Postcards from Vasai

Rain has been drumming continuously on our rooftop since we arrived home.

Our town is decked in monsoon glory.  

Here are some pictures for you.

 

(Photos courtesy: Anna Lemos)

What drives us?

 

There were thousands of them – all driven by an insane force which urged them on, against all odds, to move from one place to another.

 

(Photo courtesy: Google Images)

The National Geographic channel was showing the Great Wildebeest Migration in Africa on TV. It informed that more than a million East African blue Wildebeest, also called the Gnu, migrate from the Serengeti plains to the hills of Kenya’s Masai Mara in search of rain-ripened grass. Many such documentaries show wildebeest being eaten by crocodiles while crossing rivers or drowning in the attempt. They move forward in a frenzied herd racing and crossing all barriers. Their determination is awe-inspiring.

...

“Do you know that the Artic Tern migrates from the North Pole to the South Pole?” a child from primary school asked me.

Children have strange ideas sometimes so I googled for the facts.

Yes, it was true.

Artic Terns do migrate from Pole to Pole!

...

In the hills of northern India, there are several temples which are most holy places for pilgrimage. Many people take the difficult route every year and join crowds which climb steep hills chanting the name of god. We hear reports of landslides and stampedes at these holy places. These reports, however, do not deter the faithful who are set on reaching up to the divine to express their strong faith.

...

“It is good that you are not in this train” said my husband this morning.

He was calling from a tightly-packed local train bound for Mumbai city.

Our friends and relatives make this journey daily. While we studied and worked in Mumbai, we too, waited at the Vasai station for the train, got ready to jump in as we spotted the train arrive from a distance, tried to get a foothold into the moving train before it halted, then checked whether we have landed in one piece along with our belongings. It was quite a feat at that time and we had become used to it. My friends and I complained about the mad rush hours at the station but we all took the same train again the next day.

We struggled and survived.

...

There seems to be an invisible force that drives us, living things, to take risks and perform dangerous acts.

Dylan Thomas, a poet, wrote:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

...

From Muscat to Mumbai

Turn calendars to August – check

Empty perishables from fridge – check

Close sink and bathroom drain holes – check

Wash towels – check

Check if any laundry is left in the washing machine – check

Pack toothbrushes – check

Turn on the lights which have to be left on – check

Turn off gas – check

Count number of check-in bags and make list of contents – check

Carry drinking water and light snacks – check

...

We wave goodbye to our house on the desert hill, and dream of green coastal landscapes laced with curtains of rain.

A police car followed us on the highway and refused to budge. When they flashed lights, we stopped.

“Why so much stuff in the boot?” the policeman asks. We have purchased gifts for immediate family and some of them are bulky. As usual, we had decided to purchase chocolates and dates from the duty free shops at the airport.

“We are going to the airport. We are on our way to our home country” we replied.

“Okay” he said and cleared our path.

...

Friday morning. School summer holidays. Mass exodus to home countries.

At the airport there is a mad rush at the Departure doors. Flights to various destinations are leaving around the same time. We stand in the line with our two trolleys and several pieces of baggage.

We think it would be a better idea to have our baggage cling-wrapped because it is raining heavily in Mumbai. So we wait in another queue.

Then we load our baggage onto the trolleys again and head for the Silver Member queue which is much shorter than the regular queues. Oman Air has bestowed us with Silver Membership for being loyal passengers.

We have arrived much earlier than we were required to, but our queue moves slowly. There is an online check-in queue next to ours. A friendly man in a red t-shirt asks if we are going to Mumbai. We say yes and chat a bit about the rain etcetera. Everybody is in the holiday mood and the collective happiness quotient is higher than normal.

A couple of families move into our queue without so much as “Excuse me”.

We ignore their intrusion though time seems to be running out for us.

A short stocky Oman Air personnel comes around asking “Mumbai, anyone?”

Mr Red T-shirt and my husband raise their hands.

“Okay” said the Oman Air personnel and vanished in the crowd.

Mr Red T-shirt zooms ahead of us as a big family leaves his queue after completing their formalities.

We look at the front of our queue while throwing a panicky look at our watches. A woman in stilettos has climbed onto the check-in belt along with her luggage for some reason. We ponder about HSE issues regarding such an action. The girl at the counter, who has been apparently fasting as it is Ramadan, goes about printing boarding passes.

Finally it is our turn.

We hand over our documents and load our baggage onto the belt. The girl enters our details and waits to print our boarding passes.

But it is not to be.

The system is locked.

She pities us and tells her supervisor.

He raises his hands to indicate “No go!” and refuses to look at our pleading faces.

“Sir, we were at the airport much before reporting time. This queue moved too slowly.”

We chose not to mention the families who had barged in ahead of us in the line.

“Nothing doing. The gate is closed now” he said, avoiding our eyes.

The thought of going back to our sun-baked desert home, buying milk on the way, and so on...didn’t seem very attractive.

We simply looked at each other in desperation.

Then the stocky Oman Air personnel, who had asked us earlier if we were bound for Mumbai, appeared from somewhere. He was holding a walkie-talkie.

We explained our plight.

He made a few calls.

“I am escorting three passengers. Please hold on for a few minutes” he said to someone with authority.

Our boarding passes were printed at super speed; we breezed through immigration, and entered the plane with a big sigh of relief.

“Welcome onboard. Have a happy journey” said the flight attendant with a bright red lipsticky smile.

Oman Air WY 203 soon took off.

Our holiday seems to have started on the right note. Such is life.

 

(Picture courtesy: Google images)

Lifted in Love

A million fragrant flowers

your youthful imagination unfurls

in this path that turns and curls.

 

In innumerable numbers

fluttering feathers escape your besotted head

to streak this little town rosy red.

 

Your feet do not touch the ground

You dreamily float along

happy to know that you belong.

 

The object of your affection

may moodily wax and wane

but that should not be your pain.

 

My beloved, in loving truly,

you have been given the precious chance

to see eternity in a glance.

 

 

(This post is dedicated to those who believe that they loved and lost. When you love unconditionally, beloved, you have nothing to lose.)

 

Sharing to Survive

“Do you know that I am sick?” said Mrs B on Monday as she coughed nervously.

“No, I don't. What happened to you?”

I did not know her very well because she had recently arrived in Muscat. I had not seen her for a long time and had made enquiries but only received vague answers. Last week she could not come to a meeting although she had confirmed her attendance. She had children at the same school as our daughter. She had asked me if we were going away for the summer. I had said yes and then asked her if she was going too.

“I am undergoing chemotherapy” she said, and then added with a choking voice, “for cancer.”

I stood rooted to the spot, speechless, staring at her straight blond hair, thinking about what would happen to her young children if she died.

“I have had two surgeries already and that’s why I was not around much lately” she said as she forced a smile.

It was not easy for her to say this. This sharing, however, created an immediate bond between us. I told her to let me know if there was anything I could do to help especially because she is a single mum. She said she had made arrangements for this summer during her therapy but if she needed any assistance in the future, she would let me know.

Oh god, if only she had told me earlier, all of us mums together could have helped her in these difficult times before we left for summer holidays. We would have a rota planned to care for the children, organised home-cooked meals,...done something.

It is a brave thing for cancer survivors to talk about their disease and they are heroes in every sense of the word.

"Next summer" Mrs B said hopefully, "if all goes well, I will take the children for a big holiday."

I admired her spirit to survive.

...

When one of my mother-in-law’s friends passed away, she lamented and talked about their friendship.

“Was she sick?” I asked.

“Yes, she had the dreadful disease” said my mother-in-law sadly.

In our little town of Vasai, most people of my parent’s generation called Cancer the ‘dreadful disease’ – as if by not mentioning the word, they could wish it away.

They called snakes as janavars or ‘animals’ and whispered when they mentioned these creatures.

Some words were considered taboo in our society.

However, as times are changing and there is more awareness, people are breaking down these taboos and discussing openly.
It is a positive sign because, unless there is openness, we cannot help and support each other.

 

That Weekend Moment

It’s that moment again.

You pop one eye open to see why the alarm clock didn’t ring. Then you realise it’s a weekend.

The morning calls for prayers from the mosques echo in the valley as birds twitter behind the windows looking for food.

Your husband has pulled away the blanket and rolled himself up into a handsome burrito.

In the kitchen, you can hear the oven ping as your daughter fixes her own breakfast. She loves to be up early. On weekends.

The cats jump onto the door handle and make the bells on the inside jingle to remind you to feed them.

It’s time for yoga. Time to get up and about and enjoy the day that is gifted to you.

Yet, you linger in bed, luxuriating in the feeling that you may choose not to get up.

You close your eyes again and try to sleep but your mind is already distracted.

So you get up ... five minutes after your usual time.