An enigma-that is life.

Often I wonder what life is all about,

I wonder and wander and look all around,

The hills, the rivers, the sun and the moon,

Will they give me advise which is sound?

The brook keeps  meandering swiftly on its way,

The river goes ever so rapidly without a say,

The waves keep beating at the coast,

Water remains still within the bay.

The sun and the moon do not stray,

They keep following the same way,

Just a little away, as the seasons change, 

Yet the trajectory remains without a sway, 

I keep returning to the same crossroad,

Which way do I go, which turn do I choose,

Is life supposed to travel the much trampled beaten path,

Or should I  choose my own incongruous way?

What do I do? where do I go?

What do I choose or just let it go,

Drifting along with the winds and the tide,

What I wonder is life all about!

REMEMBER- REMEMBER THE 12TH OF OCTOBER.

TRILOKI AND VARSHA

Long long ago, wedding ceremonies did not go on endlessly forever. Functions were not week long, expenditure on clothes was not mind boggling. One did not have wedding planners and deciding the Menu, drawing up the  guest list, booking a hall or park did not cost a fortune. Beauty parlours were not booked, getting ready was all in-house.  Ceremonies of mehendi,  wedding and reception were simple.

Those were the days when a wedding was just a wedding. Simplicity was a virtue and too much of fanfare was usually shunned. Austerity was usually observed. It was not all about designer clothes, gargantuan jewellery, exotic menus and out of the world venues. One did not have to bother about so many different themes and plans.

After that little intro, let me now tell you about one such wedding that took place long long ago, to be precise it was 47 years ago. The year was 1970. Those were the days when  a young Engineering graduate was working as a Management Trainee with Hindustan Aeronautics Ltd at Bangalore. He could get only one week off for his wedding. The wedding was at Delhi and getting to Delhi from Bangalore was not an easy task. Flying was not for the masses and trains were not yet superfast.  There was  no alternative but to take a relaxing 48 hour journey by train from Bangalore to  Madras, which is now known as Chennai, then catch the fast GT Express from Madras to New Delhi.

On this journey the young gentleman had two things in plenty, lots of time and a book to pass that time. Agatha Christie normally came to the rescue on these long journeys, as Higginbothams the book stall at Madras railway station stocked a whole lot of these paperbacks. So this young gentleman took the train and arrived on the morning of his wedding at New Delhi Railway Station. His parents stayed close to the New Delhi railway station, but he  took a long detour and reached the bride's place before going to the place where his parents were staying. There was a lot of activity going on at the bride's place as the house was full of a lot of relatives who had arrived from Nagpur and Kurud, her ancestral village in Garhchilroli district. As soon as he arrived, the bride groom was shooed off and advised to come back in the evening with the baraat.

JUST WALK ACROSS

Travelling and traffic jams did not cause any problems in those days. The icing on the cake was that the wedding was right opposite the bride's house at South Extension part 2. There was a lovely park in front of the house and the bride would just have to cross the road to reach the entrance of the park which was the venue.

The shamiana was from Delite Tent House which was located in the South Extension Part one market. The cook was a very famous one called Tikan Ram who had a three storied house at the entrance of  Kotla Mubarakpur almost on the Ring Road. All food stuff had been purchased from the Kotla Mubarakpur market. The vegetables, mutton and masalas had arrived fresh in the morning. There were shehnai players at the entrance  providing the best music for a lovely memorable wedding.There was no blaring music and no DJ.

The bride that is me, had refused to wear red, in fact I had refused everything conventional, which included covering my head. Both Triloki and I had decided that there would be no muhurt, no horoscope matching and no religious intervention. I had chosen a blue saree and very simple jewellery. I only got my  hair set at a parlour as in those days huge bouffants were the style of the day.

MY DAD, THE MAGISTRATE, TRILOKI

My father was a stickler for punctuality and had said that the baraat must arrive on the dot at seven. While the baraat was busy with relatives dancing infront of the bridegrooms car, Triloki asked the person driving his car to move from the driver's seat and what do we see? The bride groom arrived at the venue driving his own car! At the entrance when he was welcomed he had neither sehra nor anything else to distinguish him from everyone else. 

SEHRA

His mother was holding his sehra, which he donned just for a few minutes and quickly took it off as soon as the picture was taken.

MAGISTRATE, TRILOKI, UJJWAL-my brother recording, VARSHA

The magistrate was waiting and the three witnesses too were waiting. We read out what was written,duly recorded by my brother Ujjwal on our newly acquired tape recorder, the document was signed, the witnesses also signed and that was it.The wedding had taken place.

GUESTS

We then met the guests, and joined everyone for the lavish dinner which served non vegetarian food too, which is a rarity in Delhi as normally in  North Indian weddings non vegetarian stuff is not served.

The next day, Monday was the reception at the groom's place. After the Reception we left for Mussorie by car, and arrived at the Savoy Hotel for a day.  The day after that on  Wednesday we drove back to Delhi and  boarded our train to Madras en route to Bangalore. At Madras we had some time to spare before boarding the next train which would take us to Bangalore, so we went for dinner to Buhari's. Not being used to wearing jewellery, I removed my engagement ring before washing my hands. Thankfully I did not remove my bangles. That day I forgot my ring at the wash basin in the restaurant and it is amazing but the fact remains that I  have still not got over having lost that precious ring. It was precious not for the cost, because we did not buy exorbitant solitairs, it was precious for its sentimental value. I still remember that it was a lovely ring set with rubies and pearls.

All this happened 47 years ago. On 12th October, we remember that day and celebrate simplicity, friendship, relationship and a marriage which has survived despite the usual and sometimes unusual turbulence, the tsunamis and the turning tides.

THREE CHEERS!

OUR WONDERFUL CHILDREN, AND THE WORLD'S BEST GRANDCHILDREN.

Triloki Nath Nagpal, I have to thank you for your immense patience in putting up with this person  named Varsha, and oh yes, a very Happy Anniversary. 

 

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

My class room on the left.

Those were the days which were filled with sunshine. The morning was meant for rushing from bed to school. There was no time in between for any thoughts except for reaching the Assembly on time.

Meeting friends was the highlight of the day, exchanging glances, smiling without anyone else looking at us, giggling without a reason - those were the days which have gone far away. Learning, studying, attending class was only incidental. Those memories were stored away and were never  revisited. Life went on so fast after school that one went from one stage to the next without blinking an eyelid and noticing the time.

Varsha, Balbir, Kalyani, Pamela, Alice, Nilima, Bina, Sondha.

Then suddenly out of the blue contact was made with someone from the past. We spoke and chatted and hoped that someday we would meet.

That was the moment of realisation. That was when suddenly I realised that it was actually half a century ago that I had been that school girl in a hostel, in a small little town called Hazaribagh, who oiled her hair every night and made two tight plaits before sleeping, with the firm belief that my hair would remain healthy and grow fast. I remembered the wonderful song that we sang every night before sleeping.

" I lay my body down to sleep,

I pray to God my soul to keep,

And if I die before I wake,

I pray to God my soul to take."

Those were the days when we would rush to Room number one of the hostel on Wednesday night at 8 pm to listen to the honey sweet voice of Ameen Sayani presenting the wonderful Binaca Geet mala. Those were the days my friend which were in my memory bank, waiting to pop out in a jiffy. Only that jiffy needed to be triggered by meeting a school friend.

Indu Bhardwaj, Nilima Roy, Varsha.

It is surprising that school friends take us back as if in a time machine. The journey is instant. The rewind is without any stop. As if that half a century never passed in between.

Amita Samonta

A few years ago one day I took just an instant to dash to Calcutta when I found that my friend Amita was there. I spent the day with her, walking near Dhakuria lake, eating at a fabulous Chinese restaurant. We spoke nineteen to the dozen, we went on and on until it was time to say goodbye.

Varsha, Jayashree Nair.

Speaking with Jayashree on the phone is another non stop journey where we catch up with all things that we cared about.  The distance of the continents, do not matter at all.

Nilima revived all those memories once again. The meeting has been as if we never parted 49 years ago. Remembering names, forgotten incidents, forgotten memories has rejuvenated me once again. Life seems good. 

Meeting old friends is the elixir for a better life. It is the balm which heals. It is the refreshing whiff of fresh air which revives my memory and makes me want to look forward to the next meeting for a fresh dose of ambrosia.

I need to thank all the girls of my school who call me didi and care for me so much. I need to thank my class mates for keeping me in their memory.

Mount Carmel Hazaribagh, you made us what we are. Thank you.

Our beautiful trees.

MY DISHONEST MIRROR

 Time has this wonderful habit of moving on. It moves on and so pain goes away,  miserable memories fade away, what remains forever are  joyful memories which are embedded in some secret chamber which can be opened whenever I want, without a secret code. 

Sweet sounds of laughter and also a shy smile of a beloved child,  comes back on the minds portal like a beautiful stream of crystal clear water running down the crevices of a wonderful green mountainside. The sparkling water of the stream is like the spirited laughter of the child. The music and the joy that I can recreate is never ending. I can re live those moments and enwrap myself with  joy over and over again any number of times.

Time takes me from day one when I encounter it,  just onwards like the "Charge of the Light Brigade". I just go on and on, I never stop, I never sit by the wayside, I just drift along on the wings of the wind.

One fine day in a strange mirror outside of the house, the face that looks back at me looks different. It is someone else's face, lined with wrinkles, with laugh lines and dark patches under the eyes. Strangely I am startled to see that face. How could that be me I wonder. Does my mirror have a personal affinity to me? Does it show me only that which I want to see? Why does it  not show me my wrinkles and laugh lines and dark circles? Why is this strange mirror honest with me?

I wonder if this happens only to me. 

Does my mirror indeed lie to me?