Category Archives: People

Upholding a legacy…

14 November 2017

This last week has been a flurry of activities. What with my UK friends having come over, the days were packed with as many things as were humanely possible. We chatted, we walked, we ate, we explored the city at every opportunity we got. In an effort to show them some regional colours, my husband and I landed up at the Dastakari Haat exhibition held at The Monalisa Kalagram, Koregaon Park on a Saturday evening.

Little did I know then that an evening I had sleepily walked into, was going to turn into something rather unexpected. This exhibition was an amalgamation of various artists and artisans from the different parts of India. Local arts and flavours were overflowing that evening, as we floated from stall to stall.

My friends stopped at a ceramic stall as the items caught their attention. On duty, I stopped with them too…ready to translate among the seller and the sold! The purchase was quick and professional. The Punekar in me couldn’t resist and I suddenly butted in, “Kaka, double packing kara haan…tyana khup laamb gheun jaycha ahe! (Uncle, please pack it up with a double layer…they need to travel a long distance with it!) The man at the stall smiled at me, spoke to me and packed the parcel beautifully. He asked me where my friends were from, where I was from. Upon hearing I am a local, he immediately launched into the various opportunities his studio had to offer, in case of day visits, hourly trips, etc. I was intrigued so I stepped closer, into the light so he could see my face clearly.

Suddenly, he stopped mid sentence. “Apla naav kay mhanalat?” (What did you say your name was?) A confused look and some faltering later, “…Kanetkar” is all I said. And at that moment, every inch of his body language changed. An elderly man, possibly in his ealy 60s, tired because of a long day suddenly resembled a small boy, excited upon accidentally stumbling upon treasure. His eyes lit up, his smile was even more welcoming than what it was a few moments ago. “Babancha naav kay tumchya?” (What is your father’s name?) Ok, definitely getting weirder, I couldn’t help thinking! I was hesitant to share any further details but couldn’t resist that curious look on his face. “Umm…Atul?” With that name, all his suspicions got answered and he almost leapt around in excitement. “Mhanje….Narayanrao tumche…?” “Ajoba!” (“So that means…Narayanrao is your….?” “Grandfather!”)

It was a long time since I heard someone address me as his grand daughter. It used to happen a lot when I was in school, but as the years passed, I came to be known as my parents’ daughter, as my husband’s wife and as just myself! While I was thinking all these thoughts, the man was gushing praises of my grandfather. He owed his life to him, he said and that sentence brought me back to reality.

They say a man’s reputation succeeds him…and that evening, I experienced it. For a man who left this world 11 years ago had helped this man in front of me some 25 odd years ago, and now the man was reliving those moments while talking to his granddaughter of 25 years! In that moment, my heart swelled with pride. The man smiled at me and said that now when he looked at me closely, he could see the resemblance. I didn’t probe further but I am curious to know…where the resemblance rests. Is it in my looks, my behaviour, my personality or simply in my surname?

No matter where it may be, I realise that with this name and these features and this lineage, I am upholding a legacy….one my grandfather started to build, almost 85 years ago.

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Just ‘ana’ther day! 

7 November 2017.

I am in the cab, heading toward the airport, a million things running in my mind. Is the room clean enough? Is the water heated and stored? Did I forget to spray air freshener in the room? What would she be like? How would meeting her feel like? Would I even reach there in time to see her walk out of those doors?

I have been dreaming about this day, this moment for months! I don’t know what it would be like…for all you know, I would probably arrive panting and sweating while she waits patiently at the Arrivals gate.

You can never construct a perfect moment, I realise… But would it really matter if that moment wasn’t? 5 years ago, was the first day I met her. Saw her rushing and panting to greet me. I was new to her city, she was a mentor paired by the University to help me settle in. We were absolute strangers, who bridged all gaps that day. I was touched by the way she spent the entire day helping me feel at home in her city. Today, it’s my turn.

After 5 years, I am going to see her once again. For 5 days. In my city and home. Living my life with me. All those dreams I’ve seen of having her over and entertaining her… They all culminate in this moment. How it would be, I don’t know. How I would feel, I do know! For I am showing all restraint and not jumping around like a maniac in the cab. I am trying to appear all staid and responsible when a part of me is raring to poke my head out of the window and announce to the world, “She’s coming!!!”

My buddy. My best friend from the UK days. My go-to in times of confusion. My one piece of home in a strange land.

Ana.

The Kanetkars at No.39

7 August 2017

When you are born an Indian, you grow up accustomed to a crowd. Be it at your local supermarket or while waiting in the enquiry queues at Government offices; if there is one thing we as Indians cannot escape, it is people. And people by the dozens!

Little wonder then that families aren’t an exception to this rule. But with today’s fast – paced and ‘busy’ lifestyles, we tend to hole up in our own spaces. And hate it if asked to share that precious privacy that is solely ours, at the end of each hectic day. A colleague muttered on his way out of office today, “This is all I do, rush from this place to that; find myself trapped amidst the hands of a clock! I don’t seem to have any time for myself!!” That is exactly how each week pans out for so many of us. It is not surprising then that we prefer to just enjoy the silence of our nuclear homes rather than setting foot out into the maddening crowd!

It was just another Monday morning that I woke up to. A Friendship Day Sunday was just past, and though I had been overwhelmed with emotion toward all my friends, I had preferred to maintain a rather low profile. Talking over the phone seemed to be a little too much, texting them seemed much too distant. I shot off some quick “Same to you” messages, but my mind carried over a slight regret on to the next day. Ironically, the next day was a day dedicated to brothers. So yet another wave of emotion and yet another “I’ll talk to them later tonight” excuse to drown it.

Luckily for me, this time someone else took matters in hand, and decided that tonight will literally mean ‘tonight’, for once. A relative had taken the initiative of inviting all of us over for the Rakhi celebration. We cousins always make it a point to meet up on this day, but we never make it to everyone’s houses. So although we do keep up with the tradition, it is still as ‘nuclear’ as it can get! However, this time after a really long time, it was the Kanetkars (and the additions and modifications!) under one roof for an entire evening!

It was with tremendous excitement that I finished up at office that day, and made my way to the relative’s house. Some of the family had already gathered and enthusiastic hellos welcomed us in. People kept coming in over the next hour, and soon we were switching places and accommodating everyone that came in. In a sudden moment of nostalgia, I caught myself looking around and realising that as a family, we had lost some but we had also gained some. Where once we were the ones being the centre of attention, causing all our parents to come rushing behind us; we were now running behind our niece. In narrating to her our childhood stories, we relived them once again. In sharing with her our favourite spots as children, we visited them once again. In helping her discover new relations, we acknowledged them once again. And in seeing her build new memories, we walked down our own memory lanes yet again.

As 4 generations sat down to share dinner that night, I realised that the Kanetkars at no. 39 had spread themselves all over the world in the past few years. Our surnames had changed and so had our preferences. But none of that seemed to have affected our excited chatter that evening. There was no awkwardness, but only a deep sense of security that comes from being a family.

And at that moment, it felt like no matter how many friendships you may build over the years, there is something about family that will always makes you feel ‘at home’…No matter how much the crowd, you will never once feel lost in it!

Cooking Lessons

26 January 2017

Finding good help (or maids) is hard to find. You need to be extremely lucky, they say. But I believe, what is harder is not just finding a maid, but finding someone who is ‘maid’ to be a part of your family too! (Excuse the pun, I couldn’t resist!) I have been having my share of struggles with a new cook in the house. I am not someone who loves to cook; in fact spending too much time in the kitchen is something I am averse to. Thus, after 2 whole years of ‘learning to cook courtesy the Internet’, I gave in to the suggestion of hiring a cook for the three meals in a day.

It is tough, training a third person to develop your taste and presentation of food. It is tough, to teach someone how to please your palate, every day and with every meal. I don’t know how to do it…but I know someone who knew this so well!

It was a text from my mother a few days ago, which brought bad news and ironically also good memories. We had a wonderful cook in the family, ever since I was a baby. A few years ago, she had to quit work because of a severe illness. And a few days ago, she succumbed to it. The day she quit cooking at our house, was the last time I met her. I must have been a school – going child at that time, which seems a long enough time now. And yet, the taste of her food still lingers in my mind…I don’t think I have ever tasted such delicious food, ever again.

She cooked, not just with the ingredients, but with love. She cooked, keeping everyone’s likes in mind but also taught us to respect each other’s differences. She fed us till our stomachs were fit to burst, but she also taught us how to feed ourselves.

She taught me how to roll my first chapati, and then teased me when it puffed up. “Look, the chapati is angry on you! See how she has puffed herself up with anger.” As a child, I used to panic and say Sorry to the chapati, hoping it would forgive me for putting it on the flame. I also believed it used to soften up with my heartfelt apologies and so wasn’t hard to tear up into smaller morsels. I could never roll them round, but she never scolded me. She just taught me Geography, calling those random shapes I rolled as ‘maps’. There is a wall atlas installed in my house, and I think those were the only times I studied it with interest….trying to find where in the world my latest shape fit!

She was someone on whose cooking all of us cousins grew up. She taught us the meaning of family, as we sat together and shared the food. She insisted the entire family ate together often, and she cooked up a storm in the kitchen on those days. Cooking for two people is a task in itself for me, and I wonder how she did it or at least made it seem so easy, even while cooking for almost 13 people, 5 of which were growing – up bodies. We lapped up her food, and we fought over it. We grew up on her food, and we were spoilt rotten for it too.

There are some people you respect in life, and some who you admire. But there are very few people you hold in reverence, and for me, she was the strongest candidate in that list. I don’t have any photographs with her, but I have her memories to keep me going on. She wasn’t related to us, but she never made us feel like strangers. She was, and so we could be.

She will remain, and so will we….bound by the thoughts of her love and the taste of her food.

Rest in peace, Gangubai 🙂

A Quarter Down *hic*

14 November 2016

It is past midnight and technically the 15th of November. I should have been fast asleep ages ago, and yet there’s a deep reluctance tonight to do so. Because if I sleep and when I do, it signals the end of the day. And after waiting an entire year for this day to arise, it is tough to accept it has come and gone already.

The clock struck midnight and the dates switched. A new day has begun and yet I am still caught up in the memories of the day that just was. 25 years ago, on this very day, a teeny tiny red – faced me came wailing into this world. Happy to be here finally and just raring to go. A chubby baby with an unruly bob of curly hair. My baby photographs capture me giving toothless smiles to the camera. Photographs lovingly captured by my photographer dad. My family remembers me as a baby, and I watch myself grow up through the flipping pages of the photo album.

There I am, lying on my back, enjoying being the centre of attention. Learning to stand on my feet, taking a shaky step on my own. I wobble, I stumble, I fall. But out shoots a hand and holds me up. My first lesson at rising up each time I fall.

Sulking behind a cake, hiding behind my mother… I was a shy little child, with never much confidence. Somewhere in those photographs though, I start peeking out. Looking out at the world that has so many opportunities to explore. I wobble, I stumble but I don’t fall. I slowly start to accept me for who I am.

Engrossed in telephone diaries, flipping through a picture book… My obsession with reading captured at each stage of life. I fell in love with a language and the romance blossomed into a lifelong affair. It not only gave me a hobby but it also helped me walk on my career path. I wobble, I stumble but now I do not fall…

I flip through the photographs and cringe at my teenage years. Awkward and an introvert to the core. It took me a trip across the globe, a run around a playground and an hour of conducting tuitions to finally learn to open up. To acknowledge strangers and not peek at them while hiding behind my mother. To conduct conversations and build new friendships. To accept heartbreak and take it into my stride. To sustain a relationship through the growing years and make it into one of my most valuable assets.

I smile at all the memories that run through my mind as my fingers fly over the keyboard tonight. I want to capture it all through words that may live longer than the photographs. I struggle, I falter but yet I continue to type on.

I am a quarter down today. High on life and in no mood to stop drinking in the many experiences that’ll come my way…some good, some bad, some awesome and some that leave me awfully sad. My smile is tinged with some hurt too, as I realise how much life has changed since the day I was born and how much it is going to till the day I cease to exist.

I heave a sigh that is tinged with regret, at the opportunities I denied and the people I’ve lost along the way. I shake my fist at the wrong decisions I’ve taken and the grudges I’ve held. “How does it feel to be 25?” a friend asked me today, and I wish I had an answer. 25 feels an awful lot like age 3 and 9 and 15 and 18. 25 feels like age 21 was just yesterday and 23 was ages ago.

Cheers to a quarter that was full to the brim. Tonight, I am a quarter down, with three quarters to go! *hic*

A ‘grand’ personality…

01 October 2016.

It was a night like no other. Eerie silence pervaded throughout the house. Light sobs broke out occasionally. All the lights in the house were on. Our house was filled with people. Everyone was gathered around, trying to find comfort in each other’s company. It was the first time I had encountered such a situation. And there I was, peeping at it all from the gap between the stairs.

I had been studying for my SSC prelims in my room, when the doorbell suddenly rang. I was startled, and looked up to check the time. It was past 10, on a Sunday night. ‘Why would someone come home right now?’ I couldn’t help but wonder, as I quietly crept downstairs. There was something weird about the whispers that were flitting through the house. The door was ajar, but I couldn’t see anyone around. ‘Where was everyone?’ I shrugged, but thoughts of Geometry occupied my mind and I ran back upstairs. I sat down, got back to struggling with the theorems….tensed about the prelims which were to start in 2 days. Yet again, I heard someone enter the house, the whispers getting louder. I tried to concentrate but curiosity got the better off me. So I was back to creeping downstairs, when suddenly my grandfather’s brother intercepted me. “Shivani…” His voice broke into a sob. A chill ran down my spine as I looked at him with a questioning glance. “Half an hour ago…” He couldn’t go on; instead he just silently lead me down. Into the room where my grandfather had taken residence almost 3 months ago. There he was, sleeping peacefully. Finally at peace. Having left behind all his pains. And us.

It was the first time I encountered Death at such close quarters. I gasped and ran from the room. I looked around for my grandmother and there she was….sitting in a corner, lost to the world. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes had a vacant look. My mother was in another corner, just staring at the floor. My father was near the telephone, informing the rest of the family. My aunts were there with their families; my cousins looking at me. People just kept coming into our house, but I had stopped registering their faces. Someone hugged me; someone else patted me on the back. Someone tried to console me by saying ‘Everything will be alright’, but my mind was in utter shock. How could he leave? How could the most stubborn man I’ve ever known, give up his fight so easily? How could the head of the family walk away, without a Goodbye?

wp-1475316714415.jpgHe was overjoyed the day I was born. My uncle tells me how my grandfather couldn’t wait even a second to see the newly born me. And the moment he saw me, he fell in love. He was a strict man, but always lenient with me. He let me sleep in long hours, he let me get away with my mischief around the house. He laughed at my attempts to speak, and he lovingly nurtured my love for reading. Each birthday and achievement earned a book and my language flourished over the years. The first time I actually tried my hand at expressing my thoughts, ironically, was the night he died.

I thought back to all the memories with him, and the words flowed that night. I kept writing at a furious pace, hoping that the void filled itself up. Ten years later, I am still writing at a furious pace, knowing well that the void will always remain so.

A void that I call ‘Nana’. A man who built some famous bridges across the city; and also built relationships who outlived him. I was often asked by complete strangers if I was Narayan kaka’s granddaughter, and my heart always filled with pride as I nodded my head. There was a news article about him a few days after he passed away. I had read it hungrily, and was shocked to realise I knew so little about him. And perhaps, that was his biggest achievement.

That he never flaunted, never bragged. He was a family person, who cared and looked after his loved ones. He helped me with my homework, played cards with me, sat himself in a discreet corner of the audience when I faced the stage for the first time. He was proud, and yet he never let on. He encouraged us to be better, he made sure we never backed down. He was his own man, never dependent on anyone.

So perhaps it was no surprise that when an illness left him bedridden and dependent on others for every little thing, he preferred to die. We saw him sink and heard the doctors tell us ‘It is only a matter of time.

wp-1475316726327.jpgHe used to always sit across me, at the dinner table, looking over at me slowly eat my food. He was always the first to finish, I was always the last. He always asked for my help while changing the bed sheets, and till date I feel him tugging them from the other end. Looking back, I don’t remember ever directly joking around with him. I was in awe of him and even today, I wonder if he approves of my life decisions ever since. He wasn’t there when I passed my SSC and HSC exams; he wasn’t there when I chose English as my major subject for graduation. He wasn’t there when I flew to the UK for my Masters and he was missing from my wedding. So many milestones in these ten years, and each witnessed only by the photograph hanging on the wall. What would he say, had he been there?

I think I know. Because although that night, he physically left us, he still lives on in various ways. My father has his eyes, my cousin has his hair. His grand children have his stubbornness. And the entire family has memories, some exclusive and some shared.

With this ‘grand’ personality who once lived.

My grandfather.

 

The Friend Who Was… 

8 August 2016.

Dear The Friend Who Was,

I was reading the posts on Terribly Tiny Tales tonight and as part of the Friendship Week, they are posting all kinds of letters addressed to all kinds of friends… And one letter hit me right where it hurts. A letter addressed to an ex-best friend. And it made me think of you… But I’m not sure if that letter accounted for all that I had to say, because I am not sure if I can actually call you an ‘ex’. 

We never had a showdown, no horrible words exchanged, no nasty looks. We just woke up one day and the world had changed. Our worlds had changed. And while dealing with a world that didn’t include each other, we forgot to officially terminate the friendship. So you aren’t a thing of the past…not yet, anyway.

I see your silhouette, watching me as I walk down the other side of the street. I wave to your retreating back just as you drive past, in a hurry to ignore who you had just seen. I see you at cafés, joking with friends… Someone else sitting at what was once, my place. I dream of you some nights, catching up on those chats that have ceased in real life. I listen to songs you dedicated to me, just to make me grin. I still do break into a grin but now, it is tinged with nostalgia. Of a helpless kind.

I still walk down those lanes where we used to meet each other. Timed so perfectly that you walked up the street just as I turned round the corner and walked toward you. I still peer through the gates of what was once our childhood playground. I haven’t been inside the gates for quite some time. I can’t. Not without your welcoming eyes standing there, once again. 

I still drive down those roads but my gaze is flitting around, hoping for a glimpse of you. All those memories, all around the city…they distract me, they haunt me, they disturb me.

I hear your laughter in my ears, late at night. I miss our random chats, up to date, right till the latest sneeze. I long for a loooong phone call, across continents. I wish to ring your doorbell once, and ask you, ‘What happened?’ 

I know you wouldn’t answer. I doubt there is an answer that both of us would agree to. We walked away, wrenching our hearts away… Leaving behind a friendship – shaped  void. And without a parting glance. I don’t know what really happened, why we are where we are today. Your image is fading, day by day, in my mind and yet your memories are as fresh as ever. I keep them close because they are the only reminders of you.

The Friend Who Once Was…