gaelikaa - Out of Ireland, into India

Yesterday evening, I was walking up Hazrat Ganj, the main thoroughfare of Lucknow, the city where I’ve been living for the last fifteen years. I was approached by a young man, who was carrying a sleeping chlld on his shoulder. One hand supported the child. The other hand held out a hospital visit book towards me. I recognized it immediately. I’ve been issued these books too, when I was a regular visitor to my local hospital, during all my four pregnancies. On each visit, the doctor notes details of the state of the patient and writes the prescription for whatever medicines are required. The man’s tearful face indicated the child, obviously the owner of the book. He was muttering in Hindi, and I understood him to be saying something like ‘need money for his medicines. I am in great trouble!’

What did I do? I did the only possible thing that a woman walking alone in a big city after dark could do. I never missed a beat. I walked straight on without acknowledging that I’d seen anyone. I didn’t break my stride. There are certain rules that you have to obey if you want to move freely in a bit city, and these rules apply no matter what country that city is in, be it in Europe, Asia, Australia or the Americas. You keep walking, don’t stop to speak to anyone, stay in well lit areas and always walk in the centre of the footpath. Not by the sides, lest you be pulled inside a doorway, or slip and fall into the gutter. Never open your purse on the street. Have your bus or taxi fare ready in a handy pocket. Self preservation is rule number one. Am I selfish?

One month ago, my neighbour Mrs. Asha Singh called me out of my house. She introduced me to a distraught young man who had just knocked on her door. Child in arms, hospital book in hand. Needed money for medicine. Asha was wondering could I look in his book and see if any of the medicines were available with me. I usually have a stock of children’s medicines with me, mother of four that I am. I took out my mobile and dialed my brother-in-law Sanjeiv’s number. Sanjeiv is a social worker, and a senior officer with a respected non-governmental organization (NGO) in our city. I duly explained the situation to him and asked his advice. He asked the name of the concerned hospital which I told him. It was, in fact, the local Roman Catholic Missionary Hospital. Sanjeiv directed me to advise the young man to contact the administrator of the hospital and explain his financial need. That hospital had, Sanjeiv explained, a scheme to help people who were in financial need, and that some discounts would be given for medicines and treatment. I conveyed this to Mrs. Asha Singh, who duly informed the man. He didn’t seem too relieved to learn this great news. He scowled and walked away in disgust. Asha Singh was aghast. “He was a fraud!” she said. She could not believe that she had nearly been deceived by him.

Now, Asha Singh is no fool. As a matter of fact, she’s one of the most sensible people I have ever met. But she had not met anyone trying to beg from this angle before. However, I had! As a foreigner here, I often get approached by salesmen and beggars who think I must be very well off.. About five years ago, when I was walking near my home with my mother who was on a visit here, I was approached by a man with similar equipment (hospital book and young child) and a similar story. I remember I gave him about fifty rupees (about one Euro! Or one Dollar!) which was all I had in my pocket at the time. When the same man approached me at the same spot about a year later, I wisened up. Since then, I’ve seen these ‘hospital book beggars’ around, even moving from house to house, as I’ve walked through different areas.

My mother-in-law (MIL)has no time at all for beggars and would run them from the door if she could. Now it is a different story entirely if some poor person she knows approaches her for some help, like an old servant or somebody like that. Well, something very surprising happened one day. There is a small couch outside our front door where the old people in my house sit or even lie in the sun during the winter days. One day, I came out of my room and went to the front door, and was surprised to see an old sari-clad lady lying on the couch whom I had never seen before. She was very old and wizened, and seemed to be not less than ninety years old. Well, eighty. Next thing I saw my MIL coming along, carrying some of her old saris. She stood by the old lady and asked, most respectfully, if these saris would be good enough. The old lady opened her eyes, sat up and inspected the saris with the air of a queen accepting a tribute. Then she pronounced that yes, they were all right. She then asked my MIL if she had any men’s shirts and trousers. My MIL (again very respectfully) said that she would see what she could do and ran off to do the needful.

I’d lived in this house for ten years, but never before had I seen anything like this before. This woman was a beggar all right, but obviously a different class of beggar than the usual. But I couldn’t figure out exactly what could be the reason. The old lady fixed her gaze on me. Seeing that I was wearing my usual shalwar suit, she asked me in a very sweet and kind voice if I had an old shalwar suit to give her. I didn’t like this woman at all, and felt very uncomfortable with her sitting there. I just said ‘nahii’ (no) and that was the last we spoke to each other. My MIL came back with an old shirt and trousers which had formerly belonged to my father-in-law (FIL). The old lady inspected them and pronounced them acceptable. Then she asked for old shoes and chappals and my MIL provided whatever was available. Whenever she asked for something and my MIL seemed to hesitate, the old lady would seem to go into a trance and cry out ‘ay, Bhagwan! Ay Bhagwan’ and immediately my MIL would provide whatever she asked. The crunch came when she asked for a shirt and trousers for two teenage boys. My MIL informed that yes, there were two boys in the house, but that their mother had gone to her office and she, MIL, needed permission to give their clothes away. This led to a few more rounds of crying ‘ay Bhagwan, ay Bhagwan’ but eventually, the old dear gave up, demanded a bag to carry away the stuff she had acquired in our house, and satisfied herself with that.

But how would she go? She was like a mere wisp, and there was by now quite a sizeable bag to carry full of shoes, trousers and saris. Well I needn’t have worried, because standing by the gate were two big, burly men, ready to take her and her bag away. Her sons, she told my MIL. I couldn’t believe it. Two men who looked, by all accounts, perfectly able to do a day’s work sending their old mother out to beg for their clothes. Was there no end to this magical mystery tour, I asked myself. Every day here in India, there is something new and fascinating to learn. Well, the mystery of who the old lady was was soon solved, by my sister-in-law Tapasya. She told me that the old lady was the mother of a family who ran a small temple in a nearby area. These people are members of the Brahmin caste, and temple management and performing religious ceremonies is their hereditary profession. They live on fees charged for the religious ceremonies they perform, and they are entitled to accept donations also. If the donations don’t come voluntarily, these people are perfectly capable of soliciting them from conscientious Hindus who wish to obtain their blessing. I have met many members of the Brahmin community, but they are people who go to work and have businesses just like everyone else. This was the first time I saw Brahmins who actually ran a temple.

Religious beggars are not restricted to one community only. There is a group of colourful beggars who come around every year with a big colourful sheet (chaddar), saying that this chaddar will be brought to a Dargah (Muslim shrine) in Rajasthan. They demand that people put money in the chaddar to be presented at the Dargah. They promise that one can get many blessings from giving this donation. One day about seven years ago, I was trying to leave my house to go for a bit of quiet shopping. Neil and Mel were at school, and my then baby Trish was asleep near her grandmother. But I could not get out of the gate of my house because these people were demanding that I pay a donation. One of them promised me that I would give birth to a son the following year. Giving birth to a son has traditionally been the ultimate aim of women in this part of the world. I laughed and told them to forget it. My family was complete. One son, two daughters! I was in my late thirties. Not planning any more kids, thank you.

The irony! I gave birth to a son the following year, planned or not! And no, I didn’t give the donation!

As I said, beggars are not restricted to one community only. There are Christian beggars too. I’ve met several, but I’ll relate the most interesting story here. One day, when I was coming home from the market, I was approached by a gentleman who told me that he had been a Hindu but had found Jesus and now called himself a Christian. So I wished him all the best and told him that as long he felt peace in his new found faith, that was great. Another day, he approached me and asked me to join a church which he had set up with his wife. It was in his house, I told him that it was only with great difficulty that I could attend my own church, and I had no time to visit any other. But he kept on insisting that whenever I got time, etc. The upshot was, we ended up swopping mobile numbers.

A few days later, he called me up and told me that he’d started selling disinfectants and cleaning fluids to make a living, and asked if I could purchase a bottle. It didn’t sound unreasonable so I said, well, okay, bring one around. He called to my house with the disinfectant and his wife. He introduced his wife to me, so for the sake of courtesy and politeness I invited them in for a cup of tea. As I served the tea, they asked would I object if they said a prayer. Well, I’d never have a problem with anything like that. Then the pair of them launched into an intercessory prayer asking God to bless me and my family. After we drank the tea, they showed me some scriptures showing me how God can help me. The thing is, I already knew those scriptures pretty well anyway. When they saw that I was well informed about my faith, they kept quiet. So they drank their tea and left, and asked me again to come to their church. I thanked them and said I’d try to go, but of course, I wouldn’t go to the house of someone I don’t know.

A few days later, I received an SMS stating that they had no money to pay their rent, that they needed five thousand rupees. They wanted me to provide the amount. Naturally, I refused. I don’t have that type of money to spare but even if I did…….then for several weeks I continued to receive calls and texts from them demanding any amount at all that I could spare. I asked an Anglo-Indian friend, Jackie, who is a member of a Pentecostal fellowship, to call them up and check them out. Jackie knows most of the non-mainstream church people in our city. She called them up and she reverted to me and told me that she’d never heard of their group. “Just keep away from them!” she advised. “I’m already doing that!” I replied. After Jackie called them up, they never came back to me. I’ve bumped into them here and there, but I just smile, say hello, and carry on.

Beggars are everywhere. Mrs. Ayak, the lovely English lady who blogs from Turkey, tells us that they are plentiful there too. And I believe that there is no shortage of beggars in rich countries either. Everywhere in the world, there are people who will try to make their living by wheedling money out of others instead of doing some work. Begging is probably understandable if not excusable, to some extent, in developing countries where there is a poverty problem not yet successfully tackled. One would wonder what could be the reason for it in more affluent countries! But there seems to be a very thin line between begging and fraud, that is the frightening part. We would all, I am sure, like to help solve the problem of poverty in any way which we can. The best way to do so is probably to give as much assistance as we can to any poor people who are in our lives, whom we know to be genuine. And if we wish to donate, find a good cause or organization, either government or non-government, and support it regularly.

I've met many people in my fifteen years here in India, and just a few of them have passed on. The first death anniversary of someone passed by without notice recently. A quiet woman whom I knew from my Church. I knew her for only a short couple of years, but she left an impression on me. Normally, for the sake of privacy, I give different names for the people about whom I write. But in this case, I'm going to reveal the real name. Because this woman deserves to be remembered.

I first met her properly in my Church on Christmas morning, about three years ago. It was a bitterly cold morning, and I'd sneaked out of the house early with Mel to attend the Christmas Mass. I didn't want my little ones getting up early and running around in the cold. It's quite difficult for me to bring all the children to Church at one time as I don't drive. Now that they are getting a bit older, I'm going to rectify that. Anyway, after the Christmas Mass, the priest invited all the congregation to step down into the community hall downstairs and have a cup of tea and a piece of Christmas cake. Now I normally don't hang around after Mass - it's home to Yash and the kids straight away - but it being Christmas morning, I made it a point to stay back.

So Mel and I are having our tea (or is it coffee?) and this lady comes over. In a place where every woman is wearing either a sari or a shalwar suit, she sticks out in the crowd, for she is clad in slacks, an anorak and a headscarf. She holds out her hand in a friendly gesture, to shake hands. "Happy Christmas!" she says and adds "I'm Marie Doyle." "Marie Doyle!" I exclaimed. "You're not Irish are you?" She laughed and told me that she was a member of the anglo-Indian community and had lived in India all her life. In fact she was originally from Madras, now called Chennai, in the southernmost part of the country.

What I found particularly fascinating about Marie was the way she pronounced her name, Marie. The 'a' in the first syllable was rather long, so the name sounded like 'Maari'. I was baptized 'Maria', and my family (i.e. parents and sisters) call me 'Marie' for short, but what they call me sounds different. In my name, the accent is on the second syllable so it sounds like 'maree'. In my country, Maries of the older generation tend to pronounce their name the way she did. As for the surname 'Doyle,' she obviously had an Irish ancestor in the distant past. The Anglo-Indian community consists of people descended from European men who came out to India to work in the British times, and ended up marrying Indian women. They are of mixed ancestry and are usually found in the teaching profession. Anglo-Indians are found all over India, but they are becoming rarer to find nowadays. Many of them have moved to other countries, especially countries where English is spoken, like Australia and England.

I had noticed Marie in the Church before, and always wondered who that 'English' lady was. She was around seventy years of age when I met her, I've learnt. She had no grey hair, so she had a youthful appearance. She was slim, petite, and always as neat as a pin, in her slacks and skirts and blouses with her prim and proper English type accent. She always looked well turned out, her shoulder length hair neatly styled with clips, and was never seen without a touch of lipstick. Astonishingly, although well past retirement age, she was still working as a nursery school teacher. I've done a stint as a nursery school teacher, and I can say for sure that it is not easy work.

I subsequently discovered that Marie was related to the Flynns, a couple whom I knew from Church. In fact, she usually spent her Sundays with them. From them I came to know that she lived alone, with a couple of small dogs for whom she cared with great affection. They were just like her kids! Her salary as a teacher was very minimal, but she was able to maintain herself on it by scrupulous discipline. She walked more or less everywhere, unless the journey was too long. That same Christmas morning, after Mass, I noticed her buying some crisps and sweets and having them gift-wrapped. When she noticed me, she explained that she was buying some Christmas gifts for her neighbour's children. She was fond of children. Ever-optimistic, she celebrated as best she could. The Flynns had gone away for Christmas to Mrs. Flynn's family, and Marie didn't know them. So what? She didn't let that bother her.

I remember trying to help her get a small flat. She wanted a one room arrangement, with a kitchen and bathroom. One of my neighbours agreed to rent her such a room. They weren't too happy about Marie's dogs, though. I pleaded with them that Marie was a responsible woman who would clean up after the dogs. Besides, there was a separate entrance for her, so the dogs wouldn't bother the other tenants and landlord. However, Marie turned down that flat because according to her, it was too expensive. She regretted it later though, and enquired about the flat again. But by then it was too late. The flat she was already in was too far from her place of work and she was constantly on the lookout for something nearer. I really wish she had taken the flat I got for her because as I said, she would have had to pay a slightly higher rent, but the money she would save on travel to work would have compensated.

She had never married. She never let that bother her, unlike many here who would. In fact one of the last things I discussed with her was the subject of marriage. We were talking about a mutual friend, who, unable to bear the stigma of widowhood, had remarried in haste and was duly repenting at leisure. "Look at me!" she said. "I've never married! And I've managed!" She was so satisfied with her life. I believed she never owned a televison nor a mobile phone. When she had a day off from teaching, she would take a bus and travel wherever she had to and go and look up her old friends and community members. All her friends had regular visits from her, although she lived in a very distant place outside the city. Keeping in touch regularly was a wonderful trait of hers.

She lived in a place in the suburbs of Lucknow proper. She knew how to get herself around by public transport and if she arrived at someone's place and found they'd moved - she'd find them! She was quite an old Lucknow hand and knew every inch of the place. In many ways, I found her just amazing. I often think how lonely it must have been for this woman, wearing her English style clothes in an atmosphere so totally different, and getting by in Hindi with the locals, without any of her own kind to talk to.

Last summer, some unusual things happened. Firstly, her dogs died one by one. Then she got the opportunity to visit Chennai, her native city, as the Flynns, her relatives, had to go there. She was so happy. For years she had been unable to travel to Chennai, for her dogs would have missed her. It was then that she decided that she would have no more dogs. Regretfully of course, because, yes, they were great company. But now she was enjoying her freedom. She enjoyed a wonderful visit in Chennai, catching up on old friends and family. The visit did her so much good, she was looking wonderful afterwards. Fresh, and tanned, and...almost girlish in a way. She got lots of gifts and clothes in Chennai, and was feeling great. She also decided to move into a new district. Some people from her community had started up a new school. She arranged to rent a room in the home of a local Anglo-Indian family and was delighted that she would have some company so close to her new accommodation. She even confided to Jackie, our mutual friend, that she had decided to purchase a length of cloth and do what many other Anglo-Indian ladies had done. She was going to start wearing the shalwar suit and move out of the English clothes which had been her trademark. At the age of seventy plus, she was about to embark on a new life and a fresh start. I saw her in Church on that Saturday evening. My little boy Nitin was giving me a lot of problems, aged then just five, running in and out of the Church. I remember nodding to her from a distance, unable to have a proper conversation because of that naughty child. I had no idea she was about to leave the area.

Sadly her plans could never be realised. The very next evening, on her way home from the city centre in Lucknow, having just got out of the local public bus and walking the short distance to her flat, Marie was knocked down and killed by a careless driver who fled the scene immediately. Some local paanwala witnessed the accident, and with the help of a rickshaw driver, got the hapless woman to hospital where she was, I believe, pronounced dead on arrival. She wasn't identified for hours, as she was not carrying any identification.

Ironically, it was her English style clothes which helped to identify her. Some of the hospital staff guessed she might be a Christian, and telephoned various local Churches, and somehow she was identified and claimed by the Flynns who observed the necessary funeral rituals.

It's hard to believe she's gone. Sometimes, on a Saturday evening in Church, I glance over towards the spot where she used to sit and wonder why she is not still there. This woman with an Irish name, lived as a foreigner in her own country, among people who were not her own community, yet still managed to have a happy, meaningful life, right up until it ended suddenly one August night last year. To tell the truth, I find her example very inspiring.

Rest in peace, Marie Doyle. I'll never forget you.

About a year ago, Yash and I visited a nearby bicycle shop to purchase a bicycle for our son Nitin, then aged five. Nitin’s (or Nathan, as call him!) joy at getting his cycle was very touching to watch, and his wide eyed delight (“Is it really mine, Mummy? All my very own?”) had everyone in the shop smiling. The shopkeeper looked at me and smiled and said “Aapka pota?” and to tell you the truth, the smile froze on my face! “Aapka” means “yours”. “Pota” means “grandson”. He was asking if Nitin was my grandson. I quickly tried to regain my composure, forced a smile and replied “Beta! Mera beta!” Now, “beta” means “son” and “mera” means “mine”. I tried my best to keep on smiling, but I was almost in tears as I left the shop.

Yes, it’s true that the man meant no harm. I have started to look my age recently. At forty six, I am well into middle age. But let me put it this way. I met Yash when I was twenty three years old and to tell the truth, I don’t feel any older than that. So I feel like a twenty three year old girl trapped in a forty six year old’s body. Yes, a lot has happened in the intervening time. We had this long relationship, then I left my job, came out to India, we got married and had four children – but I don’t feel different. I know time hasn’t stood still but life is an adventure which just goes on and on…….my hair is going grey, I’ve gained some weight and a few wrinkles have started to appear….but I still feel exactly the same! How could I have gone from being twenty three to forty six? No idea!

The next morning, I sent Yash and the kids off to their various institutions and went to a local health centre which has a beauty clinic attached and asked them what could they do to arrest the ageing process. That clinic had obtained my mobile number about a year before and had inundated me with telephone calls urging me to come in for a cup of coffee and a ‘free’ consultation. I had met one of their beauticians someplace, and she had suggested I go there and I ended up giving my mobile number to the girl as she was so charming and nice. But by the time I started receiving their telephone calls, I used to put them off with one excuse or the other. Well, here I was. So what did they have to offer?

The manager assessed my skin condition and suggested a course of ten nourishing facials and complementary treatment at home with various lotions and potionsl. Great! And the cost? Oh, the price of a small house! Well, not quite! But the sum she quoted wasn’t really within the reach of a housewife with such a meagre allowance as I have. Well, I’m not employed, but Yash has a very good job. However, four children in private education more or less takes care of our income. Nicely. So we did a bit of haggling and adjusting, and I ended up booking the ten nourishing facials for less than half the original price quoted. Being foreign is quite an advantage at times, not to mention being a professor’s lady! This institute, by the way, is a highly respected Indian company with branches all over India and a few branches abroad as well. So I knew I was in good hands! It probably seems like a reckless indulgence, but I really wanted those facials. I am so accustomed to working for others, caring for others, supporting others – I wanted to do something for myself for a change.!

The beautician told me that my skin was very dry. I couldn’t believe it! My skin was always oily! Well, that was twenty three years ago. Years ago, oil free products were desirable. Now they are off limits. I can, apparently, use the oiliest, greasiest, creamiest products with full immunity! Now! The salon manager(ess) had some fantastic nourishing cream in mind for me which was apparently out of stock at that time. Thank God! I didn’t want to be financially embarrassed again, but I could have bought a suit for the price of that cream! Then she took me aside and told me in a low voice that until such time as’ that cream’ became available, the following recipe would be an acceptable substitute! Take one teaspoon of cream, a drop of lemon juice, mix it well, apply it on the face and neck. Wash it off with rosewater and cotton wool after about twenty minutes. This is a home remedy for dry skin. I’ve been using it ever since. I never bought ‘that cream’, although I did try some of their recommended products which were more reasonably priced. They were good.

Expensive creams and lotions are usually of excellent quality and work very well. But many of these products can be made at home in your own kitchen without too much trouble. I couldn’t believe it when I found out how to make homemade sunscreen! All you have to do is peel a cucumber, grate it on a grater, squeeze it through a teastrainer and collect the juice. Then add half a teaspoon of glycerine and the same amount of rosewater. Keep it in a bottle in the fridge and rub it on the face and exposed parts of the body every time you go out in the sun. Obviously, it should be used up within a couple of days and not left lying around for months. I got this recipe in a magazine and found that it worked very well.

When my hair started turning grey, I learnt how to colour it with henna. Henna gives the hair a colour which can vary from black to deep red. Luckily, I’m basically auburn haired, being the daughter of a red haired Irish mother. So the henna colour looks just like my own. Henna also conditions the hair beautifully. It is very messy, though. You have to soak it with gooseberry powder in an iron pot for several hours before use. Then paste it on your hair from root to tip and leave it on for at least four hours. I find that very inconvenient to tell you the truth. My sister in law Anshika who lives in Shilllong just puts a little on her roots every Monday morning. She’s right, I should do the same! Henna can be applied in a salon, but many Indian ladies apply it at home.

Henna can cover your grey, but it is best to work on your grey before it starts to happen. My mother in law is over eighty, but her hair is almost completely black. All her life she applied mustard oil on her hair by massage, every day, and it is to this that she attributes the fact that her hair is stll black and silky. My husband Yash, in his early fifties, also has wonderful hair, thick and black and here again, the mustard oil gets the credit! Mustard oil is a golden, sulphuric smelling oil which is used mainly in cooking by Bengali people. Even in Uttar Pradesh, we cook our vegetables in mustard oil. A word of warning. Some people find mustard oil a bit heavy in warm weather but just right in the cold. Coconut oil is considered to be an acceptable substitute for mustard oil during the hot summers!

Stories abound about the miraculous abilities of mustard oil. There is a story about a farmer who once lost his finger in an unfortunate accident involving some farming machinery. His mother rushed to help, found the finger as soon as she could in the grass and refastened it using a mixture of spider’s web and mustard oil! Apparently, the finger refastened and became fine after a while. Now I can’t vouch for the truth of this story, but all I can say is that it could very well be true. I have my own mustard oil miracle story which is not really relevant to the topic I’m discussing, but this is a blog, not a magazine feature, so here goes. I purchased a mobile about two and a half years ago. Three months later, my phone went missing somewhere in the kitchen while I was cooking. I got worried when I couldn’t find it, and dialled the mobile number from the landline. I could hear the tone of the mobile ringing nearby, but very faintly. Where was it? Then, amazingly, noticed that the small drum of mustard oil, (about the size of a tea caddy!) seemed to be vibrating! I looked inside and there it was, vibing and ringing away, my lovely, almost brand new mobile! It had fallen in from the shelf above where I had placed it! I don’t have the words to describe my feelings at that moment!

Naturally, I removed it immediately. Cooking long forgotten (the in-laws had to wait for their dinner that evening), I opened up the mobile, removed the battery and the SIM card and painstakingly wiped the oil away with tissues. I left the mobile in the sun the next day for a couple of hours, repeated the process for a day or two and tried using the mobile again. It got back to work, slowly at first and in a relatively short time, it was perfect! This mobile has been working for almost three years, has clocked up many hours, sent innumerable SMS messages to the ends of the earth, has been used to make calls from India to Ireland and Australia – and it has never been serviced once. My husband Yash has never been able to to keep a mobile for more than two years at any given time. I make no claims for this product, but I truly cannot discount the miraculous properties of mustard oil for keeping my mobile in pristine condition. I do not recommend my readers to throw their mobiles into jars of mustard oil, but all I can say is; ‘it worked for me!”

Some people, my father-in-law, for example, recommend using mustard oil for a full body massage ever day or two. Well, if oil massages are your thing, you could do a lot worse, I suppose. But mustard oil smells so strong that I would always recommend using coconut or olive oil instead. Some people even recommend using real milk cream once a week for a massage once you are over forty. I tried that once, and I had to spend ages in the shower afterwards washing off the cream. I felt like Cleopatra having a milk bath. Such luxury!!

My husband Yash’s younger brother Sanjeiv is fifty years old and he doesn’t look a day over thirty. Even when he was in his thirties, people were asking him what class he was studying in in school. Every year on his birthday, I would ask him “how do you look so young?” and he would laugh and say “oh, I don’t know! Nothing!” Then one day, when Neil and Mel were small but beginning to grow up, leaving me a bit free to notice what was going on around, I discovered his secret.

One Sunday morning in the kitchen, I saw him take a small bowl. In it he placed some gram flour (also called ‘besan’ or ‘chickpea flour). Then he added some milk cream. He also added about half a spoonful of haldi (called ‘turmeric’ in English), some drops of lemon juice and a teaspoon of rose water. He then proceeded to mix it into a paste, and applied it on his face, neck and arms. Then he explained to me that every Sunday morning, he applied this mixture on his skin. Now I had discovered his secret. I knew that this mixture is called ‘ubtan’ and is usually applied on the skin of brides-to-be (and bridegrooms) in a special ceremony a day or two before the marriage takes place. Yash and I had a Hindu ceremony as well as a Christian and civil ceremony, but we didn’t get the ‘ubtan’ treatment. I decided there and then that would do the ‘ubtan’ treatment myself and keep myself looking young and beautiful forever (well, sort of!).

Well, I had to stop that treatment within a month. I got extremely busy – to busy to pamper myself that way. No sooner had I started that treatment when I became pregnant with my third child, Trisha, in spite of having taken all reasonable precautions. I didn’t (have time to) resume it again until Trisha was over two years old. Then I had to shelve it again for a while. Baby number four started within weeks of resuming the treatment, again in spite of all reasonable precautions. It occurred to me at that point, that the reasons why ubtan in applied on the skin of people about to be married is not for cosmetic purposes, but because it enhances fertility! My baby, Nitin, is now six years old, but I have not resumed that treatment. It is not that I have anything against having more babies, but I have my hands rather full at the moment with four of them and I think I’d better leave things the way they are!

Meanwhile, Sanjeiv continues to look younger than ever. And me? Well, those facials had better be working!

I was thinking lately, along with Yash, my husband, about how long it has been since we last visited Ireland. The last time was in 1998 when we had two children. We have four now and it really is now or never. Meaning that in the next few years, Neil, our eldest, will be doing his junior and senior school board examinations two years apart, followed by his sisters Mel and Trisha at two yearly intervals. A trip to Ireland, because of the expense involved, would take at least a month, and after this year, there will be big examinations around the corner every other year. So if we want to go to Ireland as a family with all the kids, it has to be this year, or else it will never happen. After the kids leave school and college, who knows where destiny will take them? So, keeping this in view, I mentioned this matter to my mother the last time we spoke on the telephone. I told her that Yash and I were thinking of coming over to Ireland for a family holiday next summer. Her reply shocked me to a standstill. In short, she told me that she was not sure if she could tolerate a family of six moving into her space for a whole month. Leave it with her, she would think about it and let me know! This was not what I had expected!

I tried to reason it out. We'd visited before, I'd pointed out, and it was fine. Yes, came the reply. But in those days we had only two babies. It is four big kids now. It's only for a month, five weeks maybe, I pleaded. "That's too long," came the reply, now if it was only for a weekend....." "Are you joking? No one comes from India to Ireland just for the weekend!" I almost exploded. "No, certainly not!" came the reply. "Relatives visit my home in India all the time, sometimes for months on end!" I protested. "Well," came the reply, "Indians are used to living like that. It's different here!" And I had to be content with that!

It is true that I grew up in Ireland as part of a nuclear family. But extended family members, i.e. aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents were always around. We didn’t all live together because we didn’t have to live together. All our relatives lived in Dublin. Mostly on the north side of the city. We regularly met both sides of the family, the father’s side and the mother’s side. In fact, my mother was one of fourteen siblings, and my father was one of eight. Most of our aunts and uncles had three to five children, so that made for some really large family gatherings, and I share a strong bond with the cousins to whom I am close in age. Even today. I had an aunt in Scotland who has a daughter born in the same year as me and we wrote regularly. That is another bond.

When I married Yash and came out to live in India fifteen years ago, I had no idea that I was going to be living in a joint family. Believe me, had I known, I am not sure I could have gone ahead and got married! Well, no, I’d have married Yash all right, but I’d have fought tooth and nail to move out as early as possible! You see, the family home of Yash is in a large city in the state of Uttar Pradesh and his office is in another city, about eighty kilometers away. There is a daily train for commuters. I had vaguely (stupidly, I now see!) imagined that Yash and I would move out of the family home within a year or so of getting married, once Yash had found a house for us near his university. By the time we were about four years married and had two babies, I realized that it was never going to happen. Or not in the near future at least. I was proved right. That was eleven years ago.

Why? Well, there were several reasons. The first and foremost reason was that Yash was thoroughly scared of living separately for security reasons. I was a total novice when it came to living in Indian society, which was utterly different from the one I had been born and brought up in. Suppose a stranger knocked on the door with some bad intention and I was all alone in the house? How would I deal with that? But because I live with my in-laws, if a stranger came to the gate, all I had to do was call my father in law. It would take him only seconds to dispose of an unwanted caller. It could take me a lot longer than that. Then, there was a language problem. Anyway, Yash continually asserted that it was actually in my own interests to live with the extended family.

Another reason was the advancing age of Yash’s parents. Yash had actually left home at the tender age of eighteen years and for the following twenty years he had lived, studied and worked in various Indian cities and also in Ireland. During that time, Yash’s two younger sisters had got married and left home. Yash’s elder brother Asheesh lives in the north east of the country, along with his wife and three children, very far away indeed and one younger brother, Sanjeiv and his family is left at home. So, Yash felt that as the second eldest, his presence in the family home was important, to give his elderly parents a feeling of security.

How have I coped? It was very difficult at first. Claustrophobic to say the least. I found the constant lack of personal space and privacy very difficult indeed. But I have come to realize that I can only continue to live here on my own terms. I insist on my privacy. Demand it even! When my husband and children are out of the house, my time is my own, to pray, read, write, go out and do any work I have to do or even just rest. I have narrowed down my requirement for personal space dramatically, but I will never compromise on my personal needs. That’s my recipe for sanity!

My sister in law Tapasya and I share out the cooking work. Tapasya cooks food for breakfast and lunch for her husband, kids and the in-laws in the morning before leaving for work. My family generally goes for simple, English style breakfasts like cornflakes and toast, so we manage easily enough, all in one kitchen. In the evenings, as a general rule, I prepare the evening meal for my family and the parents in law. When I finish up, Tapasya comes in and cooks what she wants to for herself and her family. My mother-in-law, depending on how she is feeling, may cook the evening meal for a change, which is very useful if I have to help the children in their studies. But I always prepare the chapattis (unleavened breads eaten with curried vegetables) for myself and my family no matter what!

Is this what is known as a ‘joint family’? No, not really. A real ‘joint family’, Indian style, is where there is some common form of livelihood like a farm or a business. Everyone works hard together, and shares the profits. Generally, all the kids grow up together as brothers and sisters. Yash is a teacher and keeps his own salary, giving some money for the living expenses to his parents. His brother and sister-in-law both have office jobs and of course they also pay their expenses. My father-in-law takes care of the bills and my mother-in-law of the provisions. So the labour is fairly well divided up. But we are not a joint family, no! There is no common purse. We have maintained our separate familial identities. We are simply two family units living with a single set of grandparents

But with traditional mindsets being what they are, some of the people in the family have expectations of the family which are out of step with today’s reality. My father-in-law was always the most understanding of people as far as I was concerned. He had always understood that coming from a different culture, I was not aware of all the expectations a family would have about a bride coming into the family.. But as his age has advanced his health has also deteriorated. Despite having made all sorts of allowances for me when I entered the family, his ‘real’ mindset started showing a while back.

Being a stay at home mother with four kids and a husband to look after, it is a bit of a problem that I suffer from hypertension. But I manage. I work hard, but I do give myself time to relax and I set some limits too. For example, if I’m cooking in the kitchen and someone requires tea, be it a visitor or a family member, I will gladly prepare tea. If however, I’m engaged in some other task, be it laundry, helping the children study for a test, or even if I’m just having a rest, I will not leave what I’m doing and go and make tea. At least, if someone else capable of doing it is present. We can, of course, abandon these little rules in emergencies, but that is my general rule. I found that going out of my way to fulfil the expectations of others was burning me out. Moreover, the appreciation was minimal. It was simply seen as my duty.

One morning I had to leave the house for a couple of hours to go and see about getting a software problem on my computer fixed. I didn’t tell my father-in-law anything about it, as he is very hard of hearing, making communication difficult. But I did tell my mother-in-law. It is always a good idea to inform someone at home where you’re gone, wherever you live. When I got back, my father-in-law, who has become nervous about going out from reading about crime in newspapers, was extremely angry at me for being out for so long. I’d been gone about three hours, my husband and children were at work and school, I had used the opportunity of being in that particular area to visit a friend who lived there – someone I hadn’t met for a while. And! I had kept in touch by mobile with the house, to talk to my mother-in-law and tell her where I was. I kept quiet during his rant – there is no point in arguing with a person who is almost deaf. I listened carefully and was fascinated to discover what were his expectations of me, as his tolerance has decreased with age. According to him, I should be in the kitchen full time and always be ready to serve family members with food and tea. I should always be available to look after guests. I should never, ever, go out. For my own safety and because he gets nervous. He also accused me of deception, maintaining that I stay home and act like an obedient wife when my husband is around, but that as soon Yash’s back is turned, I’m off out of the house and up to all sorts of personal work, none of which I have any business at all doing.

Personal work. You know what I do? I pay my internet bill. I go for the odd facial. I go and get some work done for the computer. I sometimes visit a friend. Oh, yes! And there is also Church. The odd jaunt to the post office to send a book to my mother. Harmless enough, wouldn’t you think? Oh, yes, and I was also told that I ‘do nothing for the family’. I didn’t get annoyed about the ‘personal work’ bit because I know at his age it is a bit difficult to accept a woman having a life other than total housewifery. But doing ‘nothing for the family’? I didn’t like that. “Don’t I cook dinner for you people every night? I asked the Ma-in-law, a tad annoyed. I mean, what more can be expected from a woman who has four kids and a heck of a lot of work to do? I’m up at 5.30 am to help the kids get ready for school, and my day often doesn’t end until Yash returns from work, at around 11 pm at night. The only time I get to be with myself and do my own things is when my kids are at school. Otherwise, it’s all go, go, go!

As for deceiving Yash and going out when he’s not there. My husband works and travels long hours and our time together is limited. Obviously I would like to spend maximum time in my husband’s company when he’s around and leave the going out for when he’s not. Is that not sensible? I think so!

Then there is the phenomenon of visiting relatives. Various retired relatives of my mother and father-in-law drop in and out of our lives. Their visits can range from a few days to a few months. I prefer the visits of my mother-in-law’s(MIL) relatives to my father-in-law’s(FIL). MIL’s relatives’ visits are relatively short. They are also usually appreciative and very kind. FIL’s relatives stay for months. They act as if they own the house (as per the traditions, they do!) and tend to watch closely the way I work. And they criticize. One aunt noticed how I always make extra tea. That’s because whenever I make tea, a new candidate for tea invariably appears, and if I give them a cup, I don’t get any! Making an extra cup solves the problem. If no extra candidate appears, I just have a second cup. Anyway, one day I noticed this aunt giving Yash the lowdown on this. Well, I know Yash. Hear all, see all, say nothing. But it was annoying just the same.

The truth is, I’ve learnt to live in a combined family. My whole mindset has changed. I have learnt to be happy and tolerant whatever the circumstances. That is probably the best lesson for survival I could have ever learnt. However, to a person who has never had to adjust in life to this level, this is probably an unthinkable situation. However, I left my old mindsets behind a long time ago. That is probably why I was so shocked when my mother reacted the way she did when I asked her could we come and stay. I’m not coming forever, just for a month or two, you know? And if we can’t stay at home, the whole trip would become prohibitively expensive. Now, my mother’s house has a second bathroom and a second place to cook. So I ‘m going to wait for a few days and try again. I’ll explain to Ma that we are used to keeping the kids quiet and keeping out of the old people’s way. And hopefully, she’ll see things my way and change her mind. After all everyone needs time to think. And everyone’s entitled to their opinion. But she is my mother after all, the grandmother of my children. And maybe, she’ll come around.

Well, hopefully!

I've known Dr. Sumitra for several years now. She is a junior colleague of Yash, my husband, and they are both alumnae of the same university. They are both in the science field, although in different subjects. She has become quite a family friend of ours. I suppose you could say that she has a sisterly relationship with Yash. She treats him just like an elder brother and he reciprocates by treating her as a sister. She is a tall and broadly built woman with a fair complexion and a warm smile, ever friendly, respectful and helpful.

Over the years I have known her, I've come to know something about her backround. Her father now retired, had been employed in some kind of clerical government job, and was able to give both his son and his daughter a good education. In most Indian families, the daughter would have been given away in marriage as early as reasonably possible and the son would stay with the parents, even after marriage, taking care of all the family matters. But for some reason, it didn't happen that way for Sumitra. She excelled in academics, while her brother did not. She stayed on in university, studying up to doctorate level, and became a lecturer. Her brother, not having done very well, got out of the education system as soon as possible and started a small business, which by all accounts, has never really been very prosperous. No one despises him for that, everyone has their own level of capability. Sumitra remained unmarried for far longer than is usual in her community, and aimed to reach the top of her profession. She has continued to live with her family throughout her life. When her brother got married and became the father of a son and a daughter, Sumitra, living in the same house, felt she had children already. In fact, once, in company, Yash heard her being asked, mistakenly, how many children she had. "Two!' she replied, without batting an eyelid.

In the last few years, Sumitra's mother developed chronic health problems and had to be hospitalised innumerable times. I came to know through Yash, that her father had exhausted whatever savings he had paying for his wife's treatment and medicines, and ultimately she was footing the bill for all of that. When her family purchased an item like a car, a television set or a computer, Sumitra was requested to pay for it. Her brother pleaded inability to pay on account of the fact that his business was not going well.

Sumitra's niece, Lavanya, is almost finished school and planning to go to college. One day, a few months back, she visited our house along with her aunt. I commented to Yash afterwards on how fond Sumitra seemed of her niece. "Yes!" replied Yash. "I suppose her brother will make the full use of that. He'll come to Sumitra with the begging bowl when it's time to get that girl married. What a shame!" "True!" I replied. "But why has she remained unmarried for so long? That's unusual in India, isn't it?"

In reply, Yash mentioned the fact that. for many years Sumitra was devoted to building up her career. Then it became obvious that her brother was not getting stronger financially and that her mother was ill. She had been tied up for years with her career and then family matters. I wondered sometimes would Sumitra ever like to get married. However, I never asked her. I don't believe in prying into people's personal matters!

One Sunday, she arrived unexpectedly at our house. She was visiting our city on some personal business and dropped in to say hello. When I offered her some tea and snacks she refused politely. "No, thank you, Ma'am. Not today. I am on a fast," she said. I was a bit surprised. My mother-in-law does most of the Hindu fasts and I didn't know of any fast on that day. So I enquired of my mother-in-law later "Maaji, is there a fast today?" She replied that there was, but that it was the fast done by unmarried women, to beg the gods to give them a nice husband. Oh, I see! The light dawned! Dr Sumitra was obviously waiting for the right man to come along. Would her fast be rewarded? I wondered.....

One night about five months ago, Yash told me that he would not be going to the office, but that he would, in any case, be going out of town the next day. "Why?" I wondered. So he told me the story. Apparently, Sumitra had reached the age of thirty seven recently and had decided that it was now or never to find the right match. Realising that neither her father nor her brother would ever start the search owing to lack of confidence, she had decided to take the matter into her own hands, as far as possible. Now for readers who are unfamiliar with Indian culture, I have to mention that in India, everyone belongs to a community of some sort. Sumitra is a Hindu lady, but within the Hindus there are many communities and they all have distinct customs. When you are going to arrange a marriage for someone, it is important to arrange that match with a person from the same or a similar community. Naturally, Sumitra wanted to follow that pattern. So, being a resourceful woman, she contacted some prominent, reliable members of her community, people who would be looked on as leaders, in a way. She discreetly informed them that she was looking for a suitable match and asked them to keep an eye out for someone.

Her requirement was that the man should be in her age group, well educated and respectably employed. She is a very tall lady, so naturally the gentleman should be of a similar build. Well, the message went out on the grapevine and within two or three months, a gentleman was found. He was tall, well built and respectably employed. He was, in fact, a teacher like Sumitra. However, he was not on a very high salary. As a university lecturer, she was, status wise, above him. He was employed in a very ordinary private school. The good news was, however, that he was studying for a doctorate on a part-time basis and his prospects for a more lucrative job would improve considerably on completion of this programme. He had no objection to the fact that she did not have a large dowry to offer. 'Dowry' refers to the share of family property transferred to a girl at the time of her marriage. This is to compensate for the fact that she receives no share of her parents property at the time of their death. As Sumitra's family had no wealth other than the house they lived in, there was no question of any dowry, let alone a decent wedding! He also had no objection to the fact that she was determined to take care of her parent's medical bills until they were no more in this world. So things were looking pretty good!

So why had he never married? Simple! He had four younger sisters, and long ago he had decided that he would give his father all the support he could to help get his sisters married. In India, it is the girl's father and brothers who have to take the responsibility for getting her married. He had decided to remain unmarried until all his sisters were settled. Sumitra must have really appreciated this aspect of the gentleman, as her own brother was nothing like this! Now the sisters were all happily married, but he was concentrating on his job and his studies. He was afraid marriage would distract him from this. He realised that in Sumitra he would have a capable partner who was well able to look after herself and would not demand his attention all the time as she had a very good job. He also realised that she would fully support his decision to study. A meeting between the two was arranged by a mutual contact, and they had a full discussion about their circumstances and exchanged their views freely. The outcome was, they decided to get married as soon as possible.

Mr. Harishchandra (for that was the name of the intended husband) informed his family of his intention to wed Dr. Sumitra. They were very happy that he had finally decided to settle down at the age of thirty nine, and if he was happy with his choice of bride, so were they! Dr. Sumitra informed her parents, and they too were very pleased. The age of the 'boy' (in India, a couple intending to get married are always referred to as a 'boy and girl', not 'man and woman') was right. The community was right. Although the 'boy' was not quite up to Sumitra's level job or education wise, that difficulty would be set right in the course of time. Sumitra's brother Vishnu was strangely quiet on the subject.

As per the customs of the community, a suitable date was decided, and a delegation of male relatives of Sumitra set out for Harishchandra's village, to meet him in the family home along with his parents. The aim of this meeting was to finalise the engagement between the boy and girl. As per the customs, Sumitra would NOT be attending this meeting. This was an arranged marriage after all! The decision making power is in the hands of the males of the family. As per the custom! The party carried some gifts for Harishchandra's family, some sweets, items of clothing and jewellery. This was also as per the custom. What was not 'as per the custom' was the fact that Sumitra had paid for all these gifts herself, from her own salary. But no one was saying anything about that! Being financially weak, Sumitra's father and brother were excused from anything to do with the spending of money.

Yash also accompanied the party as on honorary family member. This was the reason why he would not be going to his office that day. Normally, Yash steers well clear of getting involved with marriage negotiations of any sort, having had an upsetting experience of a similar situation in the years before we were married. However, Sumitra had asked for the support of her senior colleague, as a special favour. She was very uneasy. Her brother had not said a word supporting her decision, and she was afraid that he would do or say something that could upset her plans. In the absence of her brother's support, she needed all the help she could muster!

She couldn't have been more correct. The group arrived at the village where they were warmly welcomed by Mr. Harishchandra and his family. Harishchandra does not live in the village with his parents, but he was at home for the business of the day. The group were served a nice meal in the family's simple but respectable home. So far so good. Meal over, everyone sat down to start the business of finalising the engagement, when Sumitra's brother Vishnu said he had a few questions to ask Harishchandra. Yash looked on aghast as Vishnu, in full view of everyone, asked Harishchandra about his qualifications, his salary, his hopes for the future and whether he thought he was good enough to marry such a highly qualified woman with such an excellent salary. This was most insulting to the groom and his family as these matters were supposed to have been all settled and put to rest before this meeting. Yash groaned inwardly. The party was most certainly over.

The group departed sadly, still carrying the gifts they had brought. Nothing had been finalised and it seems that Dr Sumitra's hopes for an early wedding were dashed. Sumitra, waiting all day at home, suffered deep disappointment. Yash came home and related the story to me. We were both sick at heart. In Yash's opinion, it was not concern for Sumitra's welfare but simple greed for money that was at the heart of Vishnu's opposition to the match. If Sumitra left the house, her salary left with her. Although she had made it perfectly clear that she would continue to meet the medical expenses of her parents after marriage, that was not enough to satisfy her brother. After all, he might have to work hard at his business and make some decent money for a change, instead of falling back on his hapless sister to bail him out of every financial difficulty.

Yash told me that the next day in the office, the normally composed and capable Sumitra, everybody's big sister and ever calm in a crisis, broke down in tears and couldn't stop crying. Her mother was also now opposed to the match, supporting her son Vishnu, who, in her opinion, was a rock of sense and wisdom. If Vishnu was opposed to this marriage, the mother didn't want it either. End of story. "I have always supported my family in whatever way I could!" sobbed Sumitra. "Why are they doing this to me? Is it so wrong for me to want some happiness for myself?" Yash felt helpless, but decided to try and help the distraught woman as best he could. He persuaded her to calm down. Then he suggested that she contact the mutual friend who had introduced her and Harishchandra, to arrange another meeting with him, just between the two of them. Then she could make him understand that although her brother was causing some problems, this would soon be overcome. A little more patience was needed, that's all. Harishchandra was very understanding. He had the situation figured out already, and realised that Vishnu was opposing the match because of greed for Sumitra's salary. He told Sumitra that he was ready to wait until the situation could be resolved. They spoke daily by telephone. This helped Sumitra to cope with the situation.

One evening, shortly afterwards, Yash called around to Sumitra's home after office hours. All the family members were chatting and drinking tea. In a relaxed sort of way, Yash asked Vishnu what, as an elder brother, were his plans for Sumitra's future as he had opposed her marriage with Harishchandra? Vishnu coldly replied that Sumitra was welcome to stay in the family home for the rest of her life. "For the rest of her life? Why should she want to do that when a perfectly nice man whom she likes very much is ready to marry her?" said Yash. The mother was listening carefully.

"Mr. Harishchandra is simply not worthy of my sister. She deserves no less than a government officer as a husband," Vishnu retorted. "Are there many government officers of the required age in your community?" asked Yash, sociably. "Ummm....well, no not really!" came the reply. "Well, if you have hopes of finding such a husband for your sister, I suggest you try to find one as soon as possible. Preferably within the next month!" said Yash. "Let's be honest. Your sister is not getting any younger and Mr. Harishchandra won't wait forever. I presume you have plenty of money ready?" "Money for what?" gasped Vishnu. "Why, to pay for the marriage of course. The bride's family has to pay for the wedding function. And marriage to a high status government officer is going to be expensive! Many more government officers will have to be invited, and probably some politicians as well. It will have to take place in a five star hotel and the food and entertainment will have to be first class. Then there is the question of the gifts for the groom's family. They'll have to be up to the mark. You may end up having to mortgage your house to pay for your sister's marriage to a government officer. Are you ready for that?"

No reply was forthcoming. There was total silence. Yash decided to press on. "You must keep in mind the fact," he added, "that in a few short years, your daughter Lavanya will be ready for marriage. People from all over the community will be making enquiries about your family. How will you cope with questions regarding why your sister remains unmarried? This will be very embarrassing for you, won't it?" Again, silence. "If I were you," Yash added, "I would not stand in the way of your sister's marriage with Mr. Harishchandra. Right now, he is very impressed with her and has not made any demands for an expensive wedding or dowry. But in eighteen months or so when he completes his doctorate and furthers his career, he will be getting some very good offers from the parents of girls. It will be too late then for you to get him for your sister. Do yourself a favour and get her married now!"

The atmosphere had changed palpably. The mood was different now, more thoughtful, less hostile. "Maybe," said Vishnu slowly "maybe you have a point." Yash could see that he had got through to Vishnu on some level. "Act fast to repair the damage." he urged. Then he left.The following week, the same group of Sumitra's relatives, bearing the same gifts, arrived at Harishchandra's village. This time everything went smoothly, without a hitch. The marriage was agreed on and the earliest possible date was fixed.

The wedding took place in May this year. Dr. Sumitra must be the only Indian bride I've ever heard of who paid for her own wedding reception, trousseau and sundry expenses, but I've never heard of a single complaint from her about it! She threw herself into a flurry of pre-wedding shopping, buying saris in all the latest styles, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. On her wedding day, she was the happiest bride I've ever seen, smiling broadly as she exchanged garlands with her new husband. She was dressed from head to toe in bridal red (for those who don't know, that's the wedding colour in India) and was practically dripping with gold ornaments and jewellery. This was one woman who really enjoyed her wedding. I saw her recently and was surprised by the change in her look. Gone is the simple schoolma'am in cotton saris and minimal make up and jewellery. She now has a new, glamarous avatar, full make up, appropriate jewellery and stylish designer saris. But it is the smile on her face and the sparkle in her eye that one finds most attractive.

Isn't it wonderful to see people happy?

I was on my way home from the corner shop with my daughter Mel, where I’d gone to buy a loaf of bread and a packet of chips for the children’s tea, when we saw him. No more than about six years old, he was running up the road frantically screaming “Mummy! Mummy!”. He seemed, or so I thought, to be in pursuit of a young woman walking about ten feet ahead of him. But she was walking on, unconcerned. Oblivious to his distress.

“He’s lost!” said Mel. “No way!” I said. “Is that not his mother, walking ahead?” The young woman in question crossed the road and walked down a side lane, gone. He ran on ahead. I felt foolish to think that woman had been his mother. She had been a young, middle class working girl, handbag on arm, probably returning home from her office. His neat but shabby clothes gave away the fact that he belonged to a low income family. Ours is a middle class housing estate, full of professional people and government servants. But there are small communities of poor families living here and there. Middle class people usually employ poorer people to do their housework. So there are some employment opportunies for the poor in our area.

“We have to help him!” urged Mel, “See, he’s running up to the main road! He’s got no road sense. See, he’s not even looking to see if a car is coming! He’ll get himself killed if we don’t help him!” She was right, I knew. But there was a problem. My eldest son Neil, was lying down at home with a fever, being tended by Yash, my husband, who hadn’t gone to his office for the last two days. I hadn’t even brought my mobile with me to call home. Then it struck me. What if one of my kids was lost and in distress and people were ignoring them and refusing to get involved because of some largely unimportant reason? How would I feel? I turned and said to Mel “let’s go after him!” We turned around and ran after him.

When we caught up with him he was up at the main road, crying and roaming aimlessly. I asked Mel to speak to him as her Hindi is better than mine. His name? Gautam. His mother? Gone to buy medicine. His father? Gone to work. Where was his home? “Laal Gaali” By my estimation that means “Red Lane”. But where was it? He didn’t know. We were at a loss by now. The child was more or less hysterical. What were we going to do with him? I didn’t know. We were very busy at home with Neil being sick and several relatives from out of town visiting. But I knew that there was no way we could leave the child standing there on the road.

Near the end of our road, there is a Press Wala’s stand. What is a press wala? Well, it can be a journalist (‘press’ meaning the media) or it can be a person who irons clothes (‘press’ meaning as in ironing clothes). Wala is a lovely Hindi catch-all word which simply means ‘someone who does something’. A shopkeeper can be a ‘dukanwala, ‘dukan’ meaning shop. Anyway, as it was still early evening, the resident presswala, Manoj, was still ironing away, surrounded by his wife Lata, several children and several friends and neighbours. We brought the boy to the presswala’s stand and asked Lata, Manoj’s wife, to speak to the boy. Lata has a warm and beautiful nature which makes people feel very much at ease in her presence. She asked the boy all the questions we had asked, him, and somehow, he seemed to calm down. Lata gave him a cup of tea and some biscuits, and all the presswala’s entourage assured the boy that there was no need to worry, his mother would soon be found. “Don’t worry, beta (son), she’ll come soon," they reassured. They’d adopted him!

They called out to every passer-by “Do you know this boy” and people would stop and look. Although no one had a positive answer as long as Mel and I were there, I knew that the word would spread and soon the boy would be reunited with his people. I began to feel anxious about Neil at home and I knew Yash would be wondering where on earth we had gone. I felt that the time had come to leave the scene quietly. I knew that the boy would be better off here than he would have been in my house. There was just one hour left until nightfall. Then the presswalas would pack up and go home.

I was right! Yash had been anxious but was happy to see us. We brought Neil to the doctor for his injection but I could not get that little boy out of my mind and offered up a silent prayer that he’d be back with his parents that night……..

The next morning as I went up to the corner shop for a packet of milk for the morning tea, I saw Manoj and Lata opening up their stand. I greeted them and enquired about the boy. They were all smiles. As I’d guessed, a passer-by had recognized the boy. He was going in the opposite direction and was unable to take the child home, but he gave clear directions to the boy’s house. A man sitting at the presswala stand, whom Manoj and Lata called ‘Dadaji’ (elder brother) took the boy home by motorcycle, where he was warmly welcomed back. It seemed that the mother had to go for an urgent errand while the boy was out playing and she’d asked the neighbours to keep an eye out for him. But when the boy had come home and found the hut empty, he’d panicked and ran away. No one knew where he’d gone. What a happy ending!

As Shakespeare said, ‘All’s Well That End’s Well!’

The rainy season is upon us now. For some reason it is both my favourite and least favourite season. There are so many dualities about it. Just after a rainfall, the air feels delightfully pleasant and cool. However, just before the rainfall, it feels disgustingly sticky and humid. Does anyone out there in the world outside the sub-continent understand how life comes to a standstill during the rainfall? It stops you in your tracks from doing anything you want to do. If you have clothes hanging on the line, you have to rush outside and take them off again. Let me tell you that this is not the time for your spin dryer to break down ( which is what mine has just done!) If you are going somewhere, you may have to discontinue your journey and just shelter somewhere. Anywhere. I was on the way to the beauty parlour for a facial recently when the heavens opened. I ran to hide under a tree. I still got soaked. I called up the parlour from my mobile and told them to expect me when they saw me. But I got bored waiting and made a long dash for the parlour. Let’s just say I was more in need of their services when I arrived than I would have otherwise been! Had there been no rainfall, that is!

All doctors recommend that only cotton clothes should be worn in this season. And they are right. Of course. Cotton is excellent for your skin, helps it to breathe during the humidity and reduces the chance of skin infections. But would someone please tell me why cotton clothes are so difficult to maintain? They require pressing. And starching. And in a downpour, they look awful and give you a cold, clingy feeling. Ugh! Synthetic clothes, we are advised, are to be avoided. They irritate your skin and cause infections. Yes they do! But they also dry off very quickly after a shower. Not to mention the fact that their maintenance hardly takes you a second! Just wash and wear! So which do you choose? Well for me, if I’m going out, it’s got to be synthetic. That’s what I was wearing that day when I got caught in the rain. I hung up my suit for the duration of the time that I was lying down having my facial. And it was dry by the time I was ready to go home! A cotton dress would not have been.

One of the reasons why I enjoy the rainy season is the interesting memories which I have of it. I feel like sharing a few of those right now. Well, about three years back, I was at Mass one Saturday evening, when a rainstorm just broke. Wind and raindrops invaded our beautiful church, through the open windows, causing quite a stir In the tranquil atmosphere. Well, at first it was fine. God’s nature is beautiful, is it not? But the storm went on for quite a while. blowing and billowing outside. By the end of the Mass, a steady downpour was in progress. At the entrance door, which is up a flight of steps, we, the congregation, along with our priest, watched in awe as the water level rose up to the gate of the church. It seemed as if God had turned on a giant tap in the heavens. No one dared venture down the steps. We were each waiting for the storm to abate before planning our strategy to return home in our various ways. The Church is about two kilometers from my home and I had come alone. In those days, I had no mobile and no way to get in touch with Yash, my husband, waiting anxiously at home. I had no idea how I would make my way home. Some of the roads along the way are very messy and muddy. I glanced anxiously at Cathy Flynn and her husband, standing beside me. An Anglo-Indian couple, hence the English name. Actually, Flynn is an Irish name. They didn’t know that until I told them. They look just like any typical Indian, couple, Anglo-Indian or not. Mr. John Flynn is lame and uses a walking stick, having been injured in a motorcycle accident several years ago. I dreaded to think how this gentleman would reach home, given his difficulty.

It crossed my mind that Yash, might come to rescue me. My beloved husband is quite protective about me and worries a lot when he knows I am out. Nowadays, he constantly tracks me by mobile, but in that mobile-less time of my life we had only our instincts to figure out what was happening.. It is just that there is a small car at home which is usually taken out when someone has to be delivered or picked up from the railway station or when some of the family members have to attend a function, or when the old people are to be taken to a doctor. Yash, for some reason, doesn’t like driving the car, although he’s an expert with the scooter. But his nephew Praveen, home for a while from college, does. Something told me to stay on the spot, as Yash would arrive shortly for after a while, with Praveen and the car in tow.

Yes, I was right. From a long way off I noticed our little white Maruti 800 moving slowly through the deluge. When it arrived at the gate I ran down and asked Yash through the window if he would mind giving a lift to Mr. & Mrs. Flynn. I knew that they didn’t exactly live in our direction but because Mr. Flynn had some difficulty in walking I felt we should try to offer a helping hand. Yash agreed and the Flynns gladly accepted the lift. The downpour continued.

Well, had I but known! The Flynn’s indeed lived in the opposite direction fom us, in what seemed to be the most obscure and God-forsaken area of our pretty large township. Off the beaten track and down a back lane to boot. I got really tense. I mean it’s one thing to be generous, but it is another thing entirely to be generous at someone else’s expense. Praveen had to work very hard to drive the car through the rain. Water got inside the car before we reached the Flynn’s house, towards which we didn’t so much drive as sail. And the deluge went on and on. It must have been extremely difficult for Praveen, then aged seventeen to drive. I silently recited the Rosary, the Catholic prayer and remedy for every problem, that all would be well. Darkness descended upon us quickly, as it does in India.

Yes, ultimately, all was well. Getting out the car to go into their flat, leaving us poor travelers to navigate our way home, Cathy Flynn thanked us profusely for our help and invited us to drop in sometime for a cup of tea. “Well, you know where we live now!” she laughed. I laughed too. I was thinking, I’d probably remember the way if I came back at night. In the rain! As we moved away, the rain seemed to abate. Somehow we found an unexpected way onto the main road and from there, we found driving much easier. The water level in the car receded somewhat and we were home safe before we really realized it. It was astonishing! I took it as God’s way of telling me that we should never be afraid of doing a good deed to help another. We lost some time in bringing Mr. and Mrs. Flynn home, but we gained it another way by accidentally finding a short cut on to the main road. As I said, ultimately, all turned out well.

I have another very happy memory of my nephew Praveen during the rainy season, about ten years back when he was just ten years old. Praveen’s mother Tapasya is a working mother and he would sometimes spend time with me when his mother was at work. One rainy season afternoon, when Praveen and I were at home with my then four year old Neil and two and a half year old Mel, and my father in law(whom I call Papaji), there was another unexpected outburst of rain, taking everyone by surprise. My father-in- law’s old office colleague Mr. Ramchandra Sharma, whom he calls Sharmaji, arrived for an unexpected visit. It was perfectly obvious that Sharmaji had simply taken refuge from the rain, as he had been passing our house when the shower started.

Papaji is a little in awe of Sharmaji. Although Sharmaji is the junior of the two, being several years younger, Papaji always feels that he has to live up to Sharmaji’s expectations. You see, Mr Sharma is a person who prides himself on being a Lucknowite, that is, a native of the city of Lucknow, the city where we live. Lucknowites are traditionally renowned for their gentility and polish, which is something Sharmaji prides himself on. On every visit Sharmaji will say ‘ Oh, Kumarsahib! (Kumarsahib is the name he calls Papaji) I don’t visit anyone, but I love to visit this house! You people are so nice here, and you know the way of behaviour and the style of living.’ Papaji glows with pride at this. He is from a simple country village, and he knows that country people are generally considered to be what you might call ‘rough and ready’. So praise from an urban sophisticate like Sharmaji is praise indeed. Anyway, having come to shelter from the rain or not, Papaji was determined that Sharmaji would not be disappointed in his visit. The hospitality had to be up to the mark. Why, the family honour was at stake here!

As my mother-in-law was out attending a religious function, Papaji called me and demanded two hot cups of tea. Immediately. I groaned inwardly. This was not the time to tell Papaji that we were completely out of milk. The rain was bucketing down out of the heavens and the local shop, ten minutes away under normal circumstances was a gulf away in the present situation. Then a shout came up from the back of the house. Neil and Mel had thrown caution to the wind and were dancing in the rain. Getting soaked of course. Oh, no! Could things get any crazier?

Praveen saw me and asked ‘Gael Aunty, what is the matter?’ So I told him. ‘Go and look after Neil and Mel!’ he advised. ‘I will make the tea!’ ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, incredulous. The ten year old boy was adamant. ‘Yes!’ he said. So I went and dragged in my two babies away from their raindance, towel dried them and changed their clothes. You can imagine my surprise when I went back to the kitchen and found that Praveen had made two perfect, steaming cups of tea. How did he do it? He had biscuits and namkeen (salty snacks) beautifully arranged on a plate too. ‘Why…you are a wonder worker!’ I exclaimed. ‘But how did you do it?’ He just smiled. I served the tea and snacks. However, our ordeal was not over yet. In traditional Lucknow culture, and maybe other places too in northern India, it is customary, before a guest departs, to serve him a condiment known as ‘paan’. What is paan? It is a mixture of some items like nuts and spices, wrapped in a type of leaf called a betel leaf. One chews it and spits it out. It is considered very good for digestion. Used over time, it tends to stain the user’s mouth a bright red colour.. In fact, as a habitual paan chewer, Sharmaji tends to have this characteristic. Certainly, it was compulsory to serve a paan to Sharmaji. Rainstorm or no rainstorm. So Papaji called Praveen and told him to immediately bring two paans from the local paan booth, one for himself and one for the guest.

Now paan shops or booths rather, are available on practically every street corner in northern India. There was a paan booth right at the end of the road. But the rainstorm had in no way abated yet and the water in the nullah (open drain alongside the houses) flooded along like a river in full spate. Yet Papaji and Sharmaji carried on their tete a tete, totally oblivious to all of this. Praveen got ready to go for the paan! I felt awful! That little boy would have to swim to the paanshop and back. I really felt angry with Papaji. Family honour indeed! But the lad didn’t seem to mind. Little braveheart, he walked out into the rain and marched up the road while I waited anxiously at the gate. After what seemed like an age, he loomed into the distance again, bearing the two paans like a prize, soaking wet but triumphant! I sent Praveen off to dry his clothes and took the two paans to serve them to the family head and his guest.


Half an hour later, Praveen joined me and Papaji at the gate to see off the guest having bathed and changed. Sharmaji departed, now that the rain had subsided, having been satisfied that the hospitality of our house was no way less than at any other time. Papaji too was satisfied that Sharmaji had not found anything worth complaining about and that the family’s honour was untarnished. Praveen and I laughed together at the whole situation. Then I asked Praveen to answer the question which was puzzling me for the last hour. ‘Praveen! Tell me something! Where did you get the milk for the tea?’ He smiled. ‘Oh, Gael Aunty, that was easy! I just used dahi!’

Dahi! Do you know what that is? It means yogurt. Plain yogurt. Can you believe it?