“You will know when you have your kids” .. I still remember this from the countless scoldings my mother showered on me. For every time I disappointed her, she made it look as if her sorrow is more than my humiliation. i always thought I would never scold my kids like she scolds me. Now the thought itself makes me feel a little guilty but never leaves without a smile. Not that the dialogue has changed ! Only the scoldings ahve turned into a funny arguement at times.

Today when I see a baby fail, the look in his eyes,the will to keep trying,and at times running back to mothers; It all makes me want to sort things for the kid , only to see him smile. But I am not his mother, I remind myself. And yet I feel for him. I am no one’s mother, I realize just like the the barren land below my feet. And I wish flowers would cover this land soon.i feel for the land too. As if its an extension of me. am still single , and yet I want nothing more than a kid. All the years that I spent searching for love , they seem to mean nothing now as I crave for the touch of a baby. In a story I read long time back, the king asks “what makes one a mother – giving birth to the kid or raising the kid?” I say no one or nothing makes you a mother. You are a mother always or never.

Funny how it reminds me of the scene between Kajol and Kareena in “we are family’ ( Not that i love this movie more than the original ) . Every female sure is born with motherly instincts and you can see that all around you. The way I treat my younger brother is no different from how my mom treats him, just for the fact he is 10 years younger than me. Some of my friends too say that I am more of a mother to them than friend at times of crisis. “Maa” was a nickname some friends gave me 3 years back. First i felt little hurt, wondering am I really that old and dominating. but later i realized if my love and care earns me such a prestigious nick, so be it. I atleast have to live upto it. I still love each of my friend the same way. Not that i think of others as innocent kids. But i do realizze we all have a kid hidden in our hearts. The one that needs to be pampered the most all times. Make that kid love you , and you have made the person love you for a lifetime.

This mother’s day I do not want to thank my mom for just raising me well and being my best friend. But I want to tell her that she can be assured her grandchildren would be scolded as much as her kids have been. I might not be as good as her when I have my own kids , but the life lessons she has passed on to me , have helped many a kids around, some as old as me.

Love you Ma.
and love to my friends.

It’s amazing how one word can describe so many things, emotions, feelings, bonding and of course love, itself. One word to describe how we relate to each other, how we get into relationships. We as humans emote so many feelings, but love is the first feeling we develop and perhaps it is the last when we leave this world. In between, however, we only talk about love. How easy life would be if we would “feel” love rather than searching for it, rather than trying hard to express it or trying even harder to win it.

One of my colleagues recently came to me with a request to write a letter to his lady love. And it took me some effort to convince him that it was his love and it would be highly unfair of him to express his feelings through my words. Finally he settled for an expensive ring to express his feelings. And I couldn’t help but wonder. Does love need to be expressed through words or rings or anything for that matter? Love just has to be felt. How ironic then that we have become so materialistic that we have forgotten one of our base instincts….Love.

We celebrate Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day and so many other days just to find an excuse to come up with more materialistic pursuits to impress our loved ones? But does love really need a day to be expressed? I wonder. We treat out friends to parties and feel happy when we get gifts on our birthdays and weddings and anniversaries. But do those gifts really express any congratulatory love? Does every expression need materialistic proof?

Does a mother need proof to express her love and concern for her offspring? Does a brother need proof to show love for his sibling? Does a friend always ask for something in return when he comes in handy? And does favour by a fellow human demand a favour in return? Never. But in today’s world we need symbols to express everything. Love needs expression on Facebook. A favour demands a favour back in return and everything has to be weighed and measured.

And finally, the love among us all. It seems to have disappeared. Gone. Poof. On one hand we have to give proof to express our love and on the other we don’t feel the love at all. It’s a weird feeling, this love. Songs have been sung, books have been written and lectures given but we never learn. It is perhaps the easiest thing to do, and the most difficult thing to learn….to love.

With where we stand today, it seems to be a difficult task to do. But a century of conditioning and materialistic pursuits cannot be washed away in a day. And changes take time to come by. Showing a little bit of pure love should not be a difficult task. All it takes is a smile, a twinkle in the eye and a wholehearted expression of satisfaction to express. Love is right here, amongst us. We just have to look.

]]> https://www.friedeye.com/2012/05/love-made-and-manufactured/feed/ 1 https://www.friedeye.com/2012/05/growing-up-together-by-parijat-priyadarshini/ https://www.friedeye.com/2012/05/growing-up-together-by-parijat-priyadarshini/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 12:00:20 +0000 Parijat Priyadarshini https://www.friedeye.com/?p=8895 In the end, there are just a handful of people who really know you. Your parents, because they shaped you into who you are. Your husband (or wife), because they are the key construct of your belief system. Your very few best mates, who have seen you at the most vulnerable, and never reminded you of it. And maybe your kids, if they really put their heart into it. But there is something about a sibling that just stands apart from the rest – because they have been there for all of the above. Shaping you as you grew up together, weaving into your vision of the world, and holding your hand when things were flaky and the world was crumbling. Confidante, partner-in-crime, worst critic & best friend. In some ways, looking at your kid sister or brother gives you a better idea of who you really are.

The first thing that I think of when I look at my kid sister is – Music. One of my strongest memories is of us sitting in front of our music teacher, practicing classical vocal with solemn faces and wide eyes, two tiny peas in a very musical pod. At the age when all kids in the block were dressing up their Barbie’s, we must have been waiting in a dressing room backstage somewhere, getting ready to compete in yet another music contest. I still remember the smell of the side-wings, just as I remember holding her hands, all elder-sister-in-tow. She was so tiny, they had to adjust the mike all the way down. Once, when she won a first place, the famous artist who was giving away trophies couldn’t spot her walking up the stage, and felt compelled to carry her and the trophy down to my parents. Only after a year of singing, did we realize that she didn’t know what a rhythm really meant – she just replicated what she heard, and didn’t miss a single beat!

The memory of one particular afternoon sticks out amazingly clear. We were both reprimanded by our grandma countless number of times for not having a bath, and finally someone had to drag us into the wash area with a stern warning. It was mid-afternoon, really hot and humid, and we just picked up a water hose and started a water fight out in the open! And all the times we were mid-attack, we were re-inventing a very somber Bollywood song into a parody – shouting on top of our voices, harmonizing, and coming up with even funnier lyrics. Come to think of it, I bet we did it more times than once, because I recall another one just now, when we kept singing an entire song in notation, again and again….till we had to be yanked out of the water mess we had created into dry towels!

In a very Von Trapp Family kind of way, we sang all the time – in the rickshaw on our way to school, during family trips in a car, while getting dressed to go somewhere, or having our evening snack – we grew up loving the same music, we shared the exact same sentiments, and we were always in sync on what we felt the song meant. Years later when I was in a boarding college, and she was back home and we only had the luxury of one call every week, we still shared notes on our latest finds and we still had the same opinion.

Mom tells me, I made my first song when she was a baby wrapped in sheets. Despite all the grown-ups forbidding me to hold her, I looked for an un-surveilled moment and sneaked in, took her in my arms, and started singing a song which was complete gibberish…and I had a huge grin plastered on my face. I guess that was me telling her ‘Hello there, we are in for a great time together, you and me, I promise. Welcome to the world, baby!’

My sister learnt to spell and read, when the rest in her class were mumbling. I am not kidding! We were amazed one time, when she started reading out one of those countless graffiti on the wall educating people on whom to vote for in the next state elections. And yet, she chose not to write, letting tears roll down her eyes every time she had to finish alphabet homework. She would just look so miserable, that mom would have to hold her fingers around the pencil and drag her hand through the process. I just think she was a clever clod – getting work done by an adult was much faster and effective. And it meant more game time! We were not surprised when she started reading books when her best friend closest in age was drawing crayons in color books.

And I now come to my second most pertinent memory of us growing up. Books. My husband still complains that he needs to educate me every time we go for a movie based on a comic book. ‘You guys just lost a fundamental part of your education trying to read Jane Eyre!’ he comments. And to be honest, he is not far from the truth. But at that time, we were lost in a trance of classics, foreign authors, and of course, Famous Five and Nancy Drew! Those were the days when we would look forward to our birthdays, to get books that we had been treasuring on our most-wanted lists…not a new dress or a shoe. And definitely not a stuffed toy! I remember one time when we had a serious conversation about becoming like the Bronte sisters. We even invented our own pen names, and our parents had a huge laugh over how they sounded like names of ships.

I remember the P.G. Wodehouse phase very clearly. We would be rolling on the floor, tears streaming down our eyes, laughing epileptically, and our mom would be highly unimpressed with our un-lady-like behavior. And we would chant out together, ‘I came back so fast, I almost met myself going out!’ Mom would just ‘Humph’ and leave us both shaking her head in disdain.

An important part of us growing as our father’s daughter was that we had to be very analytical. Let me re-phrase that. We did not get anything because we cried blue murder. We had to prove in logical terms that we needed something. And being daughters of a statistician meant we were supposed to be born mathematical. Hell, my sister’s name means Theory of Numbers! One of the first books we read was Maths with Mummy, and I still remember my sister almost inhaling the book into her system, the moment she set eyes on it. So big was the influence of logic, that once when she was angry at mom, she locked herself up in the room upstairs, did not eat lunch (though trust me, she always had a hidden stash of food up there!), and wrote out a questionnaire which mom needed to fill and sign at the bottom. Only then would she would let herself out. She also had the habit of tearing pages off her dairy and keeping it in the most obvious places (like on top of the ironing board) so the people concerned knew what she really felt! Coupled with her compulsory teaching lessons every evening to all of us members of the family, including my grand mom, it’s no surprise that she has grown up to make a living out of teaching English!

And here’s the funny part. We still do exactly the same things even now, though technology (and of course the ability to indulge in all sorts of gadgets) means we read i-books and crib about the paperback, play pianos, guitars and random instruments on tablets, and share lists on Grooveshark. Despite having a job that needs me to travel quite heavy duty, and despite her staying in a place where she takes care of ten thousand things – all in a language that she had no idea of a year back (and I have heard that she can make cab drivers blush!), we still cope fairly well when it comes to the basics…going into a reverie once in a while with discussions around a good book and it’s interpretation, or an amazing piece of music we heard sitting in a café, that we HAD to SoundHound! Does it mean we have not changed? Trust me on that. We definitely are not the same people we were. I would have loved to go into details of how, but that’s not the point really. The point is, when the things around me look suddenly alien – and don’t they do so more now than when we were younger – I know that there is one part of who I am, that I will always identify with. All I have to do is seek her out. She would know intrinsically how to take care of it.

Continued from Part I and Part II. You can read them here

Where was Toots? – And the knowledge would dawn on him in the way they can only in dreams- The crutch had swallowed the girl. No, the girl had turned into the crutch. Then what had happened to her crutch- he would go berserk trying to figure out.

It took two days to get over these weird day dreams and psychedelic night- puzzles (they were not frightening enough to be called nightmares, only mildly distressing). He was turning into a mad-man (through in other circumstances he would be all condemnation about the above usage – it wasn’t a politically correct term)

… SK had somehow expected Toots to go tweet tweet tweet but the voice in the other end was deep and husky- soothingly so. It unfailingly had the placating effect warm water must have on joints that were aching or a wound that had cauterized.

‘Santosh’ Toots addressed with a familiarity that seemed decade old at least. She didn’t ask what had kept him busy for the last two days.

“We have known each other for 4 months, Toots. I want to meet you” SK simply said. At Cherry’s at 5.30 pm”,came the reply. The Candy pink Maruti modified to suit her requirements was visible. He stepped in. Toots was sitting, staring into space. SK stood in front of her, panting. ‘You’ve come’ she said politely albeit absently. Her mind was still hers.

He wondered about her. Over a period of time, SK discovered that Toots was more articulate online or over the phone and a little tongue-tied or in brown study face to face. Maybe that was what thy called artistic temperament. He wouldn’t know.

She effusively perused his photographs. Begged him for one of red poinsettias. Within days she had metamorphosed them into a breath-taking painting.

Sumana meanwhile was down with peptic ulcers. Unheeding of the doctor’s advice, she had gone ahead and indulged on some over spiced cutlets. This was most uncharacteristic of her. She suffered for it and how. Santosh visualized her going overboard over the cutlets, then ending up like this for a simple indulgence. He felt a dash of pity mingled with affection. ‘ Poor Su’ she wasn’t born with the sturdiest of stomachs. As she recovered , he helped her catch up on college work she’d missed. They then took a walk in the moon- lit night.

She wasn’t wearing her glasses. With her porcelain smooth skin and chiseled features, Sumana was what most people would consider a conventionally good looking specimen of the female species. The moon beam compliments her features further. ‘You are beautiful, Su’ SK murmured touched by the marmoreal quality of her loveliness. ‘I know’ she said and smiled with her lips tightly shut. Some thing about the remark or the smug smile irked SK. The tenderness he’d felt for her earlier in the day faded a little.

Toots was at her studio painting azure squares on a large canvas: but mere squares they wouldn’t be; SK knew there was something called abstract art even if he didn’t understand it. He wasn’t even a dilettante but Prof MM was and he had once told Santosh that abstract art (like poetry) would be full of symbolic representations and imagery that made perfect meaning to the creator of it. It completed the artist in a way the rest of the world wouldn’t understand. SK felt a pang of envy for a moment. Toots –her rich secret mental processes. Other secrets..?

How many friends do you have online? Are you on any social networking site?’ he asked with feigned nonchalance.

‘ No, I just chat once in a while’ she answered in between bolds and open strokes ‘ I am not on FB or anything. I am bit of a dud at technology if you want to know the truth’ she tittered.

Lies?

‘Tell me about your chat friends’ he repeated. He forgot to be casual and all that this time. ‘There’s you and three others’ she said openly, meeting his eye. Has he imagined all the secrecy? ‘A richy rich business man- supposed to be from the US of A’ she chuckled ‘A real braggart. Besides his spellings suck’ SK laughed too. ‘A girl techie from Hyderabad’ Toots counted on her ring finger ‘ She’s nice- a real movie buff’ ‘ And the third? Oh there Knox –dad at 23. Lives with his 2 year old daughter Katie. Simply dotes on her. Apparently his partner left him for some one else’. ‘From which part of the world is he?’ ‘Some small town in America, I guess’ Toots shrugged. He’s nice. His spellings also suck, though’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Not all guys are as linguistically skilled as I, Toots’, SK ruffled his collar.

Toots didn’t seem to have heard. ‘Imagine Santosh, dad of a 2 year old at 23. And I still single at 26’, Toots said glumly.

‘Toots’ SK patted her back. ‘Pep up! 26 is real young! (look at me I am 28 and at this advanced age, still a bachelor). We have our whole lives ahead of us’

‘We do?’

‘Of course, sweets. But you seem intent on crooning ‘Goodbye to love’ a la Karen Carpenter already, my fledgling.’

‘Do you have an eating disorder by any chance?’

‘No, I don’t!’ The earnestness with which he posed the question sent her into hysterics.

Santosh grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I handle Abnormal Psychology. I have anorexia , bigorexia, bulimia and their kin flitting my mind all the time’

 ‘Um-hum?’ ‘I need a walk. You wanna come?’ She stood up, stretched luxuriously and took her crutch.

‘Sure’

Toots seemed to like the outdoors very much. She walked nearly as fast as he did but took frequent breaks .SK didn’t really mind. These pauses were richly replete with conversation . This girl did talk.

Toots sauntered off to a cherry blossom tree (next to Cherry’s Cafe) and hugged it. She closed her eyes. ‘To be one with nature, what a blessing’ ‘she said with feeling. She didn’t speak for a while. Some mysterious emotions seem to be brimming inside her.

‘I think he lives on a ranch or farm or something…. close to the soil’

You know that foremost question he asked was “So Toots, what do you for fun?” “Nothing- hoping you’d have suggestions” I had typed.

“Drive trucks and tractors and hang out with your kid’ had been his response.

Toots spoke as through from a distance. You’re taking about that chat acquaintance of yours, if I’ve understood right’

‘Yes, I meant Knox’, she said softly and closed her eyes once more.

‘Have his spellings improved?’ SK asked carelessly.

‘Just as bad as before

By Kaajal Pradhan Lamba

Ingredients:

For the filling

• Lamb/ Beef Mince - 500 gms.

• Onion                 - 1 medium chopped

• Carrot                 – 1 medium chopped

• Celery                 – 2 stalk chopped

• Garlic            – 1 tbs. finely chopped

• Cognac               - 2 table spoons

• Worcestershire

• Sauce        - 1 table spoon

• Tomato Paste       – 1 table spoon

• Olive Oil`             – 2 table spoons

• All purpose Flour   - 2 table spoons

• Bay Leaf                - 1 no.

• Cinnamon Powder  – 1/8 table spoon

• Clove Powder         – 1/8 tablespoon

• Sage                     – ¼ table spoon

• Thyme                  – ¼ table spoon

• Nutmeg                - grated a pinch

• Mutton/Beef /Chicken Stock       – 300 -400 ml

• Salt & Pepper        – to taste

For the Pastry

• All purpose flour – 350 grams

• Butter unsalted - 200 grams (chilled)

• Iced water - 60 ml + more if required

• Salt                     - 1 tablespoon

• Fine Sugar                   - 1 table spoon

METHOD:

Filling

1. Heat olive oil in a heavy bottomed pan/pot.

2. Add the garlic, fry till fragrant, now add the onion and fry for sometime. Now add the carrot and celery and fry for another 3-4 minutes.

3. Add the minced meat and fry stirring continuously till the meat changes color and enough water has dried out.

4. To this add the flour and fry well till all the ingredients are mixed well.

5. Now add the stock, bay leaf & cognac and bring to a boil. Cover and cook in medium – low heat till the meat is cooked thoroughly and the consistency is quite thick.

6. To this add the Worcestershire sauce, sage, thyme, clove powder, cinnamon powder, grated nutmeg and salt & pepper to taste.

7. Stir and mix well and simmer for another 4-5 mins. 

8. Turn off the heat and let it rest for sometime.

Making the Pie

1. Put the flour and salt and sugar in a bowl and mix well with a fork or whisk.

2. To this add the cubed chilled butter.

3. Using your fingers to crush the butter and mix well the butter & flour till it resembles a crumbly texture. If you are using a Food Processor then pulse the mixture to a crumbly texture for about 15 seconds.

4. Now slowly add the chilled water and using a blunt butter knife. Keep stirring the mixture till it starts to clump together.( 60 ml should be fine use extra only if required).If using food processor then add the water through the feeding tube and pulse for not more than 30 seconds.

5. Now gather the dough on a work surface and bring it together and make a big ball. Divide in two and cover with cling film and put in freezer for at least half an hour or more.

6. In a lightly floured surface roll out the pastry 8 or 9 inch (20 to 23 cm) pie pan. 

7. To prevent the pastry from sticking to the counter and to ensure uniform thickness, keep lifting up and turning the pastry a quarter turn as you roll (always roll from the center of the pastry outwards to get uniform thickness).

8. To make sure it is of right size, take your pie pan, flip it over, and place it on the rolled out pastry. The pastry should be about 2 inches (5 cm) larger than your pan.

9. When the pastry is rolled to the desired size, lightly roll pastry around your rolling pin, dusting off any excess flour as you roll. Unroll onto the top of your pie pan.

10. Gently lay in pan and with your fingertips, lightly press the pastry onto the bottom and up the sides of the pan.

11. Chill the pie crust & remaining dough for 10- 15 minutes.

12. Prick the bottom of the pie with a fork and line with butter paper and place some dried kidney beans for weight and bake in a pre heated oven at 180 C for about 15 minutes and then remove the weight and bake till golden brown.

13. Remove and let the pie crust cool down

14. In the mean time roll out the remaining dough to make the top cover for the pie.

15. Now fill the pie crust with the meat filling and roll the top crust and crimp the edges making sure the top crust is touching the lower crust.

16. Make small incisions on the top crust to allow the steam to escape.

17. Pop it in a pre heated oven at 200 C for 15 – 20 minutes or till the top crust is well browned.

18. Remove and let it sit for sometime and serve with ketchup.

                                                              ‘Mummy you are the best chef- says Ananya as she digs in the meat pie

Picture Courtesy-Petr Kratochvil

“I am a relationship dropout. A divorcee,” she had said with a smile, a sort of sad smile. I wanted to giggle at her witticism but held out my tongue  just in time as I was unsure if it would be appropriate or not. What followed was a bizarre half smile half grimace. A diplomatic expression.

What it is about divorce, that people curl and coil back and shrink with disgust at its slightest mention? Why the scorn? The accusing stares? And the ‘hmms’ and ‘hawwws’?

Is it because deep in our minds we do take it as a relationship dropout thing and look down upon it as we would at a school dropout? Is divorce a kind of failure? No doubt it is taken as a last step or resort to a failed marriage, but why do we take it as a personal failure.

Marriage isn’t a performance nor is it a game. Many feel it to be an investment or an institution as they say, but I feel it to be a sort of unwritten or maybe written agreement between two individuals to lead their lives together as an unit, if you go by technical terms.

If you like the more flowery emotional language then it is an union of two beings, two soul,s committed to stay together till eternity as they imagine it.

But sometimes, agreements have to be terminated, commitments have to be abandoned if the relationship isn’t working out even for either or both of the parties. It happens in business. We don’t frown upon it, but when it comes to marriage or relationship, we become scared- of everything in sight and off sight. Future, kids, society, emotions , loneliness, change -every possible excuses are made to delay the break. The result is that we endure more of it, that which could have been comfortably avoided.

  Sometimes there are legitimate grounds, sometimes the grounds are purely abstract, but it is evident that things are not working out whatever be the reason. You feel restless, trapped, frustrated, claustrophobic in it. What do we do when we feel breathless and claustrophobic ? We move out, isn’t it? We step out in the open air. So should the case be in relationships. But it is seen that we drag on out of hope for a respite or because we have been told to do so. We try to rekindle dead romances and relationships. Can the dead come alive? You will say marriage like any other joint venture in the world needs efforts , sacrifice, understanding to be successful. Of course it does. But there is a big difference between ‘successful’ and ‘compromise’. Marriage like any other joint venture also needs to be abandoned if it is showing loss- Loss of peace of mind, loss of happiness, loss of life and a hopeless sense of loss in totality

Divorce isn’t a punishment, nor is it a revenge. I wouldn’t call it a solution either. Its just a phase one should slip into amicably if deep in your heart you have the feeling that you can’t linger on anymore and that you need to move on.

Of course the future is uncertain. True it is, that a known enemy is better than an unknown friend, but marriage and your life isn’t about friends and foe, its all about moving on to someplace else, if the ground you are on is shaky. Life is a journey, a rather short journey, so move on and live it.

What our eminent author Khushwant Singh has tried portraying through this blunt and stereotypic sexual comedy is the picture of an Indian male, and the relationship with his counterpart women which is basically sexual here. The protagonist is Mohan who being a gifted academic, completes his graduation abroad (U. S) and after rejecting many lucrative offers comes back to India, where his aged father awaited him. Mr. Singh, in a very humorous tone, has depicted the auctioning in an Indian marriage. Even through humour, he is adept in connecting us with the ongoing issues of the Indian society. Mohan does settle down with a handsome dowry and on a sad note, a cranky, jealous and mediocre wife. His marital bliss had its short comings which eventually ended up with a divorce, his loyalty being the best plausible cause.

The story proceeds as Mohan, in an attempt to overcome loneliness, starts having contractual trysts with women, which included an English professor Sarojini Bharadwaj, Molly Gomez,a masseur and Susanthika, a Sri Lankan Diplomat. He being a very young millionaire gives in to lust and then to love, exotically and unnervingly.

The projection of Mohan might seem excessively obscene at times but on a serious note, through some light fencing, the role which he played of a loving son was noteworthy. After the demise of his father, throughout his life till the end he kept going back to Haridwar as a part of his promise to his father and stayed at his father’s room.

Its the story of his “commendable” life where he literally “ate, laughed and made merry”. Mohan was never faithful as a married man. His promiscuity could be derived from his varied relationships with his house maid and his baby’s nurse. His never ending endeavors with a fair set of women, pre and post his marriage stand as vivid examples to this tale. All his life he had a lustful relationship with various women but Susanthika was his last one, she dumping him for the States. His character showed signs of nursing a broken until his infliction with the disease. The story is gripping with funny narrations in uncertain situations. Its erotic as well as engrossing. The author has done full justice depicting the playfulness of Mohan. Also the end do sends a moral to men who portray such promiscuity, Mohan ending up as an AIDS victim. Somewhere it’s an image of what we see around. From lusting after one’s maid to paying for it, this is harsh. And hence, a justice to the title, Mohan’s life in “The company of women”.

A word about the author – he is a brilliant storyteller. Mr. Khushwant Singh has done a wonderful job through this story, he is best in his humor. We don’t usually find writers of his genre in Indian literature.

I practically soaked up all the humor filled emotions throughout the book. The characters are very real and relevant. Its modern day India indeed, no place else would a man go for his maid (jokes apart!). Mohan, was looking for love, let it be physical to his best concern. Also the social message will be an eye opener to people.

To all the people who want to have a good laugh and are ADULTS, you can try this book.

P. S. – girls might want to flinch once after reading it.

Happy reading.

Review by Bhabana Pathak, Guwahati

]]> https://www.friedeye.com/2012/05/book-review-the-company-of-women-khushwant-singh-by-bhabana-pathak/feed/ 1 https://www.friedeye.com/2012/05/death-freezing-over/ https://www.friedeye.com/2012/05/death-freezing-over/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 10:40:01 +0000 Maharnab Hazarika https://www.friedeye.com/?p=8873 Fried Eye notes- This poem is special to us. Why? Because it was made to order, on our specifications. And because the poet is a young talented boy who is just out of school- sorry , just given his tenth standard board exams. It becomes more special because the theme that we had given to him was a situation with two characters-a would be killer and his victim, where he was asked to project the psyche of the characters as well as the scene. Tough we know, but he did it. What do you say? Agree?

In ignorance to graves of rivalry
A poor soul; Marco was born to die,
At every corner stood in a woeful plight
knocking was his end, that he beheld
With arms wide, harassing menace;
A narrow barrel of a drunken steward
Money and gold, he had less to please
to bribe upon the blackish rains,
While a lurking shadow loathing by,
Strong and unending cruelty,
Searched his house for thirst to quench;
As justice and law went lame
For life and death dragged themselves,
And Marco took to hiding-
with pious prayers murmuring
Writhing in fear behind a broken cupboard
Old steward; one-eyed
soaring in skies of scorn,
Having no mercy on him, unjust; unfair
Stormed frustrated with torn shoes,
with an obvious fear of facing failure;
and an array of sarcastic laughter.

Marco had his breath slower;
as the sun-dazzled leaves curled to freeze
and muscles began to crave into
While he prayed to a god he never knew;
“O master, is that fair to assert
How they take your golden arrows
piercing innocent homes,
You’re a lamp with bright light
Embrace me today with your breath of life!”

Suddenly the mumblings stopped,
And cobwebs consigned to their tremors
Felt by how eerie of a noise,
the door opened with,
And another prayer rand through the room,
Yet fainter, with foreign tunes,
“My hands are tied to my breathing,
and fingers,that vibrate for my share
You’ve given me that others snatched away
To burn him to ashes,
Is only about i glare;
I’ll give you my soul without a cry
Lord, for mercy I beg;
I surrender but my fear!”

And the meek victim had tears
Of the cause not to endure much,
Reminiscences of moments many;
of joy and countless despair,
And thought of every word he failed to
Bring upon his lips,
And everything, that was left undone,
every rendezvous, when he had to mourn,
And only a wish remained alive,
To hold the breath before it abandons
while a gory steward had worries different;
His empty barns fueled desolation
For his vengeance to a fatal touch;
When hatred by then turned unlocked
Justice and conscience were already broken.

And suddenly, light shone brighter,
their fastest heartbeats stopped for a while,
For the steward chuckled and screamed;
” I fear I don’t remember tonight,
But on my wrath I strive,
Believe me, the only thing I hear and see
it should only be you!”
Cold and starved, he stepped forward,
into his shadow and blood.

We have three questions from our readers …and now let’s see what Miss C has to say about them

Q-I am an above average Engineering student (a girl), with below average fashion sense. Fashion and I gel like oil with water. My friends say I need to improve on that department , while I feel that, that is a complete waste of time and money. What do you say?

-D

Miss C replies- dear D. Do you like flowers? Which colour adorns the walls of your room? I am sure the cushions and curtains of your house must have been chosen with care? Do you love books? I am sure you keep them neat and covered?  Now tell me do you think they were a waste of time and money. The strength and character of a house isn’t determined by the color of its walls or the garden outside, I know, but still we do like adorning it, beautifying it. Why?  Because it is pleasing to the eye. So, I hope you get my point.

Q- I am a twenty three year old girl, who is in a relationship with a boy. He says he loves me very much. I don’t doubt that. What bothers me is that I don’t feel for him with the same intensity that he does for me. Which I believe is like deceiving him. And so sometimes I feel that I should back out of the relationship. What should I do?

-Rosy

Dear Rosy. How do you measure intensity? By actions? Words? What is making you uncomfortable? His passion and dedication ? Or is it lack of yours? Who are you deceiving? Him or yourself? Do you at all feel for him? There are never any doubts when you really love someone. I would have perfectly understood if you had asked me how to tell him to tone down his affections for it embarrasses you. But here I don’t exactly get why are you asking me what you should do as I know you have already made up your mind to end the relationship. Is it because you wanted a confirmation?

Q-Dear Miss C, how do I propose a girl who is nine years younger to me?- BN

Dear BN there are hundreds of reactions that you might get when you propose a girl. There are dozens of replies she might give , but there is only one way to propose a girl and that is by Letting her know. If you meant how to let her know , then statistically- you may tell it yourself, send a message through a messenger, sms her, mail her, send her a telegram and etc etc. But something tells me the matter isn’t that simple. Did you by chance mean – How to propose a girl nine years younger to me so that she says yes? Frankly speaking if I could answer that I would have been sitting in RAW and solving world issues. I could have said laugh with her, share her interests, impress her and blah blah blah, but I am sure you already knew that. When you love a girl and want her to know, just close your eyes take a deep breath and go completely by your instincts. Miss C can only pray for you. And yes hope for the best but be prepared for a NO. If it is a No , take a deep breath again, look into her eyes, control the anger and just try to remember how much you love her.

If you have more questions for Miss C, then please send them in to editor@friedeye.com with the subject Miss C and it will be featured in our next issues. You do not need to reveal your real identity.

‘O Didi! Chithi!!’, Kong called

I saw the blue inland letter in her hand

Love from home, I thought with a smile

The other day I was in Post Office, I wondered if they still have those blue inland letters. It has been a long time since I came across one. I know that Post Cards still exist as I have come across it and received a few with non important messages. I remember while I was still a kid, Deuta used to write letters to Aita (his Ma) and got replies in Inland Letters. At that time, Inland Letters were considered classy and only poor men and misers used to write letters in Post Cards. I was not allowed to write letters in Inland letters as I would waste most of the space. It was a standard thing that I don’t have much to say, and therefore my letters would be short and hence I should use Post Cards. We can come back to that later on in some other post. Envelopes were considered expensive as they cost double the price to convey the same message. Envelopes were used only when you have to say things more than an inland letter could say and it generally meant that the issue is serious and a matter of grave concern.

I don’t know how many people in my generation will remember the blue inland letter. The blue inland letter – large enough to write a month’s information and cheap enough for the common man to afford it. For a long time, it used to cost 75 p. I remember the monthly exchange of inland letters between Deuta and Aita which would make us feel that we meet regularly.

I remember one of my uncles who used to use every inch of the letter. The one we used to call a ‘Paisa Vasool Chitthi’ (Value for Money Letter). Ma used to say that people of his (my uncle’s) age write letters like that and it was a school of thought that said we should not waste any amount of resource.

I remember the Kong (Elder Sister in Khasi), who used to come every day with loads of those inland letters and now I hardly see the postman with an inland letter in his hand. Nowadays, most of the letters that are posted in the red letter box are envelopes; most of the others are either couriered or sent through registered or speed post. Inland letters are lost somewhere, amidst the memory of time, when there was no internet.

P.S. – If I wrote this in an inland letter, I would have used hardly 2 pages. 1 page would have been completely wasted. A big crime, a guilt that will always stay in my mind forever.

Addendum-

 Inland letter- as the author says is a relic of the past in a way. In those times when people had no cyberspace to scribble their notes, they had instead sent those lovely blue notes to be their voice to distant places. And so it had build many relationships, strengthened bonds, or in a tragic twist had maybe bore sad tidings of an end. E mails, social network have made life easier, but the joy of a letter after many days of waiting, from your beloved will always remain priceless.

A little bit of statistics for you -

2 Annas inland air letter was the first postal stationery of Independent India. It was issued in 15^th September 1948 from a few selected post offices

Its dimensions range between a maximum of 30 by 21 cm and a minimum of 28.2 by 18.2 cm with flaps on three side of breadth not exceeding 1.5 cm

You can use the private inland letters provided it satisfies the specifications.

Inland letter is priced at Rs 2.50 now and is still available.

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