A hangout with an old friend

It is pretty hot even at five thirty in the evening. I can feel it as soon as I get out of the car which I just parked in one of the tiniest lanes of Kasba Peth. Few kids are playing cricket in the same 'galli'. I hope they don’t smash the car with their ball.  

"We used to play cricket here, fielding is difficult", Dad says as we start walking towards our 'wada'. "It’s the same place, only a different generation." 

As I see the ramshackle 'wada', I recall those memories when my grandfather used to stay here and we used to pay a visit. The entrance is like a dark tunnel where cycles would be stacked upon each other. One of those belonged to my grandfather. We -or shall I say the whole world - used to call him 'Mama'.  Mama used to ride his bicycle from Kasba Peth to ordinance factory of Dehu-road and back. His wife, my grandmother, used to work as maid. This would ensure that their ends met, that included feeding and educating five kids with limited income and scarce resources and surviving in the whole process. The tunnel has deformed, one of the walls has bulged and the wooden plank holding the ceiling has cracked under the weight of the first floor. It is a dangerous place to stand under. Some day it might just cave in and block access to the 'wada', if the 'wada' itself does not cave in that is. As I move forward, I see two elderly women sitting on the patio, pasting misri (tobacco powder) to their teeth.  It is almost a ritual to do so before the sun sets.  Dad waves his hand and asks them about their health. They look confused through their thick glasses as they cannot figure out who I am.  

"Dhakta mulga haa mazha". Dad screams so that they can hear him properly. I watch them nod their heads in unison as if everything is crystal clear now. I go upstairs, the wooden staircase was recently replaced by a metal one, it is so far the strongest element in the entire complex, but for safety reasons, only one person can use the entire flight of stairs at a time. The wada can be classified into four major structures. North - the tunnel, South - bathrooms, then East and West 'wings' which has 'Kholis'. Dad joins me soon, we open the locked door of our house. The name plate 'B. S. Jadhav' proudly stamped on one of the edges of the door.  We keep all the things that we brought for the ritual tomorrow in the quiet and tiny room which played the role of both kitchen and bedroom. It is my grandmother's thirteenth day after she passed away. In that silence -which has replaced the chatter and chaos of five kids and parents and neighbors-  I feel at peace, just like it feels in the shrine of a temple. The cracked walls, chipped paint and broken wooden roof does little to forget the days it has seen once. All the departed are now in peace.   

Ajinkya's grandfather sits on the bed which has been lying next to our room for years. Ajinkya's 'Ajoba' has been sitting on the same bed for years as well, I have been watching him smile at me since the time we shifted to Pune in 1993. A tall, fair man with a handsome face and nice curvy moustache which almost makes him look like a British soldier. He recognizes me instantly and beckons me to join him. With a curious but ever-smiling face he pats his shaky hand on the bed asking me to sit. 

"Vay kaay", he shouts. His voice and vision is clear. "Sahavvis", I say. Then I realize that I need to speak up since he can't hear properly. I shout 'twenty six' in his ears again and then he begins. 

"I am 86", he pauses "I have met with gruesome accidents seven times in my life", he shows the figure seven using his fingers, "It was in 1957 when I had the most dangerous one. Akhkhi bus angavar padli" (The whole bus fell on me).Driver mahanala 'gela haa manoos' (driver said that this man is gone -dead).  I had presumed that this is going to be a boring conversation, but with this statement, my curiosity suddenly increased.  
"But I rose and started walking on my own feet within a year." He stares into my eyes, after a long pause again, he shouts "Ichcha pahije (we just need to have will power). I had broken one side of the rib-cage and one leg." He puts his shaking fingers on my chest showing exactly what part was broken.  

He raises his shaky hand and requests me for a handshake. I oblige. Suddenly he clamps my hand so hard that I have to agree that he is still strong. He starts laughing. 'Ahe ki nahi ajun taakat ?' (Ain't I the strongest one still ?)  

Dad joins us briefly as he waits for the pandal guy to show up. 'Athanne, Ek rupaya, don, paach ani mag saat', (50 paise, 1 rupee, 2, 5 and then 7 Rupees) baffled, I look at Ajoba wondering if he is having some visions or if he is doing the thing that old people do: talking to themselves. 'Hya kholi cha bhaada', He pauses with his gleaming eyes staring at me allowing me to sink in. "Maalakala 3 kholya"(3 rooms for the owner). The wada used to have twenty families, now it is only four left who have chosen to stay. That too only the older people. Their children have moved out. Laxmibai, his wife, comes out of the room. Wearing a nav-vari saree , a thick red 'bindi' and a thick gold mangalsutra around her neck, she has the looks of the perfect granny in her early eighties.  Most of her siblings and people of her age group have left the world for good. She is short, but stands tall amidst the absence of all her friends, her kids and grand-kids and the recently deceased bestie: my grandma ! 

I cant help but notice how old people manage to have a smile on their face.  

"Chandu retire zhala magchya varshi", she shouts as well. Chandrakant, Ajinkya's father, retired today (31st May) from service last year. She updates Indar, my dad, with this information. Chandu shifted to a flat far away from the wada long ago. 

"Satraa Hazaar pension ahe" (17000 pension he gets), Ajoba says proudly.  

I wonder what stops their kids from taking their parents to their new homes. 
"Amhala jamat nahi re te, daar lavla ki sagla jag banda jhalyasaarkha vaatata, wada baraay"

(We cannot adjust to the flats, it is like the whole world ends when the door closes, wada is better). As if she just read my mind, Laxmibai clarifies with a smile.  No wonder this wada now looks like an asylum for the old.     

"Shiklaa kaa ?". Ajoba questions dismissing his wife's subject for conversation.  

"Ho, kamala jaato ata". I reply. After a long pause, he asks. "Payment kiti ??". I cook up some imaginary number so as to not make it look overwhelming for him.  I make sure it matches his son's pension. 

He starts muttering something, his moustache amplifying the movement of his lips. 

"Kaanadi yete kaa ?" (Can you speak Kannada). I nod saying just a little. "Bangalore la hoto na deed varsha, thodi kalte" (I understand a little, was in Bengaluru for one and a half year).  

"Maansaani phirla pahije".(People must travel)  He shouts again. He goes on, "Punjab, Kashmir, Keral, sagla phirloy. Sipoy jhalyawar firava lagaycha". Suddenly, all the pieces fit together: his curvy moustache, his slim build, trembling hands but stable eyes, strong heart and a good general knowledge are all attributed to the fact that he was once a soldier in the Indian Army. He can speak Punjabi, Kannada and Telugu as well. 

The pandal guy arrives. Our conversation comes to a halt. I go downstairs and jump in the discussion of tommorrow's arrangements. The ladies are done pasting misri to their teeth and join the discussion. One of them arranges a chair for the pandal guy. Ajinkya's ajoba with his shaky head watches the proceedings from above, screaming his suggestions below. With brooms and water buckets in their hands, they start cleaning the floor for tomorrow.
All these old men and women are full of energy and enthusiasm, helping me and my dad and the other guy. A few minutes ago, they didn't know who I was! For those ten-fifteen minutes, the wada comes alive. I wonder how it must have been when the rent was just seven rupees ! 
What makes a good home ? I ponder. The vibes that come out of the damp walls, broken and tilted floors and leaking roofs are so easily dismissed by the energy of these old people. All determined to give their departed neighbor a good farewell !

The pandal is fixed, the floor is spick-and-span, the things needed for rituals kept inside B.S. Jadhav's Kitchen/Bedroom. We are all set to leave.

"Rahu de re, taalaa nako lavus, amhi ahot" Laxmibai stops my dad when he takes the key out for locking it. My dad locks it anyway, 'I dont trust the rats at night' he says. 
'Haaa', Laxmibai cant agree more. All the while  Ajinkya's ajoba's eyes are locked on to me. 
"Yeto mi" I wave my hand and depart. He does not reply, but maintains that stare and the smile. 

At the entrance of the wada, I stop and look back. On the first floor, I see him fallen on the ground struggling to get up, his wife pulling him up so that he can reach the bathroom and relieve himself. Both succeed !

"So his legs tremble as well" I say to myself and leave.

Yet another story

The door bell rings as I finish my call around 8 pm today. Its raining and its wise to work from home, my job offers me that luxury. 
Its our cook at the door, the drawing room's lights are off so I can barely see him. As he enters the kitchen, I see that he is drenched completely because of these uncalled rains. He removes his jacket which is torn at the sleeves and water has seeped in and has soaked his shirt completely. He usually wears used t-shirts of different IT companies, the red Accenture t-shirt being his favorite. The trousers are usually folded at the bottom since not all fit him properly. I ask him, "Dont you have an umbrella?"
"I use a bi-cycle once I get off the bus at Marathahalli, is difficult to carry it". He covers the next 10 kilometers on his cycle, sometimes soaking himself in rain water. His job starts at 6 am, our house being the first and ends by noon, he gets back to work again at 5 and his last job begins at 10.30 in the night. Then he has his dinner by 11.30. As he opens the refrigerator, he reminds me, "Bhaiya payment aadha hua hai". I had forgotten to withdraw money from the ATM so I am cash-strapped. I say sorry and tell him that I will give you the money tomorrow - first thing.
"Thik hai Bhaiya, wo diwali kaa bhi bonus chahiye, bahot logon ka paisa aana hain, ghar ko bhejna hota hai naa, late hua to ghar ka light bill aur ration mein late ho jaata hai". He sends more than half of his earnings to support his family back in a village in Orissa. I dont ask him about his family. His bonus' proposal makes me break off the conversation and I head back to my room. He just wants 1000 rupees, that translates to 250 per person just for a month.
******
"Amma, baarish hota, bus mila to aa jayega" Vandana Jain 's cook, an obese lady in her mid fifties screams through the phone, she cant walk much, her weight and age finally taking toll on her ability. After some time, Vandy's room-mate calls Vandy and says "Maine usko hadkaya hai, 'aap aisa kaise kar sakte ho.. aapko aana hi hoga', so she said she will take some time since she is taking a walk all the way to come to our place" . For all the orders and scolds, she gets around 700 Rs per month per person for cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner. "Amma, ladki ko sikhana, apne pairon pe khada karna, humara ladki ka shaadi achcha ghar mein nahi hua, uska pati ke saath jhagda hota" She laments as she cooks. The landlord has asked to vacate her place where she has been living for the last 15 years, now she has found another place where there is no public transport. "Abhi rickshaw ko jyada paisa dena padta, kabhi paisa kam pada toh chalna padta" ... She asks for a hike of 400 Rupees per month, that would come to 100 rupees per person for a month. Yet, some of her roomies have disagreements.

I can go on writing ... the point is, people who serve us have their problems and are trying to meet their ends.
We earn much more than them, have a family who are doing pretty well, yet when it comes to giving them a reasonable salary we start fretting. We will spend thousands of rupees on alcohol, expensive restaurants, expensive facials and hair-straightening but won't think about making someone else's life better

They have come a long long way

Its a warm and lazy sunday afternoon, we have just finished our lunch, I’ve had the prawn curry my mom and grandma made just for me. Its a lunch I have relished. As I settle down on the bed unable to make any movement because of a full stomach, mom looks at me with a sense of satisfaction, keeps the book she has been reading aside and starts telling her story. Aaji (my mom’s mom) squints at her, her toothless mouth mumbling something barely audible, probably chanting god’s name.
“When I was a kid, baba (my grandfather) used to plan our chicken or fish lunch. It would be once in a month. He used to plan for it ... save for it. Sometimes kaka (my grandfather’s brother) used to give extra money to her (my grandma) for cooking fish. He used to work to feed five mouths, she used to cook for five people, every single day, till I got married. The first masala dosa I had in a hotel was when I got married and your father took me out for a treat . Till then I wasn’t knowing what a hotel is. I saw her cooking and washing clothes of all of us every single day. I couldn’t see her toiling, so I decided to help her. I used to help her make chapatis, tea and other small things, then go to school. I used to stand in the queue at the rationing shop for sugar and kerosene at 3 am in the morning before going to school. Primary school was government run, a complete disaster for me. The teacher used to sleep during the class. I remember Pradhan madam sleeping at 12 noon sharp and getting up exactly at 3 before the school got over. Then, when I joined high school, I was doomed, all subjects were in English. Till 8th, I was able to only speak a b c d to z. And in 8th it was all future tense, past tense, active voice, passive voice etc. I couldn’t make a head or tail of it. Still I managed to clear metric exam with all subjects pass, my siblings and peers failed !!”
Aaji interjects “पैसाच नव्हता तर काय ?, Baba had a monthly salary of 160 rs, he had to make his ends meet, when she (my mom) was born he had no money for medicines, so he asked me to take her to my ‘माहेर’, saying let your family deal with her ” I had only two sarees to wear, the most expensive was for 9 rupees, she had only two dresses I can still remember. My brother (moms uncle) was wealthy so we used to go to his place in Alibag for two months during vacation just to cut down expenses at Ghatkopar. Baba used to save for the kids’ school fees and stationary in those two months. Our neighbour used to ask me ‘cant your husband give you a new saree?’ ”
Mom starts again, she looks at the twenty rupee pencil they bought for Madhura (moms granddaughter) the other day. “What stationary ??” She questions Aaji, “Used pens and pencils ?” She continues
“Our neighbour was a Christian, he had a daughter and we used to go to her house to play, I used to see those fruits kept on the table, not allowed to touch them, while our home was completely empty and baba used to bring samosas for us from his workplace because they were cheaper at his workplace, I still remember how we had travelled to Titwala just to bring a packet of rice during the emergency, we were not having food for almost two days ..... (she pauses) I wanted to get more education, but baba simply didn’t have money for it, I look at you people, how you spend nowadays, you might think I am stingy, but its not the case, its just that we know the value of a rupee more than you”
I was lost, didn’t know what to say. My parents and grandparents have come a long long way. When I see them and see that things are completely different for them today as they were when they were young, if feel proud of them. I feel satisfied that their miseries have ended and somehow I havent added anything to it. 

Ordinary Amar and his extraordinary village

30 December 2011

The six seater autorickshaw rattles as I see those big cactus plants alongside the broken road that leads to Mahan, a small village near Alibaug. It is that village where my mom used to spend her summer vacation with her Aaji, Ajoba and her Mama (Uncle). All resting in peace for quite some time now. I plan to spend my vacation here as Mom and Aai meet their old friends and relatives, Mama's children have grown up. Amar is one of them and is the only one whom I know (or care to know). His kid will be attempting SSC exam next year. Last time I saw him was when he was yet to join the school. Those memories faded long ago.I declare my excitement to Aai and Mom about the visit after such a long time. 'Things havent changed much' Aai says. After taking a look around, I concur. There is no landline here, BSNL, six-seaters and two or three State transport buses are the only things that connect the village with rest of the world. No LPG cylinder has seen Mahan although HP's gas filling plant is just about 20 kilometers from there. Same is the case of tap water, the river that flows behind the village has never seen an electric pump.  The dispensary is a good seven kilometers away in a bigger village called Ramraj so people try not to get bitten by snakes or scorpions at night. Amar's home is the only two storeyed house in the entire village. The wooden flooring on the second floor is sturdy enough to last for one more century, unless someone plans to demolish it. Looking at it, anyone can easily make out that it was, at some point in time, home of the richest people in the village.

Amar's dad, or my Mom's Uncle was the Sarpanch of Mahan, just like his dad (Mom's grandfather). Chief Minister of Maharashtra Yashwantrao Chavan once stayed in this very home and had dinner with my ancestors. 'Aajoba had the biggest cattle-shed in the village', Mom says, 'Farming was at its peak, rains were never an issue, nor was the soil. The storage room used to overflow with excess bags of grains, Ajoba used to donate it generously, Ajoba was an avid hunter, they had a gun too. If owning a bullock cart was considered as a sign of prosperity, Ajoba had two. Our vacation was a perfect getaway from the poverty and hardships Ghatkopar had to offer for the rest of the year. Anything we ask and Mama or Ajoba would oblige, no questions asked. Diwali was what diwali actually meant !!’

'Where is the gun ??' I look around the house and ask my mom. She points her finger to the wooden peg on the wall. 'They used to hang it here, must have sold it now'

Sold ?? The word makes me uncomfortable, why would the richest family in the village sell a gun which had a legacy attached to it ? The storage room is empty, the house itself feels dull and completely devoid of energy. I can’t find the 'biggest-cattle-shed-in-the-village' anywhere either. Apparently, someone has built a house there.
Its evening, soon its going to get dark. Mom and Aaji are sitting in the small house next to Amar's 'Waadaa' while I try to get acquainted with the cow outside, she is the only one remaining and the bullock cart is nowhere to be seen. By this time, I have befriended a kitten who enjoys cuddling herself up in my arms. I peep inside, there is a woman sobbing and telling something to Aai. I can't decipher the mumbles. They exit the house after sometime. Aai looks a bit nervous, mom hides her emotions with a smiling face. Four of us start marching towards the field.

As I, my mom, Aai and the little cat stroll in the fields, mom looks at Amar and his kid playing cricket and starts telling the story.

'Till the time grandma was in this world, there was discipline, there were prayers in the village, everybody was happy, there were no differences among the relatives and if there were any grandma used to hide them with her caring nature. She was a god-fearing lady and perhaps the most beautiful in the village. She was holding all the strings together. When she died an early death, these men lost all their values.There were no prayers .The village wasn't the same anymore. As if it had lost all the shine it had. Grandfather started gambling, drinking and womanizing. All these qualities passed on to their next generation.
आजोबा गेल्यावर मामाला सगळं आयतं मिळालं.  जमीन, घर, गोठा आणि पैसा.
Mama did the same… abused his wife,  got into drinking and gambling and getting into petty fights with relatives and villagers. He and his friends stopped going to the fields for farming..

‘We are the land-lords, why should we work ?’

They used to hire lesser villagers for farming in their fields, but they weren’t paid well. Eventually there were no workers and as a result no crop. Nobody paid attention to Amar and his brothers' education either. They grew up with the same attitude towards life. Times changed, expenses increased. When the cash reserves started dropping, they started selling anything that was worth selling. The famous gun, the cattle-shed and its cattle were its early victims.  After that, these brothers started selling their fertile lands in pieces to the businessmen of Mumbai; disputes started cropping with many claiming their shares, quarrels became the order of the day. The woman was sobbing about the land her husband had sold without asking her. Whatever money they got, they bought bikes, TVs and DVD players, expensive phones or splurged on alcohol or gambling. Nobody cared about investing or saving or looking at their own future. Now they don’t have any land of their own. As a last resort, they have started working as daily-wage workers in those fields owned by business-men .'

A daily-wage worker who works in the field which once belonged to him.   

But the ego still remains, most of the times Amar skips work and plays cricket with his counterparts on those fertile fields. He earns few extra bucks in the form of 'commission' by making deals of his friends’ land with the businessmen from Mumbai and proudly calls himself a land-dealer. One day there are not going to be any lands to sell. His kid's attitude towards study and education does not look promising. I won't be surprised to see the 'waadaa' being sold to some business-man, but it might just be a tragic end to what was once upon a time an alternative to heaven for them.

Its amazing what easy money, cheap alcohol, lack of education and bloated ego can achieve.

The rickshaw driver

..."400 rupaiyye hona bhai, jhooth nahi bolta mai"
"350 rupiye le lo bhaiyya, aur chalo." I conclude. Amjad spits out his paan and reluctantly disengages the clutch of his rickshaw as we start heading towards Malakpet after a tiring day at Ramoji film city and a good fifteen minutes of haggling. Its pitch black on Vijaywada highway, he pulls over his rick and washes the windscreen with some water he kept in a bottle under his seat and grumbles. Looks like he is not happy with the deal. He struggles to look at the road ahead, the lamp of his rick has barely lit up the road. "Aap kahan se aya? ", he spits again and strikes a conversation."Poona se" I reply. "kitna ghooma?"
"bas aaj hi aaye hai, ab ghoomenge"
"Hyderabad main achcha achcha jagah ghoomna, achcha shahar hai." He praises his city. "Poona chotaa hai, mumbai bada hai"
"Tum gaye ho kyaa Bambai?" I ask.
"Mumbai... bambai nahi bolta ab" he corrects me. He reveals that he has stayed in Mumbai, Chennai (he calls it 'Medras') and Bangalore before settling back to his native place, Hyderabad. "Har shahar ka alag baat hota"
I can sense that he is at ease with us finally. So what is your favorite food, asks Vandy. "I like everything apart from the bore-well water they give nowadays. Fresh water is so rare and I had to wash my rickshaw's glass with the drinking water I had kept for myself." Sensing disappointment, I ask him what is the plan for evening. "Ab ghar jaaunga", He says. "Who is your favorite actor ?" Vandana questions him again. " He has to be my son", he replies without thinking for a moment, everybody smiles."Paanch saal ka hona, lekin hero maafik dialogue bolna" says Amjad with pride in typical Hyderabadi tone. He continues " Every time I go home, the first question he asks is 'How much did you earn today ?' and when I tell him, he says 'Give half of it to Ammi', I have named him 'Salman' ". Everybody laughs. He swerves his rickshaw as he tries to overtake a car. I ask him to be careful. "I have been doing it for a long time, its all about control, you need to understand your vehicle" He continues "Compared to Mumbai, vehicles are more in Hyderabad, and Hyderabad is ill mannered when it comes to driving". "Sab apna marji ke hisaab se chalata." He declares.
"Hindu-Muslim yaha bahot chalta, Mumbai mein nahi dekha aisa, yahan bahot ladai hota usko leke" He tells his experiences.
I ask him about Id. "Ramzan is about remembering people who are not in this world now, like parents and in-laws, Bakri Id is different, each one offers a goat depending on his ability, then distributes it to his relatives and friends, excess food is given to the less fortunate ones. Bakri id is all about meeting your relatives and friends"
"So what are your plans for tomorrow ? Where are you going ?" I ask him again as we reach nearer to Malakpet. " I will offer namaj in the morning and then leave for work, I can't stay at home without any work". There is some kind of determination as well as frustration in his voice. "Why don't you spend time with your parents ? Its good to have a conversation with your parents on such occasions, its the only day you get to meet them, right ? " I ask. "Maa baap nahi raha bhai, do behen hai wo Saudi mein hai, abhi yahan mereko ek ladka aur ek ladki hai teen saal ki" He interrupts me. I run out of words. We arrive at Malakpet railway station and disembark. Vandana pulls three hundred and a fifty rupee note, I replace the fifty rupee note with a hundred rupee one. Vandana peeps inside his rickshaw, "Ye pachaas rupiye aapke liye nahi hai, Salman aur apke beti ke liye hai". He smiles, I can see the sense of gratitude on his face. I thank him for the ride and wish him Eid Mubarak. He stays there till we have entered the station and then leaves, waving his hands ...
I dont know if I was tricked emotionally, but it felt good to give him those extra fifty bucks.

- I copied this from my facebook wall while I was on a visit to Hyderabad