The Year That Was

I remember clearly how I felt this time last year. I had just booked the tickets to travel to a foreign country for the first time in my life. Alone. I was excited, yes; also very happy that the long process of applying to colleges and waiting for replies was finally over. I had a wonderful prospect at hand and the future looked promising. I was also finally breaking free from the monotony of the nine-to-five, for a couple of years at the least. But, at the same time, I was petrified. With the tickets booked without any return date, it hit me hard that I was leaving, for better or for worse, and everything would change before I knew it. The feeling didn’t leave me for all of the next month while I was packing and saying my goodbyes to family and friends. And it was there in the pit of my stomach all through the long journey from home to New Delhi to catch the flight that would take me to a new destination. Thus, a terrified self-conscious young woman arrived in Copenhagen.

My first reaction on arriving in the city was noticing how beautiful it was. The skies were a pristine blue as the sun shone brilliantly, accentuating the green of the trees and grass along the city’s roads. The ride from the airport to my university took around thirty minutes and I couldn’t keep myself from peering out of the windows like an excited child. I have traveled extensively in India, bore witness to some of the most breathtaking views- but the idea of such an aesthetically pleasing city was new to me. Adding to my amazement also was the near absence of crowds and traffic on the streets. This was something that had often been told to me by people who had traveled overseas, but it was only when I witnessed it myself that it registered. By the end of that day, my nerves had calmed down considerably. The university campus was spectacularly huge, swanky and modern.  The administrative staff was welcoming and cordial. I was provided keys to my own fully furnished studio apartment. Anybody who has studied in a public Indian university would know how much of an impact the above might have had on me. It was like Christmas come early. :) 

Following in the cycle track :)

One of the lecture buildings at DTU

The first couple of months just flew-by in getting to know my surroundings better, meeting new people and keeping up with the coursework and the cumbersome housework. The language used in most public places was Danish and we had to quickly learn how to read and translate common words (most importantly in the supermarkets and on the public transport system). The university campus, on the other hand, was totally multi-cultural and one ended up meeting people from all over the world. I was once invited to a dinner party where we had to bring dishes from our home countries to the table and ended up sampling Greek, Italian, Spanish and German cuisine (I took shaahi paneer and naan). I look back on this as one of my most colorful learning phases- interacting with people of different cultures and nationalities provided me with a new perspective on the world and the oft-invoked term called ‘globalization’. I got to know some interesting viewpoints people held about my country and also got to break some of the stereotypes that i had subconsciously collected over the years. All in all, it was a big learning experience as I became aware of the differences across cultures and nationalities and also about the things that we all had in common- goals, concerns, and love for art, music and food.
Autumn gradually gave way to winter as the days started getting shorter and the nights chillier. I had come to Denmark prepared for brutal cold, complete with thick woolen socks and mitts. But I soon found out that it was not the cold that bothered me but the lack of sunlight. Come December and my days began with a pitch black sky that slowly gave way to only grey clouds before immersing into darkness again. It was difficult to adjust to this and I could feel my mood dampen. It didn't affect me for long though as, on consulting with friends, I was told that a bright and cheerful lamp in the bedroom could make all the difference. Another thing that worked to raise my spirits was experiencing my first snow. I remember scanning the weather forecast a week before to know the exact date when to expect the showers. I had read earlier that it did not snow much in Copenhagen and when it did, it got usually mixed up with hail or rain. But, did it snow that weekend! The entire city was covered in a thick, glistening layer of white. And I observed how the white also made the nights somewhat brighter, emitting a soft phantom-like glow. Being the good foreign resident that I am, I made my way to the nearest park and played with snowballs. 

 

Snow in the nearby park

The one drawback to the weather though was that it had become very difficult to cycle. Even though the tracks would be cleaned of the snow, the winds and dipping temperatures would turn my fingers gripping the bike handles to ice. Anyhow, soon there were more pressing things to fuss about other than mode of transport as with December also came the end of the semester and with it, you guessed it, examinations. I found myself spending hours in the library printing notes, going over assignments and frantically finishing up reports. The written exams themselves were all open-book, with the use of a computer allowed in some. But preparing for an all-aid exam was a task in itself as one had to be absolutely thorough with the methodologies used to tackle every problem. People tend to think that presence of aid would make the exam easier as there would be no cramming involved (like in our universities back home), but in my opinion they actually free the examiner to set up challenges for your analytical ability and not just test your memory. The Danish grading system is a tough one where one has to demonstrate understanding of at least fifty percent of the course to obtain a passing grade. This meant that to obtain a top score, the examinee has to have a thorough grip on at least ninety percent of the tasks asked for in the examination. Needless to say, I found this requirement extremely stimulating, especially after the format at my undergraduate university where scoring above eighty in a paper was a rarity. I would exit the exam hall thoroughly spent and exhausted, having exercised my mental abilities to the fullest.

The DTU library in festive mode

With the end of the exam week, the dormitory started emptying out. Christmas was one week away and my fellow students were looking forward to seeing their families. I, on the other hand, was excited about witnessing my first Christmas in a foreign country (and was also secretly praying for snow on the day). The city was adorned for the holiday season as lights and baubles went up on the streets. A Christmas market was also set up in the city center and I was very delighted to walk through it and immerse myself in the festive spirit. There were fireworks every night leading up to New Year’s Eve and the whole city life was as if suspended. I too found myself truly relaxing for the first time in four months- taking walks in Copenhagen’s famous gardens and enjoying the scenery, watching street artists perform in the marketplace and observing the evening sky light up with the shimmering fireworks. I had made it through the semester. I had successfully negotiated the differences between two countries, cultures and technical frameworks. I had made it through, presumably, for the better. :)

The city getting ready for Christmas

Grief

I’m going to write about grief. Now, I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to say here and what I mean to accomplish. But I do know that what I say is going to resonate with an aggrieved soul somewhere and that is all that I need to know.


My grief has a vague starting point. Was it when I heard the news? Or was it when I said the goodbye, knowing inexplicably that it was going to be the final one? Or do I trace it back to the periodic realizations of the inevitable loss I would have to face one day? I do not know- it was all of this and much more that contributed to the build up of the dam that has now let go. Before I lead you in any further, I will tell you in summary what this is about: I had a dog and it, she, died. That is all there is to it, if I were to disengage myself from my emotion for a bit, that is all the story has to it. But, alas, being alive and vulnerable to all the experiences life has to offer, I cannot disengage myself from the countless fleeting seconds of joy that filled up and up the cup of my being and left it perilously tilted.


It is not my intention to romanticize my grief, to make it a muse for morose poetry or a scalpel to extricate the complicated darkness of the human soul. It is only because of the relatively sunny disposition of this day’s morning that I have found the will to stand away from my grief, for just a while, and examine it. There is nothing romantic about grief anyway, as any body who has been down in it’s depth can testify. It strikes heavily, leaving you panting for mercy, panting for a way out, panting and sweating while your heart shudders and your voice fails. There is nothing romantic about grief.


So, let me begin at when I heard the news. I was home after six months; I couldn’t wait to see her. Instead, I saw tears in my father’s eyes when I asked for her. Yes, it would make sense to mark that as the beginning of my grief. Only, it wasn’t. My grief started the moment I had kissed her goodbye because, you know, life has no guarantees and I was going far, far away. I missed her terribly from that moment on. I missed my home, yes, and my parents too- but nothing as desperately and intensely as I missed the touch of her coat and the warmth of her eyes. But amidst all the eye moistening memories and longings, I clung on to the idea of a future reunion. The phone calls made it better. Sometimes in love it is enough to know that the other is happy.


Now, I don’t have that respite. She is gone. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or anything spiritual for that matter, and I can’t come to terms with her death. The grief makes me want to stay in bed all the time, all the time conjuring imagery from the past to make me surrender in guilt, remorse and sorrow. It makes me question life, my existence and my inexplicable fortune to be in existence when she is not. This is not an exaggeration, dear reader, this is what goes on in my head as a consequence of loss. You cannot imagine what all will be lost with the death of a beloved. Though these are just the thoughts which, in due course of time I have learned, grief brings along to torture us, in those initial days I drowned myself in them, crying for meaning, crying for redemption.


I turned to my parents first. They were heartbroken, too. But they had spirituality to guide them through it- they had recited the Gita into her ears and were sure she was in heaven. They had done their duty to prod her soul gently into the beyond. They were heartbroken and sad, but they had done their duty and it alleviated their suffering. But, no, they would not get another dog now.


I turned to my friends. They sympathized and held me while I cried. They listened to me patiently and tried valiantly. But how can I ask them to help me fight against something they cannot fully understand or imagine? Sure, I have lost family before. Sure, they must have, too. But, what is the appropriate code of conduct when that family is canine?They do not know the depth of my grief and I do not know the depth of their understanding of it.


Religion, family, friends- none served my purpose. So, I turned to my grief. I had contacted an online support group and they told me not to resist the grief. They told me it was the price I had to pay for being human and of being capable to build the lovely bond that we had had. They told me that this grief was the final frontier of our journey and I had to hold on. They told me that in the end, I would be rewarded with something beautiful that I could cherish for the rest of my life.


So, I turned to my grief and decided to plunge into it’s pools.


Grief has no constant current: it ebbs and falls. You begin to realize the pattern once you let yourself go with the flow. You begin to realize the difference between grieving and being melancholy. The melancholy is the lowest the grief will depress you but it will also, at times, leave you with enough breathing space to be smiling. Then, there’s the anxiety, the unfounded feelings of foreboding, the deep breathing and staying still till your heartbeats return to normal. But, the worst are the memories, memories of the previous night’s dream that your mind plays relentlessly with the sun rise, invoking grief at the stroke of dawn. It is okay. It is okay to not want to move for a while, to just let the tears flow. It is okay to let the grief take over. Grief has not a constant current.


Two months in and grief is like an old pest, still unwelcome but it’s presence somewhat expected and habitual. I wake up, make my bed, put my coffee to brew and wait, subconsciously, for it to peek through some long forgotten crevice. And as I reach for the cookies on the top shelf, a couple of them slip and fall to the ground and I can almost feel her, head rubbing gently against the back of my exposed shins, gobbling up the unexpected treats. Thus, grief joins me for coffee.


I am waiting now for the support group’s promises to come true. I want to be happy for all the love she gave me but I can’t right now. So, I will wait and wade through the grief her death left behind. I imagine that one day it will stop hurting enough for me to actually look back and appreciate her for the beautiful thing she was and not for the void she left behind. That is the goal and till then, the grief will have to stay.

Living in Denmark

Half a year has gone by since I moved to Denmark to pursue a Masters degree at DTU and lazy me has not chronicled anything about this extremely exciting change. That there is a world of difference between how my life used to be before August '15 and how it is now is an obvious conclusion. Denmark and India, or North India to be more precise, are worlds apart when it comes to the obvious geographical and social parameters. But, what do I feel about these differences? And how do they affect my daily life? Are they really so huge or do we tend to augment them using our imagination? I will try here to identify a few and write about them, hoping to make it a light and informative read.

So, here goes:

The Food
It is only when you step away from the comfort of the home-cooked, adequately scheduled meals that you realize what a life altering factor food is. But, since I am no stranger to living far from the security of mother's morsels, the food factor did not pack much of a rude shock for me. I still eat pretty much the same as I used to back in India (which is whatever can be easily bought and prepared). For those accustomed to the more traditional Indian cooking, Copenhagen does offer most of the ingredients you'd need for a nice meal. The grocery stores are in fact well stocked with ingredients for many types of world cuisine. There's only one thing that I dearly miss: paneer. The stores do have cottage cheese on offer, considering how huge the dairy industry is here, but it is not the same consistency I am used to. I guess the people here are just not too fond of this variant of cheese.
Copenhagen is pretty cosmopolitan when it comes to eating habits. The streets are full of cafes and eateries offering pizzas, french hot dogs, kebabs, samosas, shawarma, falafels, etc. I can't say I've tried much of Danish cuisine except for their legendary open sandwiches, but Copenhagen does have some of the highest rated restaurants in the world. One of the best places I have visited for street food so far is the Paper Island (Papiroen). Set inside an old, vacated paper mill, this place invites street food vendors from all over the world. You can have American, Danish, Italian, Middle-Eastern, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Turkish.... the list goes on. Even the canteen at DTU offers a variety of multi-cultural cuisine on a daily basis.

Inside Paper Island. Photo Courtesy: www.likealocalguide.com

The bottom line: if you're picky about your food habits, you might have to work a bit hard to replicate the situation you're used to. Otherwise, there is a wide variety of stuff to try and it is mostly delicious!

The Weather
When I was planning on moving to Copenhagen, the one feedback that I constantly received from all and sundry was that Denmark was going to be bitterly cold and I would not see the sun for weeks. Well, it is nice and sunny today. :) Of course, Copenhagen is not sunny like Tahiti (or New Delhi in March, April, May, June, July --- October) but the Sun does peek through regularly, bathing the city in it's gorgeous glow.

Sunny in Copenhagen :)

The long and dark winter days did not bother me as much as I had imagined they would. It was cold but not the bitterly torturous sub-zero temperature cold other countries in similar climate zones have. I had always enjoyed winter back home and the extended version of it here only made me increase the frequency of warm winter treats and cozy winter reads. This was also my first experience with snow and I loved how the city transformed into a winter wonderland.
The one outstanding feature about Copenhagen's weather though, is it's unpredictability. A day would start off as sunny, proceed to cloudy before mid day, the afternoon would be wet (you might even have hail or snow) and by evening it would have all settled down again.

Winter Wonderland in my backyard :)

The most valuable piece of advice I have received about the weather here is to always, always carry an umbrella/rain jacket and an extra sweater.

The Population (Or the relative lack of it)
Coming from one of the most populated cities in the world, this aspect is a welcome change. Nowhere is this difference more apparent than on the streets. No long queues, no crowding, no jostling, no traffic jams and honking cars and much, much more breathing space. Even when using public transport during rush hour, you are guaranteed to find a place to sit within five minutes. Of course, the story is much different in India. I can only use pictures to describe this.

Denmark, on a whole, has a population of around 5 million people. Approximately 2 million of these are residents of Copenhagen. Compare this with New Delhi where the population is nearly 16 million, if not more. This factor also greatly benefits the Danish society as it obviously makes for much better and efficient administration.

So that's it for now, a short succinct summary of the most obvious differences between my life in Denmark compared to India. I shall continue this with more about my cross-country experiences.
Tak!

*Picture Courtesy: Wikipedia

What's Your Story?

What's your story, Copenhagen?

I have been here for three weeks now and I'm still wondering. You never talk. Never attempt eye contact. Even when I look at you, you shy and look away. What's going on there, inside your head? What mysteries thrive in the criss-cross of your numerous lanes and  in the quiet of your green recluses? What does the wind carry when it blows over your cold grey-blue ingresses of water?

In my room, I can hear the cars zooming down the highway, all day. In the mornings, I can hear the birds chirp. Sometimes, late into the night, I can even hear the rain falling on the cobbled footpaths and the trees rustling with the wind. But, rarely, very rarely do I hear people talk, walking under the artistic street lamps.
Why are you so afraid of people listening in? Your privacy you guard with a knightly fierceness.

Yet, I've never felt so comfortable being out on my own in the streets, on a crowded bus, riding an elevator, visiting a mall or any of those places where you would typically find yourself surprised by a traffic of people. It's liberating to be just a part of that traffic: not caring about other people's business and, blessedly, not having to care about people caring about your business. Your privacy you can learn to prize.

Does it get lonely? I am waiting to find out. So far I have been too excited with the freedom to just enjoy solitude to worry about it.

Copenhagen, I may never fully know your story, but I must thank you for giving me the space to work on my own.

*Picture Courtesy: Wikipedia

Of Women and Fiction

In the year 1928, Virginia Woolf was called by the Arts Society at Newnham and the Odtaa at Girton to speak about women and fiction. The papers delivered by Woolf on the two occasions have since been compiled and expanded into an essay titled ‘A room of one’s own’. But, hang on, we’re talking about women and about fiction and this lady is talking real estate? Not quite. For a woman to be a successful author/writer or poet, she must have a room of her own and an income of so-and-so per year, Woolf asserted. The simplicity and directness of this statement makes one not take it too seriously. She said nothing about passion, dedication, discipline, creativity or any of those virtues we may expect to have an important role in the development of the writer. Instead, she drew my attention to two mere resources- a private room and a steady income. Why? The rationale took me back to a time where female writers were unheard of, right at the beginning of what we may call the dawn of women and fiction. The reasons presented in her argument collude and transcend all that affects, aids and discriminates against her sex. I found myself riveted to the essay, produced almost a century ago, but very much concordant with and inclusive of the notions of femininity and feminism that arrest me today.

To study about women and fiction, Woolf went back to the earliest of literature about women. But, here, we encounter an issue. There is no dearth of literature featuring women but only as a subject. There are plenty of books by men on a range of topics but no books written by women.  What were the women doing and why were they not writing but leaving it to the other sex to represent and document them? Even the books of history had a minimal mention of them, as if they had been invisible during all of the wars and revolutions. But there was no shortage of books written on or about women, studies on the character of women, on how to deal with them and understand them. At this point, I began to wonder- are we really two variants of the same species? Or did the women just show up one day, from Venus perhaps, and demanded that men study, tolerate and control them? There is also a certain vehemence with which men, irrespective of country, race or religion, have all rushed at some point of history to denounce women and introduce ideas of inferiority.

Forgive my unintended misandry for an instant while we examine the position of the average person: A person, to be successful in any industry, must possess a certain degree of self-respect and confidence. We must also agree to the fact that if the average person is communicated a notion of ‘being better’ than, let’s say, another person, this perception of self-worth automatically increases. Now, think of the average man and think about him being told that ‘he’ is the superior sex.  Oh, that would be a nice boost for the ego, wouldn’t it? An entire half of the population diminished and swept away in a matter of sentences. And this sentiment was echoed when Woolf tried to find the reason for why there were so many men writing their views on women. For a long period in history, the woman has served as a mirror to the man- a mirror that enlarging their self-image and feeding the idea of superiority. This is the premise of a patriarchal society.

On the idea of superiority of males over females- enough has been said and proven already. Yet, the idea never leaves us. It finds its way across generations and cultures to restrain the woman or to falsely implicate the man in to pre-defined, stereotypical roles. The worst consequence of this school of thought is obviously the mass prevalence of female feticides and favoritism exhibited towards the male child. It is how we treat the child that determines how society functions in the future.

However, going back to the era Woolf had me in; I find that the woman had not written any book to defend herself.

The question of there being no literature produced by women in that period can be attributed to two factors- illiteracy and poverty. She was illiterate because there was no place for a woman of words and knowledge in a household run on patriarchy. The lack of education again guaranteed a disability for her to fend for herself. Also, the laws and practices of inheritance made it impossible for her to come in possession of money. Hence, she was poor and dependent. The force restricting expression of the female creative power was the patriarchal society.

When a society is governed by rules written by a certain section; the other section would always find themselves living within the confines of roles chalked out for them. The woman found that the masculine opinions of what she could and could not do- often unsupported by fact but flung casually at her nevertheless, blotted her formative years and carved holes into the pillars of her self-confidence. Could an artist be born this way? One may argue that the woman need not pay attention to these external factors so out of her control and focus on her own artistic intent itself. But, Art is born out of sense of self and , quoting Woolf, ‘it is precisely the men or women of genius that mind most what is said of them’. Even so, let us consider that she somehow ignores what is said about her ability and talent, but the lack of money and education coupled with the abundance of domestic responsibility were reasons enough to dissuade her.  It were only the distinguished, privileged and wealthy ladies  who could afford to write poetry or literature- but even then, other forms of Art were strictly out of her reach. Their works were marked with traces of feminism that were, without a doubt, necessary. Their creative energies could have been directed elsewhere, to other aspects of Life, in general, yet they chose to divest them on the more pressing issue, may be to reclaim their voice. The woman wrote neither philosophy nor odes to nature or love but tales about the injustice of her oppression. 

Towards the end of the eighteenth century, the female author discovered that she could turn to the letter for bread. But, of course, no honourable woman could be found making a career out of being a wordsmith. Even Austen hid behind pseudonyms. But now her work was free from aggression directed towards men or pity on her own self. With the dawn of the nineteenth century, she finally began seeing writing as an art form, not merely as a tool for self-expression.  

To what extent can we disentangle the personal from Art? It can be argued that every creative endeavour attempted by a person provides an insight to that person- his views, memories, general ideals and ideas of life. Hence, in this context, literature can be said to serve as a sort of a mirror to society. Thereby, it makes sense to draw an analysis of literature over the years to gauge the trends in gender perception with time.

The relationship between women as represented in literature/Art can be compared and examined for its similarities with reality. A lot many pieces leave the reader wondering if two women can ever share the bond of friendship without jealousy and competition. Literature has had several examples of men as friends, bosses, helpers, etc. of other men. But, to sketch women in relationships other than those they share with men was a task not attempted as often. As Woolf wrote, ‘…seen only in relation to the other sex…how small a part of a woman’s life is that…how little can a man know, when he observes it through black or rosy spectacles…’. Hence, the representation of the woman cannot be deemed to be objective in such a scenario. Authors such as Mary Carmichael (among others of the likes of Woolf, Austen and the Brontes, etc) attempted to another dimension to literature by portraying the oft obscured domestic life. Great novels had been written about splendid events like wars and catastrophes but seldom about the trivialities that one observes in a household or about the aspirations of common women. So, May Carmichael, when she intended to write about women, had to set out on an expedition to explore, understand and grasp the vanities, peculiarities, ambitions and insecurities of her own sex as well as to observe the other sex and the relationships between them. She wrote about two women, their friendship, their respective domestic lives and refreshingly, their shared ambition outside of domesticity. 

I do not wish to promulgate a vision of books written by women, for women and about women. But, for a long period in history, we have gone without appreciating the complex and sensitive bond shared between two women which is not influenced by the men in their lives.

The great mind, I am convinced, is androgynous. The accomplished writer writes unconscious of their own sex. You do not read a great work of art and immediately conclude that it was the work of a man or a woman. Yet, if we observe the literary world around us, we would find numerous examples of gender being assigned to different types of literature and cinema. The great artist knows that men and women are the ends of the same spectrum, not opposing factions. If we see the truly prominent and lasting works of art, like Shakespeare, we would find that they have been the ones conceived by a mind unconscious of sex- the androgynous mind. (May be that is why there has been unending speculation over the Bard’s gender over the years.)

There is a great satisfaction in seeing the sexes as parts of a whole and none as an end within itself. The fully developed mind does not think specially or separately of gender. 

A Tiny Tale for the Hopelessly Romantic II

I do not usually write stories dripping with such corniness but I bad been aching to get pen on paper again and this happened. I like to tell myself it at least made good writing practice. Please forgive me, I have been on a diet of Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives (though the housewives were at least capable of murder). So, if you were able to suffer through this, here is, what you may call, a part two...

Nothing would have felt better than wrapping him in a tight embrace and hunting between those lips for sugar, Emily contemplated. Kissing him was the one things that had the power to transform and uplift every thing- her mood, her day, her messy schedule- it was like an instant fix trick. Just go up to him, lock lips and everything would be better.

Yet, there she was, watching his silent profile, not daring to make a move, not being able to traverse the two steps that lay between them. The air was laden with the weight of the argument the room had just witnessed. Echoes of their angry screaming resounded off the bare walls, the darkening windows, the cold dinner...

It had been the fifth day in a row. Fighting seemed to be the only thing they were capable of, lately. Their house was a mess and they were always too edgy and irritable to do anything about it. It was just heartrendingly sad, thought Mark. He was so certain that this woman and this relationship would be so much more than unrealistic expectations and angry nagging and broken vases. He was sure he had found the perfect mix for a calm and happy life. How could he have known that he would find himself staring at a cold, hardened face at the end of every day in spite of everything he had done to make sure he wouldn't end there? They had been so perfectly happy. Not even the grimmest of cynics would have predicted such an outcome when they had decided to move in together three months back. But, then, that was the rosy period, wasn't it? Even cynics see cupids at that time. If only they could find a way back to that carefree happiness again- back to the stage when just being there for each other was enough...

He looked at Emily. He could see tears forming in her eyes. No, he couldn't let her cry- she'd always use the hurt as a weapon, always to get him to concede. He must look away and not melt with the droplets making their way down her cheeks.

Every now and then it'd fall apart. Over 'nothing'. It would be 'nothing'- only it carried with it the weight of countless disappointments and broken promises and emotional outbursts that they had gathered over the past few months, Like a small rock sliding down a snowy slope- a little nothing in the beginning gathering force and momentum to transform into a destructible.
Emily didn't want to cry. She was sad, yes. And angry. But, most of all, she was tired of facing the menacing avalanche of their mutual pain again. Which was why the tears fell anyway. It wasn't a way of establishing control but, on the contrary, an expression of her relinquishing it. She wanted somebody, anybody to come fix this. She wanted Mark to come over and hold her, as tightly as could be.

He was watching her from the corner of his eye. He could stay put and wait for her to concede and apologize. Or he could go over right now and put an end to this himself. If he stayed it could possibly register a victory of sort for him- a deterrent to future arguments on similar grounds. If he went they'd be stuck in this grey area again. No victories, no conclusions. But, it would make the crying stop.

Emily felt a gush of warmth through her being as her wish was granted. As much as she'd wanted it, she hadn't expected it to happen so soon. She looked searchingly at his face, trying to find a way into his thoughts.

'I'm sorry, Em. I...', he began.

'No, it really wasn't your fault, Mark', she sobbed, 'I was too vicious in my attack.'

Mark paused. Now that the words he had been wanting to hear for the past five days had been offered to him, he felt neither relief nor closure. Yes, he knew that it wasn't his fault. At least, not entirely. It didn't make him feel any better to hear it from her. It wasn't about finding and proving where the faults lay...

'I'm just a horrible person. I did not mean to pick on you like that, but I just... I just felt so angry, Mark... because I feel so helpless... It's just so hard, these days...'

This was where the problem was. This bleak, self-defeatist view of life. It wasn't about mistakes or promises or fulfilling expectations- it was this insecurity about dealing with something that had turned out to be much more complex than they had bargained for. It was about fear and their helplessness at not being able to escape from it...

'Hey...', Emily blew her nose and turned his face to hers, forcing him out of his reverie.

'Do you... do you sometimes think we're making a mistake?'

'Why?'

'Because all that we ever seem to do is fight!'

'Every couple fights, Em!'

'I know... But, I never wanted us to be like any other average couple. I thought we were different. I even took pride in it...', Emily went on, giving voice to the very fears that had been tormenting Mark a few minutes back.
Mark was silent, lost in thoughts again. What if they too were meant to be only another addition to the nameless collective of failed and unhappy relationships? Maybe there wasn't anything like a perfect relationship. It's all the stuff of fairy-tales. Santa was a lie, after all. Did that mean that the satisfaction they had been seeking for through much of their adult life was going to elude them forever?

Finally, he looked up with an air of certainty. 'Hey, look, Em, I'm as scared and clueless as you are. I don't know why we end up fighting like this. I don't know where all the viciousness comes from. May be its stress. May be its worry. Or disappointment...'

'I'm not disappointed in you, Mark, I'm disappointed in us...'

'Yes, but, you don't need to be. Not yet. This is the beginning. I know we've been programmed to look for happy endings but, I'm thinking, may be, there is no happy ending. May be we can only start our journeys faithfully and keep making efforts to stay on it... Let's not get too ahead of ourselves, looking for destinations, right?'

Emily looked at him silently, eyes urging him to go on.

'What I mean to say is, the fact that I made a mistake and let you down doesn't mean that I don't care about you or our relationship. Being in a loving relationship does not mean never making mistakes... We are bound to make them... But we mustbbe able to sustain through it... I know we have let each other down... It may not have been our intent... But it doesn't mean we don't love each other... As long as we remember that, we'd be fine... After all, it's only minor scuffles... Nothing we can't shake off...'

Emily managed a smile. It made sense. Feeling much lighter and happier, she asked, eyes twinkling, 'Know what kept going through my mind while we were fighting?'

'What?'

'How much I wanted to just come over, give you a huge hug and shut those lips of yours.'

'Now that is what I was talking about!', Mark replied, chuckling.

Up the Stairs

It's an overcast day. We have been having a lot of these lately- dark grey clouds wander over to increase our rates of perspiration and excitement by threatening to burst, only to depart after a mild, blink-and-miss drizzle. Sensing a pattern, I decide to make the most of the cool evening air by strolling around on the terrace. It has been a while since I've been back home but the dismal weather had kept me from venturing out on the terrace. Plus, Carey and I have enough of a playground in the driveway & the leisurely evening walk. However, today, we hobble up the stairs to the terrace. Hobble, because the right hip has gone somewhat stiff (I read online that that's genetic in GSDs) or maybe because we have to sniff out the rats lurking around the old items stacked alongside the stairs. Either way, its one excited, yet slow, step at a time.

The terrace is a beautiful, large expanse of concrete and brick littered with Carey's hoard of items to play fetch with (three dried mango seeds, two chewed sticks, one empty cup of yogurt and so on...). Though the view is not of the lush green fields we had been habituated to in the old house, the Ashoka trees and flower laden creepers give us nothing to complain about. It is a quiet, peaceful neighborhood and birds begin to gather around as we start play. Carey acts as goalkeeper as I proceed to kick the 'ball' (in this case a mango seed) around the 'park'. You'd think an old dog would grow out of such behavior but this one's still a kid at heart (and shouldn't we always be, too?). So, it is kick and guard, kick and guard till I notice big, round droplets forming on the ground- Rain! Run for cover! Carey is loathe to return- she doesn't have to worry about drenched clothes and impropriety; and the showers add the zing to her game- but, return we must.

Now, I'm relaxing on a bean bag with the AC on for the rain died almost as soon as we rushed downstairs and the dog has gone to sleep clutching an old ragged cloth in her mouth. But, with the trip to the terrace, at least my will to write has arisen.

Carey is now a senior dog- she had her tenth birthday in February. She is happy and healthy and greets each day with a wagging tail. It is nice to have a dog grow up in front of you- you get to become acquainted with its habits and get a fair idea of what might be scheming in the old bugger's head. The wily pooch also learns to tolerate your moods and the household's charter of 'Crime and Punishment' gets firmly embedded in its head (along with the loopholes and clauses, of course). As for vision and hearing loss, I do actually recall Carey not paying much attention to instructions involving sitting still and not stealing my food from the table- but it may be a strange case of selective hearing or just good old doggy wisdom.

Anyhow, the point I am trying to drive home here is that your dog (or cat or parrot or whatever) deserves to grow old in a healthy, loving environment. That is the least you can do to repay unconditional love and undying loyalty. It pains me to see people abandoning their pets just because they get 'too big', 'too old' or 'too sick'. A pet is not a toy or accessory for your household- it is a member and when you bring one home, make sure the commitment lasts through its lifespan (unless it is a tortoise).

Respect Life- all of us have a one way ticket.  

The Way Home

I had always wanted to tell this story. My story is an old one, as old as our country in fact. This means that it has been heard and told for years, passed on from one family member to another. I can say I was born into this story, like people are born into poverty or privilege as their fate demands, I inherited this fantastic tale, fed into me since infancy in bits and pieces till I was able to comprehend the whole of it. And what a gift of ancestry it is: dearer than precious stones or sprawling mansions, for, when the times turn dark and I find myself unsure, I turn to this heirloom and draw strength…

“For it is only when you find yourself face to face with Fear, it's menacing gaze reducing your insides to a churning liquid, do you discover the will and the means to reclaim yourself. And that is Courage.”

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The marketplace was secluded and gloomy. Dev, the owner of a general cloth shop regarded the dreary scene with despair and sighed. He remembered the crowds that would throng the place at this time of the day but now those happy times were gone. Born the son of a Tehsildar, Dev had been forced to take up the command at a young age with the untimely demise of his father. Giving up his dream of pursuing studies in Medicine, he had established the shop and sent his younger brothers to Medical school instead. Being able to single-handedly support a family had made him into something of an achiever at a very young age and his character had prospered with the responsibility.

But today, Dev was sad. He knew that things would never be the same again, especially with the communal hatred that was spreading. The village of Mamukanjan, District Sialkot, was rapidly emptying itself of its non-Muslim population. Packing their bags and leaving for the new India where they said life would be prosperous for the Hindus under Nehru’s command. It was August and the air was damp and heavy. Dark clouds were prone to gathering without a notice to unload their burden on the ground. But the dark clouds that were threatening the life of the villagers were different. With the news of the Independence had also come the announcement of the formation of a new nation, Pakistan, a separate country to be chalked out for the Muslim population with Jinnah at the helm of affairs. Dev failed to understand why they needed a separate country. Hadn’t they co-habited peacefully all these years? Separation on the basis of religion! What difference did religion make, after all, they all ate the same bread, drank the same water and faced the same problems of an ordinary domestic household. ‘The only difference is that, in the evening, my neighbor goes to the mosque and I, to the temple…’, mused Dev as he closed down the shop for the day and walked towards his home.

On entering the house, Dev perceived an atmosphere of tension and fear. His wife, mother and sisters were all gathered in the courtyard, silent and still. All eyes turned to him as his made his way towards the cot. He looked searchingly at their troubled faces.

‘The Khannas have also left. They went this morning. Now, all my sisters have gone’, it was Nirmal, his young bride who was the first to speak.

‘Son, they are saying that once Pakistan comes into being, not a single Hindu will be left alive here. Pakistan is only for Muslims. No one else will be allowed.’

‘But, mother, how can it be so? Haven’t we been living here since so many decades? Father was the tehsildar of this village! Everybody knew and respected him. He has done a lot of work for this village. We have as much right to live here as the Muslims. Besides, who will ask us to leave?’, Dev retorted, splashing some cool water on his face.

‘The Muslims will want us to leave, brother. Yes, our very neighbors. I have heard that they have become violent in the cities. Talks of the new country has injected them with venom against us.’

‘Oh, that’s nonsense, sister! Absolute nonsense! What will our neighbours ever gain by driving us out? Let’s not fill our heads with such ideas. It is all propaganda to spread hatred. A departing move made by the British to upset us. Hindus and Muslims in separate countries! Why, there are much more Muslims on the other side of the border than there are here, how can they all come here?’

‘Dev, your sisters are terrified! Your wife is expecting! You must understand we have no way of protecting ourselves in these troubled times. What if the rumors are true? What if they turn us out? Oh, if only your brother was here! He must have news of what is going on there. Have you received any letter from him?’, Dev’s mother asked, referring to his younger brother who was at that time studying in Ludhiana, on the other side of the proposed border.

‘No, mother, I have not received anything from him yet. But we really must not worry. There is nothing to be afraid of. But, if you want, I will enquire about arrangements for a safe passage, if the need shall ever arise. Now, shall we have some dinner?’

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Unfortunately for Dev and his family, the need arose too soon. It was September, the 4^th, 1947. Raj, one merchant like him, came with the news.

‘Dev Bhai, you must leave. We must all leave immediately. I am leaving today itself’, he panted as he hurriedly shut down his shop. ‘What are you staring at me for? Run!’

‘Raj, what happened? Why this urgency all of a sudden? Won’t you tell me?’

‘No time, Dev. Just listen to me. These scoundrels are setting fire to every Hindu home in the village. They are looting every shop of ours they can find and hacking our women and children with their swords. Dev, you must go!’

He felt himself starting to tremble. His palms grew clammy and a cold wave ran down his spine. He rushed to Raj and grabbed him by the shoulders. Looking deep into his eyes, he said, ‘Swear to me, Raj, that everything you are telling me is verified. Is there no other way left for us?’

‘Dev, I swear on my family. Now, leave me, I have to go. Talk to a truck driver as soon as you can for passage!’, Raj replied before disengaging himself and rushing away. As Dev watched his retreating figure, terror gripped him. How would he arrange a safe passage on such short notice? They had not even packed anything like the other families. He ran down the streets to where the trucks were stationed and spotted Salim, one of his neighbours.

‘Salim Mia, we cannot find a way to escape. Will you take us?’

‘No, I’m sorry, you are too late. I am already taking one family and it will be too difficult to hide another.’

‘But there is no other way! We must leave now or perish!’

But the bulky Muslim continued to nod his head. Then, Dev did something he had never imagined himself capable of. He took off his turban and laid it down at the man’s feet.

‘Salim Mia, the life of my family is in your hands. Please, I beg of you, show some kindness to your neighbors.’

 Salim regarded the helpless figure at his feet. That he would be caught if trying to help Hindus was certain, but he could not being himself to refuse the man.

‘Okay, Dev, I will be waiting with my truck here. You must come with your family in one hour at the latest. If you are not here at the end of the hour, we will leave’.

No sooner had Dev heard the words that he sprinted, as fast as his legs would carry him. Cries of ‘Allah-oo-Akbar’ were filling the street. He could discern an orange glow on the horizon which could not be the sun setting. ‘Oh God, it has started!’. He reached home and directed everybody to pack everything they could in two suitcases and leave. His wife and mother were appalled. There were way too many valuables in the house to be stuffed into two suitcases. But, it was either survival or wealth and they chose the former.

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Dev knew that to expect a safe and uninterrupted passage was out of the question. But, none of his foresight could have prepared him or his family for the sights that unfolded in the streets. Mutilated, mangled bodies lay strewn along the roads, blood flowing down in small drains. Terrified, the family huddled together in a corner, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. They had forgotten everything about the shop, house and treasures they had left behind. Survival was the only thing on their mind, to stay safe and together till they reached India.

‘Who goes there? Stop the truck! Stop the truck!’

A mob of armed men had gathered around them, bringing the truck to a halt. A tall Pathan got up immediately and went to talk to who looked like the leader of the mob.

‘Yes? What do you want?’

‘We have information that there are Hindus in this truck!’

Dev’s insides went cold. The thing he had been dreading the most had occurred. He looked sideways at his mother, wife and sisters. Their faces were a deathly white. He could see his mother’s lips move inaudibly in prayer. Despite the blood pounding in his ears, he strained them to catch the conversation going on on the road. And what he heard was unbelievable.

‘We will not let you touch any person here!’, shouted the Pathan.

‘Yes, if you want to get to them, you will have to go through us!’, shouting another, brandishing a lathi.

Dev could scarcely believe the words that were being uttered by those men. They were willing to sacrifice their lives for them! Humanity was not dead, after all, despite the hate-spreaders. He tried getting up from his crouching position but was stopped by a man with a command to stay where he was.

The armed Pathan was glowering menacingly at the men below. Someone asked Salim to step up on the gas and slowly, they felt the claws of death release their grip from upon them.

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Two months had elapsed since their escape from Pakistan. They had covered thousands of kilometers by every mode of transport possible to reach a small village near Amritsar, a township in the ‘Indian’ Punjab. As the days had gone by, the excitement of escape had been replaced by a deep sense of irascible loss. Fear for their lives had been replaced by fear for the days that were to come.

Dev often wondered how they would sustain themselves. This new country they found themselves citizens of, their new ‘homeland’, was completely alien to them. Yet, they would have to embrace the land as their own. Times had changed irreversibly. A few weeks after reaching India, their family had been jolted by news of their house having been completely ravaged by none other than their neighbor, Salim Mia’s family. Yes, times had changed irreversibly.

It was while travelling through Punjab that Nirmal had gone into labor. They had to halt immediately and seek help from the villagers. And thus, miles away from what they had once considered home, in an obscure village, after months of running to protect their lives, Dev and Nirmal were blessed with their first progeny, a daughter they chose to name Vijayalakshmi. Now, for a girl to be born in this country and that too in times of trouble would normally be a matter of concern. But, not to this family. To them, the female form was the embodiment of the power which grants and sustains life. The birth of a daughter was a definite sign from the Universe that a new life had been granted to them, a life which they must lead with sincerity and virtue to prosper. And hence, the name Vijayalakshmi: the Goddess of Victory…

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From Punjab, the family set off for Kanpur and tried to establish an enterprise. But it failed and they had to leave the town. They then travelled to Agra where the leather industry was blooming. Dev set up a business of leather balls and goods but the chemicals used in the making gave him asthma and he had to give it up. Never the one to be deterred, he tried his hands at various other small enterprises before settling on a general merchant shop. A humble venture, in comparison to his business in Pakistan, but dedication to work enabled them to raise, feed and educate a family. Steadily, the venture grew and he was able to marry off his sisters and move to a comfortable, independent lodging. Throughout the tough ordeal, he had not given up his love for reading and writing and had inculcated the same in his daughter and three sons. Oh, and also, he was never one to put the blame on Muslims. Allah is great, he would often say, he is watching all our actions and his justice will be final.

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So, this is how the story goes. It is not something very remarkable or extraordinary. But, then, no story is that way by itself. We lend greatness to the tales of our everyday lives by extracting from them a message, a moral to be learnt and imbibed. The astonishing thing about this account for me is the realization of the fact that my grandparents, great grandmother, grand aunts and uncles were, at the end of the day, very plain and simple people. Yet, they pushed themselves to get the better of a gargantuan task when the need arose. My grandparents were young, way too young to face the uprooting, the killings and the poverty. They portrayed a courage and sensibility way beyond their years. Stripped of all material possessions, cheated by the people they trusted, they were faced with the daunting task of raising and caring for a family. It was an uphill climb throughout. But, they made it. I shudder to think what would happen if I found myself in their situation. Would I have the strength? Or the valor? We cry and crib over every minute thing that does not go our way. We are so tied down by weight of our assets that every small loss upsets us. How, then, does one react to a complete wipeout? This is where these memoirs give me inspiration. The story of how my family came into being is testimony to the fact that it is not the wealth you possess but the ethics you carry that make you.

It is not in the nature of Life to be fair. It is your reaction to the obstructions it throws in your way that decide your destiny. And there isn’t any mountain high enough that a man with will and vision cannot climb.