameer, were in army headquarters in Kolkata.

We all missed each other, as it has been four months since we parted ways.

Aparna invited us to tour the Sunderbans. Renuka, too, insisted we spend a night with her in Kolkata at Fort William, and then the seven of us go to the Sunderbans together.

We wanted to spend time together on Valentine's day, but as 14th February was midweek, we couldn't afford to take leave and go on a trip.

One among the 5 of us had a daughter appearing for class 10, so simmi had to stay back in Siliguri for her daughter.

The four of us packed our bags and three babies and set off on a voyage to Sunderbans via Kolkata.

We reached Kolkata around 8 p.m. on February 15th, col. Sameer (Renuka's husband) received us at the airport and drove us to his house.

The 5 of us set the house on fire. The guest rooms booked in Fort William were waiting for us, but we refused to leave home, so Sameer had to make the space comfortable for us.

We fed the babies, rocked them to sleep and then had a long chat till 3 am.

This was the next day of the Pulwama attack, so Renuka's leave was cancelled. She had to drop out of the vacation to Sunderbans. We decided to cancel the trip and stay back in Kolkata with Renuka, but Aparna has already sent a vehicle for us to visit her and then head to Sunderbans.

Unwillingly, we decided to leave, but on the condition that none of us would sleep that night. It was 3 a.m. Alam, the driver Aparna sent to pick us up from Renuka's place started calling to locate the address. Renuka guided him.

By the time Alam reached, it was 4 a.m. We had coffee, and Renuka packed sandwiches for us to have on the way.

Sameer and Renuka bid goodbye to us on the condition that we would spend the night with them on our return journey, too.

We promised and hit the road with droopy eyes.

I usually sit in either of the two front seats.

If I am not behind the wheel, I always prefer to ride shotgun irrespective of who the driver is.

For courtesy's sake, I ask the accompanying men and women their seat preference; if given a choice, I would never abandon the front seats.

On that day, Alam and I were in the front seat, too.

In the next row were nita, Preeti and her handsome son nirvan; in the third row was vishika with her little munchkins.

We started the journey towards baruipur; Alam was quiet all along, just the occasional small answers to our questions on traffic, RTA's and citizen discipline on the road.

I have this habit of interrogating drivers as they are the right people to explain geopolitical dynamics; with elections around the corner, I thought he would have some juicy stuff to share, but He kept his tongue tied, made no-lose comments, and criticised none.

Alam was a lean, muscular man in his late fifties; he had a thick dark mane and was wearing a khaki shirt, regular brown trousers and sports shoes. The uncoated, thick glasses in a black sheath frame could partially distract one from the early onset of wrinkles on his cheeks and forehead; they made him look older than his age. The muscular hands exposing the veins on the forearm and the erect posture indicated his hundreds of hours behind the wheel. During his career span of 3 decades, he drove around officers, criminals, memsahibs, arms and ammunition all around the state.

We reached Aparna's place in the next 2 hours. While on the road, I enjoyed the sandwiches grilled by Renuka and the team, but all along, the invisible Mukesh gave us company. Suhana Safar Aur yeh Mausam haseen, Humein darr hai hum Kho na jaaye kahin, Suhana Safar...

It was our first all-girls trip, bringing us closer than ever before. We took a small break at Aparna's place, fed the kids, and immediately started our journey towards Sunderbans. We have been missing Simmi and Renuka all along. Out of the seven, only five of us could make it to that beautiful boat ride in the tranquil waters of the Sundarbans.

Thirty minutes into the journey, we found fresh fruit stalls lining the roads in the small villages leading to the Sundarbans.

On enquiry, Alam told us that they were fresh local produce. We stopped to snack on the fruit. Alam took a particular interest in picking up the best fruits, cutting them into equal-sized pieces, and seasoning them with local spices. He handed us one portion each and hopped into the driver's seat.

I offered him a portion of guava from my share, and he took the piece and said thank you. I realised later that offering him fruit was the inception point of the Naughty ideas and thoughts in the minds of my girlfriends watching us from behind.

Both sides of the road were lined up with drumstick trees. When we asked why there were only drumstick trees here, he got into chatty mode.

If you want to engage a Bengali in conversation, talk to them about food, music, literature, and politics.

Everyone will click on one of the topics. Food and politics connected with Alam. He explained about local flora and fauna and answered every question patiently. He narrated eight recipes with a combination of fish, potatoes, and drumsticks. I started making notes mentally of every word he spoke. When we were chatting, for me, only the car, the road, Alam, and the music existed.

The girls started taunting in English; one said, "Is this love per sq. feet? "The other said, "Wish you a belated happy Valentine's Day." The third said this holiday would be the most memorable one only and only for one person. They went on and on only in English, assuming he would not understand.

I replied, " Stop burning girls; you will all rot in hell one day for not accepting fellow woman's happiness. I will not exchange this seat with any of you even for a million bucks. They set the discussion on fire, and we laughed like crazy, all in Alam's presence.

He dropped us at the pickup point and left immediately. We all exited the car; Aparna's army was ready to escort us to the private launch. We took snacks, water, nariyal pain etc., tugged in the kids and walked towards the banks of the delta of the Ganges. One by one, we got in and started settling down; that's when I noticed a smiling man in a t-shirt waving at us; I asked Aparna who is that man waving at us? She said, our driver Alam. He looked young and interested in that T-shirt. We waved back to him.

Aparna ensured that we got the best hospitality in our 8-hour launch ride. Served us breakfast and a multi-course lunch, we had vodka with us, which we mixed in coconut water and drank on the sly. Those 8 hours will remain frozen in my soul forever. The sunset, the water, the greenery at both the horizontal ends, the homecoming villagers predominantly tribal with a mobile phone in every hand, fellow tourists in various launches, the occasional spotting of animals, the excellent food and most importantly the company of people who mattered the most to me. We had so much fun sometimes chatting, sometimes just sitting silently; other times clicking pictures, taking turns in babysitting, eating, drinking, and watching the sunset….

We decided not to spend the night on the island as we had small kids who may need medical attention in case of an emergency, so we decided to turn back and head towards Kolkata. Aparna got the bookings cancelled.

Alam, back in his khaki shirt, was waiting for us on the banks of the delta. We disembarked the boat and headed towards the car. It was going to be a long journey back home. We were lagging in sleep by one night and totally exhausted by now, but the company of each other kept us going.

On the way back, one political party organized a big candlelight march in honour of Pulwama martyrs.

Another group came in from the opposite direction, leading to an altercation and then riots, right in front of our eyes. Aparna came to the rescue. She called the local police station and ensured we were removed from that spot as fast as possible.

While staying put on the road, I decided to get down and see what the fight was about and who the miscreants were? I carried my phone to record the clashes if it may help police arrest the culprits. Unwanted heroics, I must say.

As soon as I got down, Alam started shouting, don't go; it is not safe; why are you going…. I didn't care to listen …. when our loved ones are not with us, we become adventurous; if I had my daughter travelling with me, my first worry would have been to reach her to a safe location, here I was independent and free to explore the option of seeing a riot live.

I recorded the fight and returned to the car; Alam was angry now for leaving the vehicle without his permission, putting me at risk. The girls started again in English: " See how concerned he is about your wellbeing." You and only you surely mean something to him." He felt hurt after you disembarked the car without his permission."… went on making naughty comments. We all laughed like crazy, sitting amidst a riot, posing a danger to our lives.

We all planned to abandon the car, walk backwards to reach the nearest police station, and take rescue in it for the time being or maybe a night long, too. Vishika was readily positioned with her Baby Bjorn in place. Preeti held Nirvan tight, and we all were in a position to jump off the car and run at a moment's notice.

But Alam assured us that he would not allow any harm to come our way. He took his lathi, got down from the van, and started guarding the car against all four sides. His favourite catchphrase was dandha markey thanda koredega; he hurled this at everyone within a meter's distance from the vehicle.

Meanwhile, a large police battalion arrived; thanks to Aparna, she relayed the information from the spot to her husband.

After an hour of lathi-charge, tear gas, etc., the mob dispersed slowly, and our car was escorted out safely from the scene. Alam displayed pride in rescuing us, and I praised him to the sky for the same. The girls, as usual, were ranting from behind. We ensured that all our dialogue was only in English so that Alam would not get any clue of how we were twisting the storyline.

We dropped Aparna at baruipur and headed towards Kolkata to a resort at 9 pm. It was another 2-hour drive. Alam was on a different high, so he was a little rash and heroic on the road, which didn't make the kids seated in the last row very comfortable. He would slow down only when we requested him to. He drove us through one-way lanes, breaking traffic signals. On the way, he ordered someone to get a parcel of fresh fruits packed for us from a nearby village.

As we neared the end of the road trip with Alam, the girls started making fun of us even more. Like how he did everything to impress me, I even joined them in making fun of Alma's heroism behind the wheel.

At 11.30 pm, we reached the resort. We all got down from the car, and the housekeeping staff collected our bags and left. It was time to bid goodbye to Alam. Each one of us took turns thanking him.

I was the last one to speak to him.

I said thank you, alam; you will be remembered forever from here on.

He extended his hand out for a shake. Holding my hand, he said. Madam, I graduated with a degree in English political science and economics from a reputed college in Kolkata. I was the topper in English during that year. I understood every word of your discussion today; I know I am not fortunate enough to be the "date: to any one of you, but believe me, this ride will stay with me too till my death.

I said with an expression of pleasant surprise. Hey Alam, a graduate and a driver?

He said I had 12 siblings; I lost my father at a very young age, and it was my responsibility to run the family, so I picked up the first job, which came my way without waiting.

Maybe I would have become an English teacher at the most or perhaps a proofreader in some publication to get a distinction in English. That's all good English can do for us, so let us not take pride in speaking excellent English. It is just another language, a mode of communication, not even our own, but a borrowed one.

I draw more salary, perks, and robust connections than my contemporary, who started the job as a school teacher.

……… just because I am a driver doesn't mean I cannot speak English.

At that moment, I saw a Shahrukh Khan in him saying, "Do not underestimate the power of a common man."

We were dumbstruck and ashamed of our behaviour. Nevertheless, we overcame it momentarily and praised and thanked him again.

Back in the resort at the dinner, we lamented for not taking his ph. Number.

Our Sundarbans holiday will be the most memorable one forever; what say, girls?

All thanks to Alam, he made our maiden holiday the best holiday.

I had to record this for all of us and leave a copy here. Two decades down the lane, when we go on a holiday again, we will open this and read it then….

HAPPY NEW YEAR

 As we are moving house, I have been discarding a lot of old stuff. My family members are a little less practical and more emotional and sentimental.

My husband's PG days handwritten notes, half-eaten by moths, damp, discoloured, were lying in a carton for a quarter of a century. I was segregating the trash into two segments, one which will go to the kabadiwaala and the other to the dustbin, realising that the moth-eaten notes would not be accepted even by the kabadiwaala dumped them into a carton, a makeshift dustbin.

While I was doing this in the living room during the early morning hours, the man walked in, rubbing his eyes and peeped into the dustbin to check what I had disposed of.

He picked up the notes and gave me a look at how dare you! How could you! I said it's 21 years since you passed your PG; for what do you need these notes now? Moreover, your subject has evolved much, and you have learned much more than what Is in them.

They aren't even read anymore; why do you still want to hang on to them.

I said enough of it. I am exhausted handling your emotional baggage, and you attach your emotions to everything and anything. Either they will go to the new house, or I will. He exclaimed, " As if I had a choice!"

I said, Yes, you don't, so leave the notes in the dustbin and don't come to this site. I am throwing out a lot of your stuff today...

Then, I went to the daughter's desk and thoroughly cleaned her table to my heart's content. I threw out the centuries-old chocolate wrappers, the one-eyed, amputated, quadriplegic, bald, semi-naked Barbie dolls, pen caps, one-inch-length crayons, and sharp pencil bits on both sides. I kept intact her childhood drawings, paintings, and school diaries.

I did not dare touch the son's shelf in his absence, fearing I would lose a finger or two. He has accumulated various chemical potions in small bottles from different labs. I asked him on WhatsApp that he would only be allowed into the new house with some of his trash material collections.

When he came home yesterday for Christmas break, I made him sit and throw out his old test tubes with dangerous chemicals. Once, a neighbour who looked at the son's shelf asked me, "Does he make bombs? Keep an eye on him, Mrs Reddy. I  hope he is not associating with the wrong guys; it was difficult explaining to her and many other curious visitors to our house his interest in weapons and everything that goes into making them.

But I enjoyed destroying their emotional baggage.

It was a burden for me to manage their sentiments and old accumulated stuff. Emotions and feelings are good, but they shouldn't become a liability to others.

Learn from the past, grow wise and shed away the unwanted. Don't accumulate but analyse, understand, assimilate and move on …. Let's not stay stuck in the past… let's leave the past behind to make space for new experiences.

Happy New Year, people... leave the past behind!

.

A TRAIN IN AN AEROPLANE

 Families on group tours create a mini picnic park in the aircraft.

You can make out with their body language at the entrance that the passenger is not alone. They move in packs carrying larger than the permitted size of hand baggage and need help to stuff it into the overhead cabins, thereby blocking the way of fellow passengers. 

They intimidated the staff at the check-in counter with their huge group presence and noise because the check-in counter always reprimanded me whenever I took an inch larger bag than the acceptable size.

The next point of chaos starts with seat exchanges. The husbands want to sit together, and the mothers want to sit with their kids, but they all prefer to take adjacent rows or next to each other; hence, they keep hustling the stewardess with demands to relocate them in the choicest arrangement.

They are least bothered about fellow passengers and the discomfort they are causing, and in fact, they believe that buying the ticket bestowed them every right to pick choices and get them accepted.

the real drama will start once the flight is Airborne

Children sit with mothers and men with their buddies; the food bag is with one of the ladies, supposedly the food and beverages in charge.

She will read out the Menu from row 3; the friends scattered in rows 5, 6 and 7 will respond with their choice of items. The kids are served tikkas with sauce; the men are served tikdas with achar; the women settle for phulkas with aloo ki sooky sabzi.

The air is filled with the aroma of spices and ghee while you are half asleep, half hungry, half anxious, half excited, and a mixture of all these leads to irritation and frustration. If it were a family on the train, they sure would have offered the food to fellow passengers.

You make peace with the gastric juices and try to concentrate on the biopic you are reading. That's when the chatter of women would start on various topics from row 3 to row 7 on how uncooperative the kids have become, how ill one's babhi is, and how big a villa the third one's brother brought in Goa. The women agreed to change the school of their toddlers as the school did not give a rupee discount on tuition fees during the pandemic.

Meanwhile, the men get hungry again and start demanding food. The F&B manager of the tour takes out a packet and sings a jingle, "Boys, no drinks but very chakna here is makhana"  The makhana packet is passed from row number 3 to 7.

 The stewardess senses the irritation of fellow passengers and goes to them to remind them to always remain masked and put on their seat belts. She is instantly named Katerina(aptly as the Girl was tall and beautiful), and the men oblige to listen to the beautiful stewardess's advice. At the same time, women look at Katrina with envy.

Flight Etiquette has all gone to air; we have conveniently Indianised the flights into trains. Train journeys are about sharing food, knowledge, and debates and exchanging phone numbers and addresses. 

I have read a dime a dozen stories on how co-passengers in a long train journey ended up becoming couples, lifetime friends, or meaningful phone contacts, references used once in a while to sort out the problems, if any, in their respective regions.

Flight journey has removed the interpersonal warmth; once inside the aeroplane, everyone wears an attitude of being someone special and important.

The frequent flyers will buckle up, read the newspaper, and then catch up with sleep. The youth will use every second to watch the movie or series they have downloaded quite in advance. The kids are hooked onto their video games; The newbies transitioning from trains to aeroplanes are busy exploring the Toilet. They must check the loo even if it is just a 55-minute flight.

The middle-aged solo travelling aunties like me remain seated tucked, latching onto their handbags as if someone will come and snatch them away.

With their palms clasped, the honeymoon couples try to catch up with the sleep to overcome the exhaustion of the previous night.

The girl who got all the attention at the check-in counter for her multicoloured hair, deep neck crop top, and low waist jeans, torn at multiple places, is also one of the attractions on the flight.

She struggled with her bag at the check-in counter as it exceeded the weight limit. In full public view, she bent forward, the loose-fitting crop top revealing her chest and her low waist jeans sliding further down, exposing her butt cheeks; she transferred clothes from the check-in bag to hand luggage and jumped the queue once again to dump the bag and collect her boarding pass. Her ears were plugged, and dishevelled hair was everywhere on her face, neck, shoulders, and chest; she had a fancy designer handbag on her forearm and expensive sneakers; it was hard for me to read or categorise her. She gave a hoot to the surroundings; oblivious to the wild stares, she did her job and left with an arrogant attitude.

The same Girl, with the same attitude, awaits her turn at the loo in the aeroplane, all the eyes prying on her from top to bottom, but 

Guess she, in her psych, has concluded that no one else existed on this planet apart from her.

An aeroplane journey is no longer the sole right of wealthy tourists, corporates or celebrities. The aeroplanes are the new trains minus the warmth and cooperative nature of train commuters.

For the first time during my recent journey, in full view of all the passengers, The housekeeping lady at Indira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi, screamed at a rural passenger for not using the toilet properly.

 It's unheard of in airports but a common sight at railway stations.

_____________________________

A time will come when the middle class will completely transition to aeroplanes from trains, and the rich will invent Rajdhani planes for them with all exceptional amenities to suit their tastes and etiquette.

46th birthday.

 46 years old, but a wiser me.

___________________________________

I fail at it repeatedly; the fingers reach the itchy spot on the scalp, scratching with one finger and using others as a covering, all this while conversing with someone or at an important gathering. I try to make it as sophisticated as possible, but invariably, I disappoint myself by scratching with an orgasmic expression on my face. People my age can relate to it, but the problem is with people in their 30s who find it crude and artless to attend to an itchy scalp in public. They will know how itchy the scalp becomes once grey hair starts sprouting.

My skin has started becoming dry for no reason, cracking the corners of my mouth and flaky on the cheekbones. It hurts when I try to stretch my facial muscles. After getting drunk on litres of moisturizer, the skin acts like parched earth starving for water.

The knees that gave me confidence a year ago to do the bhangra and aerobics are now giving up on climbing up to the second floor. The bones start hurting when I sleep for more than six hours at a time.

It is becoming practically impossible to read the expiry date on lipsticks and beer bottles without spectacles; thanks to presbyopia, I started having trouble seeing small print.

I know that I know the person, but beyond knowing the person, I don't remember the name, so I carry on the conversation, hiding my ignorance, but I keep digging for hints on who they are and where we last met!

Did I take my morning medication? Yes no? No/yes-no answers. I ask people in my surroundings if they notice me taking the medicines.

Every day, I hear a voice reverberating from all sides. Hey, you are ageing, ageing, ageing.

Certainly, grey hair, itchy scalp, dry skin, irregular periods, forgetfulness and checking the bank locker twice after locking, all point fingers in the same direction.

_____________________________________________

Ageing has a positive character, too. It helped me evolve into a forgiving, accepting and giving being.

It was a long 46 years of battle with envy, fear, greed, pride and arrogance.

It took years to learn

to not let people slip away for minor misunderstandings,

to not react to taunts,

to stop competing, gossiping,

to stop bullying and getting bullied,

to not make any loose comments,

to practice speaking, what I mean,

to do pooja with devotion and not for namesake,

to not dump my problems on god,

to not accept menopause anytime soon,

to not become dependent on Beauty parlours,

to accept mother-in-law as a mother,

to stop finding faults in the husband.

__________________________

I am yet to conquer

My dependency on the maids,

courage to sleep alone in a room,

____________________________

EVENING MUSINGS

 EVENING MUSINGS

—————————

There is something magical about the evenings.

When the sun is winding up, to move to the other side, brightening the horizon,

The noisy birds dutifully returning to their nests,

Cattle walking home swinging their necks from left to right, creating a melody with the bells tied around their necks,

The refreshing cool breeze,

The noise in the hearth for evening tea,

grandmothers in the inner courtyards lighting the chullas to prepare dinner,

the resultant smoke emanating from every home,

The older children sitting in a corner with their slate and books, the younger kids tucked into their mother's waists.

There is something truly magical about every evening that takes me back to my childhood, where I witnessed all of this in my maternal grandparent's village.

Though the evenings in urban dwellings aren't the same, still there is something magical about every evening across the globe.

This too shall pass, Mr Khan.

 This too shall pass, Mr Khan.

_______________________

I have a 23-year-old son and a 17-year-old daughter, so Aryan Khan's news is relatable.

We all more or less give the same upbringing to our children.

Take care of their food, health and educational needs. Each of us tends to our children's specific emotional, sensitive, and spiritual needs differently.

And materialistic necessities are taken care of depending on our financial stability. I agree that some parents are stingy and others are very indulgent. In my experience, kids from both backdrops did exceptionally well. The argument put forward by permissive parents is that you show your children the best of this world to make them ambitious and aspirational to seek an equivalent life. The argument put forward by stingy parents is, that to keep the fire in the belly burning; a starved kid will be more ambitious than the satiated one.

There are working mothers and housewives, and children born to both types are successful. Hence, this could never become a parameter in my experience of watching successful parenting.

There are ultra-modern parents with Western lifestyles and conservative, orthodox parents on the other hand. Both groups nurtured industrialists, doctors and engineers who made it big for themselves and their parents.

Near-perfect couples couldn't raise flawless children, And perfect, triumphant children never had sound parents.

These deliberations always made me seek the answers to "What is the formula for good parenting".

I could never find one.

Dear SRK, don't feel let down by all the accusations coming your way of lousy parenting; don't appear belittled or shamed because of your son's wrongdoing. As a father, you have always gone ahead and provided the best for your son. This society is equally responsible and to be blamed for every wrong in our surroundings.

Children are not raised just by their progenitors but by our surroundings' social, familial, political, educational, spiritual, economic, and moral uprightness of this civilisation has an equal impact on them during their growing up years.

Your son harmed himself; he did not go out to hurt others; he did not steal, cheat, ditch, snatch, damage or wreck others. He is often better than people who revel in all or some of this.

It is OK; children make mistakes. Sometimes, this experience will bring a significant transformation, a stirring within that leads to a great determination to defeat all the negativity and prove one's worth.

To me, the losers in this game are those people seeing an opportunity to put you and your family down, digging up the repository of your family pictures and posting nasty comments beneath.

Youu are a diligent person who made it big on your labour and merit; as a couple, you withstood misfortunes to build your empire.

It would be best if you didn't let these minor incidents disturb you; by getting worried, you are playing into the hands of your nemesis.

Your son has seen you work hard and watch you scale the heights one by one, going from nobody to the most sought-after hero.

I am sure sitting in that office, his mind is running him through past to present, making him realise his folly and foolishness in falling prey to drugs making it a public farce. He is at the lowest morale; he needs help, not public scrutiny; he needs solace, not media trial.

We, the parents of teenage children, should show empathy because we never know what our children are doing in the next room. A scandal can break out of a minor incident, and vested interests may give air to the rumours, escalating them to a billion times their size.

Never take time and good luck for granted. We never know which misfortune awaits us at the next bend of the road. It pays to be kind and concerned. We lose nothing by participating in the pains, trials and tribulations of people around us. Similar favours may not be returned to us when needed, but this creation watching us will send help through other sources.

It is a human tendency to feel satisfied when people who harmed us face the wrath of time. Let us try inchmeal to rise above this petty stuff to produce greater good and joy for ourselves by participating in the suffering of people known or unknown to us.

We can always avoid people who repel us but never wish harm to them.

So, Mr Khan, in conclusion, there is no one correct universal method or formula for good parenting; rogue kids turn responsible in later years, and well-brought-up kids become criminals.

Your son Aryan will bounce back from these lows to make you proud one day, not far away from today.

GODSPEED.

Diwali is a poor man's festival of light.

 Diwali is a poor man's festival of light.

The rich have their homes lighted and brightened up round the year. They can burst choicest crackers on weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, victory celebrations, new years etc.

They can eat the best food for every meal, wear new clothes every weekend, take their children to exotic holiday destinations in their private jets and luxury cars. For them, every day can be a Diwali.

Dear Rich Gyan givers

The have-nots are not complaining about the extreme misuse of natural resources you indulge in; most of the time, you hide behind the garb of economy, growth, progress, industrialisation, employment and capitalism.

The expending of natural resources, which happens at your level, is a million times more than what is consumed by the poor. If you are worried about the environment, try sleeping without switching on the air conditioner one hot, humid night, or shower with cold water on a winter morning. 

Stop selling your fake Gyan for money. 

A poor man walks home on a Diwali evening with three types of crackers (cheapest available in the market) rs 200, sweets for another rs 100, maybe a cotton saree for his wife, another rs 200.  They pack up their Diwali within the Rs. 500 budget.

She will drape the new saree light a couple of days, burst crackers, eat the sweet and go back to sleep to worse their ass off the following day.

In contrast, The manyawars start their Diwali celebrations a week in advance with pre-Diwali bashes, Danteras purchases, hoarding crackers, distributing expensive goodies to their wealthy friends, playing taash on Diwali night. Then the post-Diwali gatherings continue for a week or two.

Stop sitting on a high moral pedestal because you guys are rich/celebrities. It is a shame that you mock your ancestors by condemning Holi/Diwali/Dussehra. Educate yourself on the reason, the spirit behind the festivities, the teaching each festival reminds. Teach your children the values of giving and sharing on special days. Teach your children the significance of a laal tikka, or what ram stands, of site maa's sacrifice, of how Krishna tried to salvage dharma. Stop finding faults in everything.

Like a middle-class family, try buying clothes only four times a year and eat delicious food a couple of times a year,  then you would understand what a festival means to a larger population of this country.

Some people buy a sewing machine for their mother with the bonus, a bicycle for the son, get the long-pending surgery done for their father, pay the daughter's insurance amount. It is one of the reasons people await a Diwali or Dussehra. There are hopes and happiness weaved around festivals.

Only for people who has a satiated appetite Diwali is about pollution. For the rest of us, it is about faith, hope, light and love.

Every festival is A spiritual connection with the divine, rekindling our faith in the powers superior to us.

 

Advance Deepawali greetings, dear friends and family, go light your diyas, burst your crackers, prepare your sweets, share with your family and friends.

Do not let celebrities with their paid Gyan creep into your subconscious and ruin your Diwali; enjoy a guilt-free festival with family and friends.