Adjusted relationships

"Well, I think you should call her"

I looked at my mom, not fully convinced. Actually, not convinced at all. It was the birthday of my old teacher. Had it been anyone but her, I wouldn't have thought twice before dialling his or her number and trilling "Happy birthday!". But now...

It had been several months since I'd met her. We had parted on decidedly bad terms; she declaring that she'd officially 'kicked (me) out of the Academy', and I vowing never ever to go back to her again, even if she begged me to. I found myself another teacher and she, I suppose, found herself many other students.

I remembered the numerous times she'd yelled at me, reducing me to tears. The ten years I spent training under her were the ten most teary-eyed years of my life. And her last outburst had been the last straw. That's when I decided to quit, for good. That should've been the end of the story. But it wasn't. Mom wasn't going to let that happen.

"You supported me at that time, remember? You were so totally on my side!" I said reproachfully.

"Yes, and I still think you were right to quit. But then, she is your teacher, you know..."

"Was", I mumbled.

"No, is. A teacher always remains a teacher, even if she isn't actively teaching you anymore."

"What, once a teacher always a teacher?"

"Yes! Go ahead. Call her. She made you. No matter how bad you feel now, you do know that she's the reason why you are what you are today. Call. You owe her at least that!"

"Uhm..."

"Well, it's up to you. Your call!" With that she walked out, leaving me alone with my cell phone and my conscience. I sighed. I didn't have enough balance to call from my cell phone. And as for my conscience... Well, I didn't call her. Not right then, anyway.

A week later, I decided I'd rather just grit my teeth and do it, rather than let mom make me feel guilty. And so it was, that I found myself outside her room in school, nervously clutching a cheap bouquet and a Dear Teacher card. I took a deep breath and walked in. I knew from experience that she could raise a frosty eyebrow and ask me to leave her alone. Or worse, pretend she was stone deaf till I walked out of the room. I was prepared for all that.

But what I wasn't prepared was the warm hug she gave me, or the genuine joy that seemed to sparkle in her eyes when she saw my card and flowers. We ended up having lunch together. We had a nice, long chat... Something we certainly hadn't done before. I found her an interesting person, to say the least. The conversation was animated, and I enjoyed every bit of it. It was nearly two hours before I decided to get back home, but before leaving, I promised her I'd visit her, at her place, soon.

It was nearly a month before I could make good on that promise. As I sat in her living room yesterday, eating my way through a plateful of green grapes (something we both love), my eyes fell on a faded, wilted bouquet by the side of the TV. She saw me looking at it and smiled. "I can't bring myself to throw it away", she said. "That's the only thing I received this birthday". As we sat there, smiling at each other in a comfortable silence, I realized I'd found myself a new friend. It's a weird relationship we have. I still learn from her, and she from me, as we keep up a continuous flow of 'gyaan'. Of course, she still doesn't want me back in her Academy, and I don't want to be there either. But friends we are, and, something tells me, friends we shall remain.

You know, sometimes, it really pays to listen to your mom!

Kissa kiss ka

I frowned down at the India Today in my hands; the cover story was about the Richard Gere-Shilpa Shetty kiss that's sparked off a huge controversy and has created a lot more ruckus than sanity allows. I mean, come on! It's just one little kiss! Why do the ego-maniacal, self-appointed moral police of our country have to split hair over an issue as trivial as this one? If anyone has the right to complain, it's Shetty herself. Why then, as the cliche goes, are we making a mountain out of a mole hill?

I've often wondered why kissing in public places, or anywhere, for that matter, is condemned with such relish. Aladdin was handed an 'A' certificate by the Censor board. Why? Because of the passionate kiss that Aladdin and Jasmine share on the balcony, right at the end of the movie. Apparently, Indian women don't kiss!!! Saying the word 'sex' aloud is often accompanied by titters and nervous giggles, and even more often, met with throat-clearing and 'Chi!'s and 'Ssshh!'s. Why, people are even against sex education (I'll be airing my opinions on that issue soon)! One teacher wanted condom ads to be banned, as they were instilling 'wrong ideas in the youth'. Talking about sex is a no-no. Because it's just not 'Indian' to do so, you see!

Kamasutra was written right here in India, by an Indian. I haven't read it myself, but if public opinion is to be trusted, it's the most comprehensive sex manual ever. It's here, in India, that we have a temple whose walls are carved with orgies and depictions of the umpteen positions in sex. Yet, when it comes to discussing safe sex, AIDS or even kissing, we're terribly prude. If this isn't hypocrisy, what is?

I always thought the right to express oneself, feelings and emotions included, was universal. It's sad to learn that our 'culture' (the same culture that created the Kamasutra and Khajuraho) represses our freedom of expression.

What kind of an image would Gere have of India now, after being quagmired in our royal cultural mess? What is the world going to think of India, a nation progressing fast on the path to development and modernization, if we continue to adhere to rather medieval values?

If we don't learn to draw a line between being morally right and being ridiculously conservative, we might as well kiss the picture of a 'modern' India goodbye.

The man who was...

A great man died this day- a brilliant mathematician, a witty conversationalist and a loving grandfather.

My first memory of him is rather blurry. I was three years old at that time, and as far as I knew, he was a magician. Or at least, that’s what he said. He would entertain us (a gang of six young cousins who thought they ruled the world), pulling an endless string of silk scarves out of his pocket, turning his ‘wand’ into a bunch of gaudy paper flowers, and making eggs disappear into thin air. Needless to say, we loved ‘magic thatha’. He was our hero, a treasure we could boast of.

I didn’t learn till much later that magic thatha, who’d been a highly respected and proficient mathematician, suffered from schizophrenia. He’d been in Hyderabad during the Telangana riots; the echoing sounds of gunshots and the sight of mangled bodies everywhere left a scar so deep, his once brilliant mind was crippled, and he was sadly robbed of his sanity.

The disease reduced the once stately and dignified old man into something of a clown. He would dress in lurid shirts with large and bright flowery prints plastered all over, polka-dotted elastic braces holding up his trousers. He always wore a large straw hat with a peacock feather stuck in it, always wore a pair of large sunglasses with a hideous yellow-and-black checkered platic frame, always carried his ‘wand’ with him.

In spite of his eccentric appearance, or perhaps because of it, it was impossible not to love him. He would turn up at our house, hug me warmly and ask, “yaar sollu maa (Tell me, who am I)?” I’d intone, “Sheshu thatha”. “Very good!”, he’d beam, “Pappi kud maa…”. I’d oblige, planting a kiss on his leathery, clean shaven cheek. In return, I’d be richly rewarded with all my favourite chocolates.

He often spoke of Ronald Reagan, who, he claimed, was one of his closest friends. He said Reagan depended on him whenever it came to decision making. For a few months, his sentences all began with “As I was saying to Reagan…” or “Reagan thinks…” or “When I was out riding with Ron (!!!)…”, and so on.

The next time I saw him, he said he was a representative of India at the UN. He was feared by all, and had earned himself the title, ‘The Atom Bomb of India’. He was the one who created Esperanto, and he was working hard to abolish English itself.

Time rolled on. His mind grew feebler and stranger. His visits were unique, each one special. He’d still ask, “Yaar sollu maa?”, and then ask for a pappi. I still received chocolates in return for that one little kiss. The ritual remained the same, the hat and the glasses remained unchanged. But otherwise, it was like having a new grandpa every few months.

He was a doctor, a bureaucrat, a nuclear scientist… The list was endless. I began to see more sense behind the question he asked me every time. Who WAS he? I barely knew him!

Schizophrenia took away the coherence of his thoughts and removed him from reality. He could no longer relate things or events. But what remained untouched was his zest for life, his sense of humour and his loving heart.

His health began to fail; he was no longer able to visit us. I’d write him letters… Letters I didn’t know he loved so much as to preserve them, carefully filed. The day came when he had to be admitted to a hospital. I went to see him there, but he didn’t recognize me any more than I did him. I wondered who he was now… an architect? A professor? A politician? I stared, and all I could see was the wonderful grandfather who had somehow managed to teach me more than one would believe possible, in a way that I can’t describe.

My magic thatha was gone. I gave him one last pappi. Only this time, there were no chocolates.