Pleasantly Surprised

Day before yesterday, I visited a bookstore at Powai—a small, nondescript shop that caters mostly to the requirements of schoolchildren in the locality, nothing like Landmark or Crossword—to buy a Marathi textbook for my Daughter, who will be studying it as part of her school curriculum in the Class 1.

As the shopkeeper handed me the book, I discovered, much to my dismay, that I was not carrying enough cash, nor did the store accept credit cards. Since I do not have a Paytm account (yes, we exist) and wasn't carrying my ATM cards either, which would’ve enabled me to take out money from one of the nearby ATMs, paying for the book seemed out of the question. It seemed as if I'd have to make a repeat trip to the bookstore some other day.

And that was when the shopkeeper surprised me by saying (in Hindi, and I translate): "Sir, please keep the book. You can leave your number here and pay me some other day."

To say I was surprised would be seriously understating it. The guy didn't know me from Adam, showed no interest in taking down my address—which I gave him of my own volition—or even saving my number on his mobile, and was letting me go with a piece of his merchandise without bothering in the slightest about payment. In this super-materialistic, super-consumerist age, such things are no less than small miracles. But then, as someone said, this is something that can happen in Mumbai only.

P.S.: I got someone else to Paytm him the money just now and he was courteous enough to call and confirm receipt. Hope for a decent world yet?

P.P.S.: the bookstore in question is Darshan Book Depot, next to Powai English High School.

Hitting The Right Notes

Ever since my Daughter was born 5 years ago, I have developed a habit of singing my favourite Bangla and Hindi songs (that means mostly RD Burman-Kishore Kumar numbers) to Her. Apart from trying to introduce Her to the Golden Era of popular Hindi/Bengali music, the idea has also been to keep Her away from the "Badtameez dil"/"Beat pe booty"-brand of atrocities. And it seems my efforts are bearing fruit.

Recently, I went to a friend's house with my Daughter. The host, a lover of retro music, started playing some old songs on his mobile attached to a speaker. After a song or two, "Tere bina zindagi se koi" came on.

My Daughter was sitting on the floor and playing by Herself. Suddenly, She looked up, cocked Her ears at the song that was playing, turned to me, and said: "Baba, Baba, Jete jete poth-e holo deri...", and then She started singing the Bangla version of the Aandhi song!

I was astonished at how my 5-year-old had been able to recognize the tune of the Hindi song and correctly identified the Bangla version of it. Evidently I must be doing something right, as far getting my Daughter's ears attuned to good music is concerned.

Love, Life, And Hope

Love.

A tiny little four-letter word, often found lost, wandering unwanted in a wilderness populated by other, more vicious four-letter words.

When Kuttush, our Family's "Adopted Sister-come-Daughter" (a.k.a. our pet) passed away on 16th January 2012, she left behind a Family so distraught that we never imagined that we would ever fully recover. For the first time, we came to know Despair like we had never known before: a gut-wrenching, burning-your-insides kind of Pain that just wouldn’t go away.

The first year after Kuttush's passing away was especially hard. Baba (my Father) missed his devoted Companion and Daughter terribly. So badly was he cut up, we could almost see the bleeding heart inside. And that was a seriously worrying matter: we were not sure his heart would hold up to the immense psychological strain.

What made things even more difficult for all of us was that we, his biological children, were living several hundred kilometres away from him at the time (we still do), and professional and personal commitments rendered it greatly difficult for my Sister and me to keep visiting our Parents in Kolkata frequently.

But we needn't have worried. The tradition—of being a Constant Companion to my Father—was kept alive. By someone who looked like a mirror image of Kuttush.

Kiara. Her Daughter.

Kiara took over from where her Mother had left off. Like Kuttush, she became what her Mother was: Baba's constant Companion, Friend, Shadow, and a rich substitute for his absentee children. She would not let Baba out of sight for even a second, going without food and water for hours, indeed, even days on end if her Master stepped out of the house. During the day, her shadow would merge into his; at night, she would snuggle up next to him in bed and fall asleep—but with one eye open and trained on him, just as her Mother used to do, just as she had learned from her Mother.

And Baba lived.

His love for the Mother turned itself upon the Daughter and found a new lease of life, even as Kiara bloomed under his loving eye. Over the years, they became as inseparable as the Baba-Kuttush duo: eating and playing together, going out for the occasional walk, sharing a pillow during nap times, and generally living it up in each other's splendid company.

And my Family came to recognize the healing power of Love. We realized that if Death is the one great truth of Life, Love is the other; Death will take away and Love will replenish the void.

Because Love will always find a way.

(This post was originally published on Tanya Munshi's Lifestyle Portal on February 1, 2015. This version contains some edits/changes/updates. You can read the original article here.)

She Sleeps In Beauty

Her Majesty has not been keeping well. A host of minor ailments have joined forces against Her.

Cartoons fail to cheer Her up. Song-&-dance routines, which She normally responds to rather enthusiastically, don't work. Nursery rhyme videos don't impress. Dinner is a disaster.

She deigns to be carried by Her humble and faithful minion. Ten minutes and three lullabies later, She is spent and fast asleep.

And the world, all of God's creation, has shrunken into that one infinite moment: a tiny fist clutching my finger, a plump little hand around my neck, and a small head crowned by damp, curly hair resting on my shoulder.

For My Daughter

She sleeps next to me, an arm across my chest, face buried in my shoulder, peaceful and safe in the knowledge that She will always have me next to Her.

I lie awake and unmoving, careful not to wake Her, secure in the knowledge that She will always trust me.

A nook of Heaven in a corner of the bed.

A drop of my blood. A piece of my soul.

Dumbstruck

For the last few days, The Wife has been trying to teach The Daughter stuff like "What is your name?", "What is your Mother's name?", "What is your Father's name?", and so on, with the appropriate responses...basically, trying to prepare her for the soon-to-begin Great Indian Formal Education Adventure. Then, a couple of days ago...

...The Daughter clambers up my study table, where I am sitting and working on my laptop, pokes my upper arm for attention, and asks me [speech accompanied by finger-wagging action]: "Arrrilbann, ki korrchhho?" ["Anirban <mispronounced>, what are you doing?"]

DUMBSTRUCK!!!!!!