Of Sweetness and Melancholy - Sights, Scents, and Sounds of Childhood

The list is long, very long; the list of things that bring my childhood to life. Very rarely do I allow myself the luxury of reminiscing about those days. But, if I am not watching myself, I fall in inside this endless well of memories very willingly. Today was one such day. Two people fell today; my sister and I. Together we went through our 16 years worth of shared experiences – mental reels of flashing frames, hundreds per second, in our minds’ eyes with accompanying sounds, textures, smells, and flavors. As the rule of Nature dictate, nothing must remain constant. Our lives have followed that eternal principle. I am no longer in the same city, let alone country. People, who once were very close, are now distant and new friends have been found among strangers. Those old homes are now mostly just structures where others live but new houses have been made homes. These fleeting images, effervescent as bright fireflies, have the power to transport me to simultaneously to those many places, separated by time and space, which define my childhood. 

Among the colors that wash the inside walls of my memory, red stands out the most. There was the bright, deep red of my grandmother’s lipstick-assisted bindi¹. It used to be right in the middle of her forehead, later it was gone after my grandfather passed away. So were her collections of flat-headed red Lakmé² lipsticks.  The maroon on my mothers’ bindi has remained the same, the diameter albeit has kept increasing. The association with round and red does not end there. My grandparents once bought me a large round red plastic tub when I was a toddler. I am told I’d wallow in it during long summer months, along with the heaps of mangoes floating besides me. This made devouring endless number of mangoes very easy. That brave stalwart still lingers on – now as the dirty laundry receptacle. Ber³ and phaalsey⁴, the small, round, tart red fruits eaten in heaps with salt sprinkled on them, added excitement to our lives at the cost of bouts of laryngitis (which we were constantly told was caused by their consumption).  Then there is blue. My earliest childhood memory of my mother is of her swathed in a soft, powder blue sari. Her broken blue bead necklace was constant feature above our fridge. Imprinted on my mind and synonymous with St. Anne’s school, were our ink-stained blue fingers, trophies of the laborious process of replenishing our fountain pens with ink from the round inkpot.  The shocking clear blue of Jodhpur⁵ sky on a cloudless, scorching summer day has a permanent association with slick sweatiness of “games” period at school.

Phaalsey

The greens was no where more oppressively felt than in the dripping afternoons of Barrackpore⁶, spent trying to pull down snails from their vertical scaling of walls. The dark-green capsicum shaped ceramic bowl, a permanent and prominent fixture of the flora and fauna of the ecosystem on top of our fridge, contained a veritable jungle of odds and ends. With its loot of rusting keys, safety pins, elastic bands, leftover capsules, flush tank washers, washerman’s crumped bills, it was often command central of our household. Also in the ancient relic fridges of Jaipur⁵ and Jodhpur, featured the last acts of many a glass jar. Jam containers in their previous lives, these faithful servants now devoted to showcasing the brilliant greens of coriander chutney. There were other colors too - the resplendent saffron and ochre of sunset-lit sand dunes in Jaisalmer⁵, the opulent purples and golds of my mother’s silk saris, the sombre browns of the cracked earth of Nalia⁷, the quiet dignity of the khakee of Shanker Baba’s uniform as he sat drinking tea from a saucer every evening, the handsome greys of my father’s hair that replaced the inky black of their predecessors, the delicate whites of mogra⁸ and harsingar⁹ flowers that would litter the porch of my grandparents’ home every morning in Udaipur⁵. And finally, the entire rainbow seemed to come alive in my sister’s glass bangle collection; in their neat rows suspended from wire clothes hangers, vibrant hues in delicate glass promising the soft melody of happiness.

Jaisalmer

Scents have been even more evocative and powerful in my mind than colors.  Unforgettable and instantly recognizable is the soothing freshness of my mother’s lavender perfume, the invigorating citrus of my father’s daily Cinthol¹⁰ talcum powder dousing, the nose-tickling Cantharidin¹¹ hair oil that my Nana used, and the pungency of my Nani’s Bengay¹² pain-reliever cream applied liberally everyday. My mother’s lime rice and oondhiya¹³ recipe, my father’s first Hyderabadi biryaani¹⁴, the ubiquitous egg bhurji¹⁵ and paranthe¹⁶ of Air Force mess, the delicious promise of bread toasted on a pan with home-made ghee, of mouthwatering smell of mango and lime pickles cozy in their bottles and barnii¹⁷, basking in the mid-afternoon sun. Old books in the library in Udaipur or the top-level room at the Jodhpur house, with their bevies of darting silver fish, smelled musty and were deeply treasured.  Smell and taste were never more indistinguishable as when the neembu-glycerin¹⁸ combination stung your winter-cracked lips during blustery winters, the railway pantry attendant wailed “cutlass” referring to the wonderfully oily Indian Railways vegetable cutlets, our indomitable Sumit¹⁹ mixer attempted to take on dosa²⁰ batter on Sunday mornings and voiced its protest in form of a burning rubber smell, the small cups of tea wafted out the sweet smell of ginger with their inevitable companions of delicate rusk toasts²¹ or Parle-G²² biscuits, and the open sewers around Pokar Sweet Home²³ or Garib Bakery²⁴ that did nothing to distract from the feasts of sweets inside.

Steam Engine, Northern Railways (Indian Railways)

And then, there are the sounds. Sounds of the milkman in the frozen early mornings of Rajasthani winter, the bread-walla in the mid-morning sun, the ice-cream walla in the blistering summer afternoons evoking orange lolly-flavoured dreams, the screech of chalk on blackboards that jostled those long sleepy Sanskrit classes, the threatening rumble of an impending sand-storm in Jaisalmer, and the metallic clank of the beat-up aluminum pressure cooker whose sad broken handle reminded one of the dignity of a life spent in work and service.  Sounds of daily life are the most evocative of feelings and fondly remembered. The Sunday morning Rangoli²⁵ music and the dread of impending Krishi Darshan²⁵ or Sansad Samachar²⁵, the belting of Harry Belafonte and Begum Akhtar²⁶ melodies from our zealously loved music system, the wonderfully witty Urdu repartee of Dhoop Kinarey²⁷ as it played on the Keltron²⁸ TV with round dials, and the summer vacation ritual of playing and replaying old Hindi movie songs from old vinyl LPs in their geriatric record player. The whine of the TVS/Champ²⁹ Moped as it was coaxed to life every morning, and the heckling of peacocks and koyal^30:  birds from within the neem trees that lined our school compound while we sat removing sand from our school shoes compete for attention. A sound stands out in my memory. It is the toot and whistle of train engines shunting down the old Udaipur train station, frequented daily by our little group of grandfather with his granddaughters.

Keltron TV

It is difficult to shrug the hold of past memories - they bring me an addictive joy mixed with sweet-smelling melancholy. But must I part with them? Can they not accompany me on this present journey? Can they not become friends with the new memories one makes everyday? Watch me fall again!

Glossary:

1. Bindi: vermillion forehead decoration worn mostly by Hindu women, symbolizing married state.
2. Lakmé: an Indian company that makes cosmetics like lipsticks.
3. Ber: Ziziphus mauritiana; red, tart, wild berry-like fruit found in North India.
4. Phaalsey: Grewia asiatica; round, tart, deep pink fruit from North India.
5. Jodhpur, Jaipur, Udaipur, Jaisalmer: cities in the North Indian state of Rajasthan.
6. Barrackpore: town in the Indian state of West Bengal.
7. Nalia: small town in the Indian state of Gujarat.
8. Mogra: Jasminum sambac; small white flower with strong pleasant scent.
9. Harsingar: Nyctanthes arbortristis; another small white flower with orange stem.
10. Cinthol: Indian brand of talcum powder.
11. Cantharidin: Indian brand of hair oil containing Cantharidin.
12. Bengay: American brand of topical analgesic.
13. Oondhiya: An elaborate Indian dish made with mixed vegetables and chick-pea flower dumplings.
14. Biryaani: An elaborate Indian dish of rice and meat.
15. Bhurji: scrambled eggs cooked with onions and spices, staple in Indian homes.
16. Parantha: Indian shallow fried bread.
17. Barnii: Traditional Indian ceramic jars.
18. Neembu-glycerin: concoction of glycerol with lemon juice, used as skin moisturizer during winter months.
19. Sumit: Indian brand of mixers-grinders and other kitchen appliances.
20. Dosa: South Indian delicacy, crisp crepes made of rice and lentil flour.
21. Rusk: hard biscuit, often eaten with tea.
22. Parle-G: Very old Indian brand of biscuits.
23. Pokar Sweet Home: A famous sweet shop in the Northern Indian city of Jodhpur
24. Garib Bakery: A famous bakery in the Northern Indian city of Jodhpur.
25. Rangoli: Indian national TV show featuring Bollywood movie songs. Krishi darshan is another national TV show focusing on agriculture and farmer issues. Sansad Samachar: News program of Parliament proceedings.
26. Begum Akhtar: a popular North Indian female singer of classical Indian vocal music. Now deceased.
27. Dhoop Kinarey: Pakistani television series from the late 1980s.
28. Keltron: State-owned television brand of India.
29. TVS Champ: Small moped, manufactured in India in 1980-1990s.
30. Koyal: Eudynamys scolopaceus, a bird of the cuckoo family found in South Asia

Ek patthar To Tabiyat Se Ucchalo yaroon...

http://www.yuwa-india.org/
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-india-20929762

This morning, with my second cup of tea, I read this article. I was impressed. In fact, very impressed. A person in roughly my age bracket, from semi-rural Minnesota, is living and working with teen-age girls in rural Jharkhand. He is teaching them football and through that, giving them an opportunity to create their own space in their world. Now, I am someone who is, in general, easily impressed by feats of great moral courage and conviction. And I am sure that discerning readers and critics alike will find something to challenge and down play in this story. However, for me, this is truly the essence of a life of creativity, conscience and conviction.

Adolescent girls in India are, perhaps, one of the most ignored members of society. With lots of house-hold responsibilities but the status of a child, with no say on most issues. I make this blanket statement, with full awareness that I might be accused of stereotyping, falsifying truth, regionalism, anti-India propaganda etc. I am not saying that this does not happen elsewhere in the world. Neither am I accusing all households in India of undermining their adolescent daughters. My reason for saying this is because I have seen it happen over and over again - in several different areas of India. It could not have been starker that what I came across while working on a project on HIV-awareness among rural Rajasthani girls a few years ago. These girls work, and they work and work. But where is the play? I realize that play might be a privilege for many but isn't it time to change that. The world is changing and everywhere, especially in USA where mass shootings seem to have become everyday events,  a young person must find a creative, healthy release for her energies. And, of course, team sports are the perfect solution.

Mr. Franz Gastler, the protagonist of the BBC story feature, can be credited with thinking of this solution and making it available for so many girls. What did leaving Edina in Minnesota, a town of less than 50,000 inhabitants, to go to Harvard and then to come to Jharkhand take? What must've went through his mind when he first arrived to the region? How does one dream of such big ideas in the face of such grave challenges? How does one have the audacity to think that, even though my idea is not completely planned or mapped out or that it might not change everything overnight, it's still worth a try? How does one take a chance like this? Who are the risk-takers amongst us? What sets them apart? Does fear of utter failure never haunt them? I had once heard a sher, an Urdu couplet, that goes thus

 Kaun kehta hai ki aasman mein ched nahi ho sakhta, 

Ek patthar to tabiyat se ucchalo yaroon!!

It translates roughly to the following.

"Who says you can't punch a hole in the sky?
Have you ever tried throwing a stone upwards with all you've got!"

Maybe that's all what Franz Gastler has done; he thought of an idea and then gave it a try with all he's got. The stone landed in Jharkhand and the skies of girls there certainly seem to have opened a bit.

(Image from www.yuwa-india.org)

First days, first mistakes, first lessons in life

       It was my very first day of Internship. After spending four years in college pursuing an undergraduate degree, then another four years spent toiling in Medical school, Internship had initially seemed like light at the end of the tunnel. But at 6:30 am on June 27th, 2009, Internship seemed more like a deep, dark, endless pit I'd fallen into. Or wait, was that the pit in my stomach?

   
       The day before the first day had been very discombobulating. After a grand picnic in the Programs Director's beautiful back yard, meeting all my new fellow-interns for the first time, I headed out home for an early night to prepare for the next day. The next day was the day of doom; the end of the world, the first day of Internship. As I drove hurriedly home, in the fast falling dusk, an idea came to me - why not completely fill up my car's gas tank to allow for uninterrupted hours of undivided caring for patients in my new life as a dedicated clinician. With such high and noble ideas, I headed to the closest gas station. Once I had filled the gas tank and was about to put the gas nozzle back, there came a deafening deluge of foul smelling wetness all over me. Yes Ladies and Gentlemen,  that's right, you guessed correctly. I  had, in fact, wet myself. I had forgotten to let go of the gas nozzle's lever and was spraying my poor car, my self and the whole area around me with a very large quantity of horridly expensive lead-free, regular-grade gasoline! Though it seemed like death from embarrassment was imminent, I bravely apologized to the air around me and allowed it to dry as much of the gasoline off as possible, sat back in my car and drove into the sunset.

       Next morning arrived much sooner than I had expected. At 6:00 am on June 27th, with my shiny new, sparkling white, and appropriately long lab-coat trailing behind me, I jumped into the gasoline-scented car and drove off to face the first day of the rest of my life. Once inside the hospital, I was graciously shown to the designated Resident Work-Room by a kind desk clerk, I was greeted with surprising good cheer by my Senior Resident. I like to fondly remember this Resident as Dr. Blue. As I was about to be filled with a warm, pink, gooey sense of reassurance, a pager was handed to me. I would henceforth be Dr. 16675 and our team was on-call today.  Our team, which comprised 2 interns and a resident, would take all new admissions and manage all life-threatening patient emergencies ("Code Blue" alarms) for a 24 hour period. A Code pager was given to me as well. Code pagers are known to make the most evil noises when Code Blue alarm is sounded and are cause new and seasoned Interns alike, all sorts of palpitations and night terrors. All reassurance brought about by Dr. Blue's beatific smile fled and the stomach pit made its presence felt.

      For the next 30 hours, I became someone else. I had a new identity thrust upon me - someone who knows things and, more importantly, knows what to do when things go wrong! As teaching rounds with the attending Staff Physician happened, disastrously so, and more and more new admissions rolled in, it was apparent that I was alarmingly unprepared for this new role. The day went by in a blur. Night came, unrelenting in its savagery - the pager beeped every few minutes, constipation was rampant among patient ranks, pain reached new proportions, tachycardias increased in frequently, falls and delirium poised new challenges, and respiratory depression was the new fashion. At every step, I was exhausted, beaten to the ground, shamed, challenged and declared unfit. It was hard to believe when, the next day, the Dr. Blue told me that it was was all going to end. It was time to go home. By this time, nearing noon on June 28th, I'd had my last of three second-winds.  My blood's coffee content was already at least 50% by volume. "Sign-over your pager and go home", announced Dr. Blue in the general direction where my and my co-intern sat huddled over our computers.

      Signing-over of an alpha numeric pager involves calling a hospital phone number, punching in your pager number and putting in a "covering" pager number.  If this signing-over process goes well through mysterious tele-technology forces, every time your pager number is paged, the message is automatically redirected to the pager number designated as your "cover". When instructions came to go home, the same key that I had been pressing on the keyboard in an attempt to type an intelligible sentence, was suddenly let go. "Home", I thought to myself, "what is home"? That place where I was once safe and warm not too long ago. I stumbled forward, crazed in my urge to leave the work room. My fingers flew over the phone, I signed-over my pager, grabbed my purse, fell into my car and started driving. 10 minutes later, I woke from the fugue that had enveloped me during the drive, barreled into the house and onto the bed and was asleep in nanoseconds. Almost 15 hours of dreamless coma-like sleep later, the alarm clock sang out. Silencing it grimly, I sucked in deep breaths to steel myself for another day at the hospital.

       My entrance in the Resident work room seemed to trigger giggles and guffaws from the present residents, interns and even from the lowly medical students. Dr. Blue though seemed charitable and non-judgmental, happy to see that I had returned for another day, and smiled hugely."Maybe I was not as abysmally incompetent as I had thought", I mused inwards. The work of the day started and so did my attempts to forget the old traumas. Things went well after this - I learned the ropes of the game of Internship. About midway into the month, a fellow-intern told me about the status line posted by my resident Dr. Blue on a social media website. It said something about having the "most hilarious intern ever". By this time, armed with the almost Dutch-like courage of having survived a few weeks of Internship, I assumed that this notorious intern must've been my co-intern on our team. After all, he had seemed equally flabbergasted and out of depth. And clearly, the probability of Me, the eminent 10-day old Intern, having done something hilarious was very low.

      Alas, my bubble of self-contented reassurance was soon burst. A month later and on a new posting now, I ran into my resident Dr. Blue. He asked me how I was holding up. After my reassurance that things were fine and that I had not actively been responsible for adding to mortality statistics of the hospital, he started smiling and did not stop. "What are you smiling at?" I asked nervously. His reply came swiftly, in great style and to my cheek-reddening shame. "At the end of that first day, when our team was post-call, you signed-over your pager to Environmental Services pager". I was not the non-hilarious Intern. All hopes of effortless awesomeness and coolness were dashed. Apparently, after I'd left for home that miserable second day, a janitor had burst into the Residents work room, claiming that he was being paged incessantly about a constipation medication prescription that was holding up a patient discharge!

       Such is my recollection of the first day of internship. Lessons learnt - I'll survive somehow, though not with my self-esteem intact, and not without a few good laughs at myself!