a daughter's story...

DADDY’S GIRL

Smrithi Rumdali Rai

4:23 PM

The white sheets are twisted, like some albino snakes, the pillows are tucked around me just the way I like. I am safe and snug in my little white haven. I miss my daddy. Lying there curled up, my eyes refuse to open. I am safe ……for now.

“I lay my burden to rest
I look for him in you.”

The refrain keeps playing in my head. Is it a song? Or is it a poem? Where have I heard it? Maybe they are lines from my own poems. I used to write good poetry.

My body is tired. I feel pain. Maybe if I sleep, it will go away. And why have they bandaged my wrists?

There is that song again. The words sound a little different now.

“I lay my burden to rest
I look for him in you…….”

“But I’m not your Daddy
And I sure as hell love you.”

Ha! That’s no poem. That was a conversation. Yeah! But with who? I think it was with the man I was married to. No! With the man I am married to.

The man I am married to? Now, why did I say that? Normal people would say, “The man I married,” but then I am abnormally normal, whatever that is.

I miss my daddy, and I wish he were here. What would he say to see me curled up like this? Maybe he would feel sad, but I know he would never see me like this. I am always fine when he is around.

“Knock, knock? Who’s there? What does Liv Tyler have that you don’t? A cool dad. Yeah! And she is very pretty. Maybe when people have something you want so bad, it makes them look pretty.

What an absurd idea………? Why am I thinking of her now? I must stop watching that stupid cartoon ‘My Dad Is A Rock Star’ on Nickelodeon…… But it’s kind of cute to see a cool rock star who is such a GREAT dad……. Hey, snap out of it. He is a cartoon character with green hair, remember?

Daddy would be disappointed…… No, daddy would understand, he would……

“Are you awake? How do you feel?” My eyes reluctantly open. My sister is there, smiling down at me. I know she has been crying. Her eyes have that look. Why was she crying, I wonder?

“Here, speak to Mom. She has been worried sick,” she holds the cell phone to my ear. There is some static but I can hear Mom’s voice…… I can’t really concentrate…

I catch “… worried about you …… congratulations …...why did you do such a foolish thing …… praying for …… good health.”

I see ... It’s my birthday then!

I am drowsy.

“Thank you, Mom. I’m six today. I am a big girl now. Don’t worry.”
My sister is talking now …… “She is not up to it yet …... Don’t worry. I’m here…… I will call you later.”

I must tell her to watch cartoons. “You wouldn’t have red eyes if you watched cartoons you know,” I tell her, “Why have you been crying?” She doesn’t answer me, but turns to the window. “I can tell you are crying,” I tell her. She doesn’t reply. Her shoulders are shaking. Oh well, she was always a cry-baby. Daddy never liked that.

Mom always said Daddy was a bad father.

I disagree. He was the most wonderful dad a girl could wish for. Why, he took me swimming and played ball with me. He even built my dog’s kennel and painted it a shiny red. Mom never let me have a dog. She ignored Ewok when he came. Daddy agreed that Ewok was the handsomest dog in town.

Daddy also agreed that Sayyed was the handsomest boy in the whole world.

Mom didn’t agree, but then she never shared the same views as Daddy. She would like me to be a lady. I got away because Dad wanted me to be his son. Mom told me how happy he had been when he knew I was on the way.

“I’ll teach him to play ball … I’ll teach him to box … I’ll teach him to climb …” And he had gone on and on and on … While my sister learnt to knit and sew, I played ball with Daddy, went rock-climbing, swimming … … And oh yes! Daddy was there all the time. The funny thing was that Mom and my sister never liked him.

I open my eyes and my sister is still there. I must ask her. She never speaks about daddy. I don’t like this place … It’s all too white … the walls are white. White like the flower I was named after. Ketaki, the flower rejected by the gods. Mom would find such a stupid name for me. I would rather have been called a Sunflower … not a Rose, or even a Cabbage for that matter. That would be nice and odd, and oddly nice! I wonder why people don’t name their children after vegetables. Think of it, a playground full of Okras and Lettuces … Brinjals and Beans … … Cabbages and Kings…

My sister’s husband calls her by food names. Honeybun, Sugar, Cupcake …… I wonder what Daddy would have thought. He would probably laugh his hearty laugh and say all Americans were mad … but mad in a nice way. I know he likes Americans. Mom still has an old album with a picture of Daddy and the American Photographer … ... Sometimes, Daniel reminds me of him. Maybe that is why my sister married him. Maybe she did look at the picture when I wasn’t looking.

I want to go home. I don’t want to stay here in this stark sterile room. I don’t belong here. I hate white…I HATE WHITE.

I love red. It’s a rich warm colour. I can almost smell it. It reminds me of my husband. Why isn’t he here? Why does everything hurt? I see him smiling at me, wearing the same red tee-shirt I had first seen him in. I thought he was the handsomest boy in the world and Daddy agreed. Sayyed was the handsomest boy in the world. I still think he is. He is just like Daddy. I chased him, made a fool of myself over him till I got him ……… Daddy was amused.

It was our secret till I invited him over for dinner. Mom wasn’t too pleased. In fact she wasn’t nice at all and refused to speak to him. She said she hated the tattoo. I thought it was real cool to have a tattooed neck. Daddy had a tattoo too. Mom just ignored the part about Daddy’s tattoo, like she always ignored everything else I had to say about Daddy.

Sayyed always listened. He is such a sweetheart. He always wrote long cheery letters and sent me love poems. I used to write good poetry then. He said it gave him hope even in war.

When we got married, Mom stopped speaking to me. I didn’t mind I think … But then, no one can not love Sayyed. She came around … And later even took his side when we had arguments … What were they about? I can barely remember. There’s that refrain again ……

“I’m not your Daddy
And I sure as hell love you.”

Did you? Do you? Is that why you stay away from me? Fighting wars you don’t believe in? Why must you go away every time? The army can recruit others to fight their silly wars. Where next after Afghanistan? Iraq? Iran? Africa? Mars? You always leave me all alone. Daddy never did that. He was always there. I hate being all alone. Daddy went away after I married you … he took Ewok with him. I miss them, you must take his place now …… No, you are not here …… Where are you? When are you coming to see me?

I thought you would make a great father like Daddy, but you are nothing like him. I don’t know why Mom always says you are so nice. She never had anything nice to say about Daddy, but she only says nice things about you …… “Thank God, he is nothing like your father.” That was the only time I heard her refer to Daddy after so many years … … But what did she mean? Daddy loved me. So does Sayyed. Or perhaps, he doesn’t … maybe that is why Mom gets along with him now. I miss Daddy.

“Listen to me …” My sister is still here in the white room. “You’ve got to snap out of it. Sayyed will be here soon.”

She is very pretty I think, except when she frowns. When she frowns she looks exactly like Mom. Why is she shaking me?
“Come on, snap out of it. I said Sayyed will be home soon.”

Yeah right, in a body bag … She doesn’t hear me. She is too busy lecturing me …… I am not going to listen … “Told him you would be okay …… Pull through this together …… He is not a bad man …… He loves you …… No need to be depressed …… That’s what family is for …… blah blah blah …… ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING? ...... Talk to me …”

There she goes again … … tears. Why does she have to cry so often? I feel sorry for her.

I want Daddy? Where is Daddy?

“Listen to me. ARE YOU LISTENING? I’M SICK OF YOU. Stop being so selfish here, will you! We are all worried here and you are still playing your stupid game. You’ve always had it easy. PLAYING YOUR STUPID GAME. Daddy’s GONE! Do you hear, he’s been gone all these years! Stop pretending you don’t know. You’ve always known it …… You spoilt little princess! You know what he was … He was not a hero … You make me sick … It has always been you, hasn’t it? Playing your stupid game under the table while Mom and I worked our fingers to the bone … Sewing, knitting to make ends meet, while you … You played … Sometimes pretending it was a ball game, other times it was rock climbing … always with your precious Daddy and your imaginary dog. And this was the same dad who walked out on us just before you were born …”’

“Mommy’s little girl never had to understand any of the problems we went through. Mom always spoilt you. Trying to make up for the Dad you never had, putting you first always. Then along came Sayyed. I am surprised how he takes all of this. He loves you madly. We can all see that, but that’s not good enough for our little princess. Is it? Always whining and complaining. He is in a war … Do you understand? And what do you do? What did you think you were doing, you fool? If I hadn’t stopped by last noon … …. You spoilt little ……”
… … there you go, she’s crying again. I don’t believe what she said about Daddy walking out on us. I have always known he rode away on his motorcycle with Ewok. I can still see him in his ripped jeans and leather jacket … … Riding with the wind and Ewok’s silky ears flying, as they head off into the sunset.

My sister is still crying. Poor girl, she must watch cartoons. She’ll be a lot happier than she is now.

The door opens … and a nurse in the same boring white walks in. She is holding a little white bundle in her arms. Wait a minute … … Why is she holding it out to me?

Mrs. … Would you like to hold your daughter?

MY DAUGHTER? NO THAT CAN’T BE. Sayyed, where are you? WHERE ARE YOU? YOU PROMISE TO BE HERE FOR US.

IS SHE NOT GOING TO SEE HER DADDY TOO?

THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING … THIS IS A DREAM … NO ... NO …

I can hear myself screaming and screaming … And the last thing I remember is the prick of a needle in my arm.

***

5 years later:

I set the stack of plates on the table. Mom, my sister and Daniel and their two boys are coming over for lunch.

I have to call those two in. I walk across the window and see the picture I have always longed to see.

Sayyed and Farheen are laughing.

My little daughter is laughing with her head thrown back and her soft black hair flying as she swings on the tyre.

Ewok, Farheen’s brown and white Tibetan terrier is barking madly, as she shrieks delightedly each time her daddy gives her tyre a little push.

The garden hose is still turned on, the car is half washed. The little imp must have made her daddy forget all about it just as she made him forget that dinner with the …… last Saturday. She is a happy little child … she is … daddy’s girl.

2004

nostalgia...

KITES

Smrithi Rumdali Rai

Four of us sprawled in the grass under the shade of the plum trees. Shekhar lazily spat out a plum seed and hit Suresh squarely on the back of his head. His head buried in his arms and lying on his stomach in the grass, Suresh took no notice.

With no adult around for the day except the old ‘cook uncle’ at home, we had gorged ourselves silly on the half ripe plums and were all feeling rather kindly towards our fellowmen.

White flecks of the occasional cloud dotted an otherwise clear blue sky.

‘Chet’…. ‘CHHHETTTTT! The lazy afternoon was punctured by this shrill cry followed by a victorious whoop.

It floated down gently….a green and yellow flutter of string and paper and stuck in the tall magnolia tree towards our right. The whoop rang out again as the kite just hung there limply.

‘There goes Shiva’s kite’ muttered Shekhar.

‘How do you know it is his, dada?’ I asked.

Shekhar, for an answer turned contemptuously away. He was fourteen and the biggest among us. I knew he was just letting me hang around because my mother had asked him to keep an eye on me. He knew everything about everything and would not waste his wisdom on an eight year old girl.

He and prodded Bivek in the ribs with his foot.

‘Aye ooth’ (get up)
“Huh.” Bivek sprang up in a hurry. He was never sure if the two brothers meant to hit him or be friends with him. But then Shekhar and Suresh were the very popular boys and being bullied once in a while was a small price to pay to be allowed to hang around them.

‘I am going to make a kite’ he announced.

Suresh immediately sat up. I squealed in delight but was silenced by a look. Bivek was smiling broadly.

“You go get the small bamboos from Kumar’s house’.

‘You, collect some dry twigs’.

‘And you try and see if you can sneak out some flour and a dekchi (container) from the kitchen with out that old cook seeing you”. He barked out orders and we hastily got up to do his bidding.

“What about you? What are you going to do?’ His brother asked.

“I’m off to Mota Bhayya’s shop to get the paper and string’.

With that he coolly sauntered off leaving us gasping in fear and surprise. We had been specifically told never to go anywhere near the bhaiyya’s shop. All of us had been threatened with dire consequence if we even went within a hundred meters of the shop.

We knew he would go there and come back. The funny thing was that he would get away with it too; after all he was Shekhar dada. He could do anything….

I started collecting twigs from under the trees and meanwhile Suresh headed off whistling to the kitchen where old cook uncle was smoking his quiet beedi while no one was around.

After a while Bivek appeared looking jubilant, he had a 2 meter bamboo pole with him. He had managed to get it for free from Kumar’s mother. Had Kumar been there he would surely have asked for money.

Kumar was the village blacksmith. His forge was another place we were not supposed to go but all the same we would. It was hard to ignore the fascination the forge held for us with its bellows going whoooosssshhh whoooosssshhh.

The forge would be glowing fiercely and Kumar would be hunched by its side carefully handling a white hot strip of metal. The sight of white hot metal being dipped in water with a great sizzle followed by the acrid smell was something worth being punished for.

Just then we heard a yell and saw Suresh sprinting up the garden path. ‘Just you wait’, yelled the old man ‘wait till your aunt and uncle get home’. He shook his fist at Suresh and went back inside, slamming the door so hard that Kalae the black Tibetan mastiff came charging around the house to see if anything was wrong.

He came up to where we were, rather breathlessly, ’Wow, the old man is still sharp as ever, I didn’t see him around and had just got a handful into my pocket when he came in ‘. I did manage to grab some more before he charged’, he giggled. His pocket was bulging with the flour but then he took a look at my small heap of twigs and slapped his forehead.

“Het terrika!, we have no dekchi……Let’s go”, he said. A few minutes later we found ourselves in the shed where Suresh directed us to look for two empty tins. Fearful of the old cook seeing us and screaming blue murder, we luckily found two of my grandma’s empty Complan tins scuttled off as fast as we could.

‘Get some water in this’, he directed Bivek and told me to look for three big stones.

By this time some of the excitement of kite making had worn off and I asked him,

‘Dada are we really making a Kite?’ He laughed, told me not to be a pest and do what he said.

He was all right when he was by himself and not with his big brother.

With the three stones he made a small hearth and stood the tin on it. He proceeded to mix the water and the flour in the tin, stirring in the flour slowly with a stick.

We had no matches so I trotted off to fetch my father’s lighter.

We watched Suresh light the fire and wisps of smoke floated up in the air. Soon the mixture inside the tin began to splutter and boil and Suresh kept stirring it with a fat twig till we got a hot, thick gluey paste.

“Yummy”, Bivek laughed and pretended to eat it; and promptly burnt his finger.

Shekhar came up walking in that leisurely fashion he rather fancied himself in and threw down a small bundle of paper and string.

“Where is the knife?’ he asked.

We fell silent.

“I’m not going,’ Suresh announced, ‘I am already in trouble with the old man.’

“Not me ‘’ Bivek piped in hastily.

I kept on looking at the sky hoping he would not ask me to fetch the knife from the kitchen.

The old cook had been a cook in my grandfather’s regiment and had seen my father as a boy. He would always be complaining about us and our elders seemed to listen to him all the time.

My father a strict disciplinarian, believed in the maxim, “spare the rod and spoil the child”. There had been many times we had been punished because of the old man’s complaints. With a sinking heart I hoped he had not seen me sneaking out of my parent’s room with the lighter.

“Darcheraeuwa haru. (You cowards)’, Shekhar dada spat contemptuously and took out his own scout knife with the brown sheath. He was in the Boy Scouts and had interesting things with him but he would use them only if nothing else was available.

Dexterously he split the bamboos into halves and then proceeded to cut out thin strips of bamboo from one half. We watched fascinated as he smoothened each strip, running the blade gently over them while curly shavings fell off magically.

‘You two go and find an old bottle’, he ordered Bivek and me, and ‘we need some glass dust.’

That was the first I had heard of ‘glass dust’. But obediently we got up and walked towards the shed once more. To our disgust, there was the surly old man, sitting right next to the shed, smoking another of his horrible smelly beedis.

We looked at one another in dismay, and then Bivek brightened up, ‘let’s check out the garbage heap’, he suggested.

I was not very happy and objected.

‘Do you want to tell Da that you can’t find a stupid bottle?” he asked.

I guess I did not and soon we were poking around the garbage heap with a long stick.

A few minutes later Bivek was jubilantly holding up an orange juice bottle, ‘Yippee a Dipy’s’, he cried.

“What are you doing in the garbage heap?” bawled the old cook and we ran breathlessly back to the grove once more.

The two brothers were sticking the paper on cross made of the bamboo.

‘Hold it gently, there now stick it on’

‘Wait, not that way……..”

The two of them seemed to be carrying out a rather difficult but interesting task.

Seeing us crowd around, Shekhar barked out his orders once more, ‘You grind that bottle into dust,’.

Turning to me he went on…. ‘ And you, just get away from the broken bottle will you. I don’t want to hear another lecture about how we teach you all the wrong things in life.’.

‘But I want to help’, I protested.

Shekhar da just shrugged and turned away to concentrate on the kite.

I joined Bivek in smashing the bottle and pounding it on a flat rock with a smaller rock till all we had left of the bottle was a fine powder. (Luckily the two of us came to no harm in what I now see as a very dangerous thing to do.).

Now it was time for the master to get on with his show and Shekhar took over completely.

Using a bundle of grass he carefully swept the ‘glass dust’ into the tin with the flour glue had been prepared and mixed it well. “I need some plastic bags’ he muttered to no one in particular and Bivek quickly ran back to the garbage heap and came back with six or seven of them.

The brothers unwound the string and strung it across the plum trees. It was a very long string and took a long time. By the time they were done the whole grove was crisscrossed with the red string that looked like a washing line gone crazy.

I sat patiently on the grass and watched them with great fascination. The excitement mounting further when Shekhar da slipped his hand in a plastic bag, secured it with a piece of string and slipped on another and another on the same hand till he was ‘wearing’ a many layered plastic bag ‘glove’ in his right hand.

Suresh picked up the “glue and glass dust” tin and served a generous portion of the gooey stuff on to his brother’s plastic covered hand. Gently Shekhar held the stretched string between his hands and slowly dragged the glue along the length of the string. It was quite some time before he was done. Sweating a little he sat down on the grass with a sigh.

‘Is it ready now?’ I asked for I was getting very impatient.

‘We wait till it is dry, and apply a second layer,’ he replied and curled up in the grass to sleep. I sat in the grass impatiently waiting for the glue to dry. Bivek lay on his back and squinted at the sky occasionally pointing to the one stray passing cloud as sometimes a dragon, a boat or an old man.

Suresh, meanwhile was busy boring holes on the top and the bottom of the other Complan tin. He then carefully inserted a foot long stick that he had been whittling to a smooth finish. The stick was just long enough to stick out a hand grip each from the two holes.

He was making the spool for the kite string so he said.

Taking a small piece if black plastic pipe Suresh held it over the fire and waited till it started melting and burning with a foul smell. He carefully dripped the melted plastic on to the place where the stick jutted out of the can at both ends.

‘This will prevent the stick from slipping out of the can. He put it down carefully and waited for it to cool.

Kite making was fun but I did not like all this waiting.

Thankfully enough the glue had dried and the second layer was applied, and then, to my dismay, the old cook called us in for tea. “I don’t want any,’ I declared.

‘Well, I do,” replied Shekhar and Bivek together.

There was nothing to do except breath in deeply and hold it in tight to stop myself exploding with impatience. That day, I remember feeling the tea was hotter than usual and did not taste very nice nor did my favorite “Thin Arrowroot Biscuits’. And of course, all the while, old cook threatened to complain about our “Very Bad behavior’ as soon as everyone was back.

Finally, the string was wound up in the Complan tin spool; the kite was attached to the string. The wind was just right and up it went; with the haughtiest rustle a kite ever made.

Impatiently tugging at the string it soared up to the sky taking our dreams with it.

It was quite something our kite. A purple and white beauty with a tail made up of 12 white paper butterflies on a string.

There we stood, four kids…..maybe a little dirty.

Bivek was sucking his finger he had managed to burn while cooking the glue.

Suresh had a small patch of melted black plastic on his pants leg.

I had a scraped knee while running away from the old cook uncle.

Only Shekhar dada stood unruffled as always, playing out the string and winding it back a little, skillfully making the kite go higher and higher and higher…………..

Time stood still for a while and we flew with the kite, high in the sky, looking down at the green hills below and the sunny little valley we knew as home. Childhood is magical.

Years have gone by, the two brothers moved to France, Shekhar has two children and is divorced. He works in a hotel.

Suresh works in construction and has decided never to marry.

Bivek moved to Kalimpong where he runs a small shop and lives with his old father and wife and kids.

I moved away and married an army officer and have to keep moving around the country.

The old cook uncle is no more.

Yet I know; the silence of the lazy afternoon in the sunny valley is often punctured with the cry,’CHHETT’.

Another kite slowly floats down to settle gently in the tall magnolia tree right next to the plum grove where four children spent an afternoon making a kite.

© September 2007

about staying single ...

GOING SOLO

poornachandra

It was the same old story again. One more of my childhood chums was taking the plunge. Our gang of buddies, some with better halves, were chatting while the couple-to-be was busy with the rites of initiation into holy matrimony. Most of them were veterans who took the plunge aeons ago. They decided to teach the few good men amongst us, who still stood ashore, the finer aspects of life. And the conversation veered towards the divine wedlock. “In marriage, the first chapter is written in poetry and the rest in prose,” said the Writer. “So get married and have an everlasting romance.” His wife added, “How long are you going to drift around. Get settled in life.” The Musician chorused, “Enough of singing solo. Try the duet, it’s heavenly.”


Their words got me thinking. In the pleasant monotony of bachelorhood, maybe there was a need for some excitement. Not one to be convinced easily, the sceptic in me invoked the greatest philosopher of them all, Socrates, and asked him, “Should I marry or not?” To that he replied, “Whichever you do you will repent it.” I shared these words with the friends and thought aloud, “To do, or not to do!” The Pragmatist, who was the last one to switch courts from singles to doubles, said, “Marriage has many pains but celibacy has no pleasures,” quoting Dr. Samuel Johnson. “According to Shaw, marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity,” he added. “So many wise men, so many wise thoughts. Maybe I should go ahead and follow them,” said Captain Courageous, who could be incited into acts of bravery easily. Doubting Thomas, amongst friends known to be the patron saint of bachelors, quipped, “Married men live longer than single men, but married men are a lot more willing to die. So look before you leap.”


One saw marriage as an affliction from which a lucky few are protected. From another point of view matrimony is the battlefield into which the weak-hearted dare not enter. Being the brave one Captain Courageous was ready to desert Singledom and defect to the other side. But not me, I thought. I’m immune to this epidemic. Or maybe I lack the courage for this battle. Marriage is an institution, they say. And I don’t want to be institutionalised. There was nothing much happening in the Captain Courageous’ life anyway, except keeping appointments and meeting deadlines. So he dared. “But I’ll get married only after falling in love. No arranged marriage. It’s the New Age Woman of substance that I seek,” he told the folks. “Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it. Now’s your turn, and we’ll arrange for that,” chorused the gang.


Before he could say “Saint Valentine,” he was with this pretty young thing, courtesy the guardian angels. She batted her lashes and simpered a little, and she had Courageous panting like a puppy. “She’s the Bharatiya Belle. My woman of substance. She wears western clothes but still respects Indian traditions. She stood first in class in her eighth standard and was Miss Defence Colony during her college days. She idolises Mother Teresa, loves animals, and wants to use her inner beauty to work for world peace. The right mix of ethnicity and modernity. She’s the one I always dreamt of,” he told me. “Best of luck,” I said. The rest happened at the speed of light. After a whirlwind campaign of romance he called the Blisskrieg, he popped the question, she wore his ring, and one fine day, they took the plunge. “And they lived happily ever after?!?!” I said as they drove off for their honeymoon. “Amen” said the gangsters. I went back to my bachelor pad, hoping that this latest convert to their faith finds his salvation.


It was almost a year later that Saint Thomas and I bumped into Captain Courageous at the parking lot of the biggest shopping mall downtown. As we exchanged pleasantries, I sensed something wrong about his expression. The plunge seemed to have affected him a lot; he was wet and dripping. We asked him how the going was. “Marriage is beautiful. A terrible journey, a season in hell and a reason for living” he blabbered. The poetry from the first chapter seemed to have got to his head. I asked him whether he managed to win the Krieg to find Bliss. “She’s beautiful and sweet. She’s an Indian Goddess all right, but is a westernised MTV-style divinity at that. She’s crazy about Ricky Martin and thinks I’m silly to be still listening to the likes of Kishori Amonkar. I get to see her in all her designer glory and be her escort. I also get to walk her three dogs, sing to the pair of kittens, and talk to the parrot. And of course, I get to pick up her shopping bills and swipe my credit card. She won’t work because she can’t find anyone who’ll pay her what she wants. She can’t be a mere housewife because that would be against her ideals of liberation. She’s been trying forever to attain the New Age Nirvana, while I try and keep up. It’s true what they say: Love is blind, and marriage is the eye-opener.” Having said this in one breathless stretch, he turned away to receive his ladylove who arrived with a cartload of shopping. We said hello to her, and then bade them farewell. Before we split ways, the brave but now bruised warrior said, “Take it from me, marriage isn’t a word…It’s a sentence.”


As we moved off, Saint Thomas said, “I’ve always maintained that a bachelor is a fellow who never makes the same mistake once. The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage. So most of the folks enter the wedlock and that’s when the padlock is shut. No comebacks. Poor things, it is a long-term rigorous imprisonment for them. They have to continue doing the same thing – running shops, selling soaps, making money – doing whatever hard work it takes to support their families. And go on working towards owning that sleek car, designer jeans, branded cosmetics, and all those symbols of happiness.” It’s rather scary, this system, I thought. “All these events in time-space help to make up one’s mind to stay single, and travel light. So here I am, going solo, yet, so high,” he added.


“Don’t you ever feel lonely and melancholic?” I asked. He quoted some wise man with a trademark smile and said, “One was never married, and that’s his hell; another is, and that’s his plague. So after all maybe one may go ahead and get married. But the timing ought to be real right.” “So when should a man marry? What’s the right timing?” I asked, as the parting question. The wise old bachelor boy said, “He marries best who puts it off until it is too late,” and bade me good-bye. I could see the mist lifting and the light shining through it. And I could see the path…

©2001

first flight at fifty...

FIRST FLIGHT AT FIFTY

(A MOTHER'S STORY IN HER SON'S WORDS)

poornachandra... for sree valli

My seat-belt fastened, I braced myself for something I had never experienced before. The huge bird of steel shuddered, noisily building up power. As the pitch of its mechanical music reached a crescendo, it began rolling ahead on its wheels, eating up the tarmac with an ever-increasing speed. With all its might it strained itself to free itself from the shackles of earth’s gravity. I waited anxiously for the result of this great struggle. And suddenly, the bird was free! We were airborne. With its head held high in victory, the giant bird soared into the blue skies. Soon we were in the heavens, enjoying the companionship of clouds and the sight of earth far below. I was headed westwards with my husband, to meet my children in Ohio, the birthplace of aviation. A hundred years after the Wright brothers accomplished a magical feat, I tasted the flavour of my first flight. First flight at fifty. The beginning of an unforgettable adventure.

Fifty. Half a century. A small but cherished landmark in any batsman’s innings on the cricketing field. Golden Jubilee for any event worth commemorating. What was this number fifty to me? My age. The length of my existence as a living being. A major part of my life’s innings is over and done with. Was it eventful? Born into a traditional South Indian family, a large one at that, I grew up in the confines of a middle class milieu. A great imbalance prevailed between requirements and resources. Reality, with all its hardness, was always in your face. And even dreams never really took off in the absence of opportunities. And I was a girl-child. Even before my teens whizzed past, I was married, and entered another big family. At twenty five, I was the mother of three. Soon I became a working woman supporting my man in making ends meet. Many a battle was fought for survival and for the security of my home and hearth. Life in all its unfairness was the constant adversary in the midst of changing times. I never realized how fast my brood of three little birds grew wings. One by one, they took to wings and flew out of our nest. They traveled far, to distant lands, each seeking its own destiny. Each in search of its own place in the circle of life. When comprehension set in, we were alone, man and wife, awaiting the onset of Autumn before the inevitable Fall.

Free from responsibilities, we could now begin the second innings of life. This one would be played at a relaxed pace, with no pressure of striking hard and fast to chase some complex target. We made a few leisurely trips, and soon succumbed to wanderlust. Very soon we found a happy reason to travel across the seas. Our younger son and the daughter were graduating from Ohio State University at Columbus, Ohio in the United States. My boy Anil had earned his doctorate in Molecular Genetics while my little girl Uma finished her Masters in Anthropology. The occasion was to be a much awaited family reunion and a celebration for the academic success of my kids. The only one missing was our eldest son, a Major in the Indian Army, who had just moved to Bhutan on a foreign assignment.

It was the 28th of August, 2003. A great day with memories to treasure and cherish. After a wonderful graduation ceremony, my children decided to celebrate. Some would pop a cork and say cheers with some bubbly. Some would gorge themselves on a feast. Some would shake a leg and break into a jig. To each his own, they say. My brood of little birds, when they left our nest, had learnt to fly in the literal sense. One after the other, they heard the skies call, responded to it, and found it irresistible. The elder son is a paratrooper in the Army and he calls himself a “Professional Dropout”. He initiated his younger siblings during a visit to the US years back, and since then all three have been badly bitten by the skydiving bug. Parachuting was the family prescription for an adrenalin rush. So we traveled to AEROHIO, the largest skydiving centre in the Great Lakes Region of the American Midwest. The kids would jump while the parents watched, and together we would celebrate the happy occasion at the drop zone, or Dee Zee as they called it. I was full of questions about what was their favourite sport. The last time I had seen someone jump was during a demonstration in Hyderabad sometime in 1998, when my soldier-son participated. That, they told me, was a static-line jump used for mass military drops. What I was to watch here was a display of freefall and relative work by my kids.

They got into their jump suits, wore their rigs and flew away. We kept looking up at the wide welkin till our necks went stiff. Out of the blue appeared a few colored blips. They grew bigger as they got closer. One by one, each of these blips blossomed into a rainbow of colours when the canopies of the parachutes opened and caught wind. They floated beautifully, making exquisite patterns in the sky. They circled the drop zone lazily, and glided back onto terra firma almost reluctantly. Among the dozen jumpers who returned after a heavenly flight were my little babies, now looking really big and grown up. I was awestruck and overwhelmed with joy at the sight of my winged angels. They were really inspiring.

Looking at my face, a kaleidoscope of emotions, my “pretty little butterfly” Uma asked me if I would like to experience the joy of a skydive. I didn’t even blink before saying yes! You only live once and so never let go of an opportunity that comes your way. It was knocking at my door and I was surely going to welcome it with wide open arms. So eager was I to partake of the heavenly feast that was on offer. I had no idea of what lay ahead. Nor was I prepared in any way. But I recalled the tag line of an airline ad that asked “When was the last time you did some thing for the first time?” I’d do it, whatever happened. I had to change from a sari into a jumpsuit. My kids plunged into the task of finding a jumpsuit large enough for me and my little tummy together. Several trials followed in the changing room, but with no success. I was getting despondent that there wasn’t one that would fit me well. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to jump! Anil consoled me and said that we’d try again at San Diego, California, where he was moving for his post-doctoral research. But Uma was not one to give up. With her never-say-die attitude she kept searching and I kept trying. Just when I was about to say enough, we got lucky. Someone did make a suit large enough for me. While I changed, the kids announced that they’d be accompanying me all the way from the ground to the sky and back.

I was to do something called a tandem jump. This tandem is a jump which requires only thirty minutes of training after which one would freefall attached to a highly experienced skydiving instructor in a parachute system built for two people. We would be flying up to a certain height, exit the plane and freefall for one minute. The instructor, or jumpmaster as he is known, would then open the parachute and glide me through a five minute descent and a smooth landing. This, I was told, is the easiest way to experience a first skydive. I got ready while I took the instructions from the jumpmaster. He too was excited with the proceedings and looked forward to helping an old lady from India discover flight. He briefed me patiently and said all I had to do was cooperate. It wasn’t over at that, what with risk and responsibility attached to the whole thing. They gave me some documents to read and sign: they outlined various aspects of hazard and liability in jargon that was very much legal Latin. Well, I had no mood to go through them. If they wanted my signatures, they’d get them. I didn’t even bother consult my husband or seek his approval. I was raring to go and take my leap of faith. So off I went hurrying to the airstrip. The jumpmaster observed all my enthusiasm and decided to make the occasion a truly memorable one. He convinced a fellow instructor to accompany us and film the jump. That would mean a lot. I could actually carry my memories home on video.

I almost ran to the aircraft with my children by my side. This plane was small and cute. They told me it was a Super Otter. Compared to the metallic monster that transported us across continents, this looked like a toy. The rotors were revving with a melodious hum, and they seemed to welcome me into a new world. I was young again. My dreams came back, and I could make them come true. I’d start here and now with flying. We were some ten odd jumpers. I was to jump last and so boarded the plane early, right behind my instructor. The roof was low and so we moved on our knees. The others followed suit. We sat down in two rows, legs stretched ahead. They closed the door and the plane ran ahead on the runway. A short sprint and we were flying. All the way up my kids kept pepping me up with encouragement. The camera was focused on me, recording the emotions that illuminated my face. I was in some kind of a hypnotic trance, oblivious of the world around me. Anil shook me out of it and pointed at my altimeter. It showed 14400 feet above ground level. The door was opened and people started jumping out. In twos and threes, they exited and plunged towards the earth. I was impatient for my turn. I watched Uma and Anil lock their hands together and dive. I was next.

My harness was attached to my instructor’s on our way up. So we waddled together to the door. The jumpmaster yelled out his commands and we jumped. I went out with a cry of “Jai Hanuman”. I saw the world upside down as we tumbled. Faster and faster we went. Everything zipped by in a blur. Suddenly we were stable in our freefall. The wind rushed past as we shot towards the ground. This must be the terminal velocity they talked about. I was flying in the sky! I saw the other jumpers below me and the photographer right in front. The world I lived in was a small image far, far below. It was an exhilarating feeling. Now I began to understand the saying that only skydivers know why birds sing. I wished it lasted for ever. I could feel my jumpmaster pull the rip cord, and then there was a loud pop. Our fall was arrested and we were pulled upwards. The canopy was deployed. We began a slow and gradual descent. The jumpmaster kept talking to me, asking me to look around and enjoy the view below. A bird’s eye view of the landscape was one of the best sights of my life. It was a long slow canopy ride. I didn’t want to down to the ground, but gravity is an undeniable fact of life. What goes up has to come down. We glided down to the drop zone and the jumpmaster ensured a smooth landing. It was a happy landing from the blue skies. The jumpmaster unhooked me from his harness, and I rushed into the arms of my children. They were absolutely thrilled. They exchanged greetings with my jumpmaster and he complimented me on my performance. He parted with a “Welcome to skydiving.” A great ending to a superlative adventure. Real celebration of life. A life that is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath!

The Child is father of the Man. True to those great words; my children taught me something great and opened the doors to a brave new world. They gave me a gift I shall cherish to the end of my days. It was a personal achievement and a milestone for the family too; four out of five members having made skydives. Any attempt to complete the list by making my husband jump was precluded by his state of health. Maybe some other day. Months later, I am back in India enjoying my retirement, but am looking forward to the day when I return to the skies and dive solo. Meanwhile I look at the firmament every time I hear a plane and say a silent hello. I’ll be back.

"Give me one moment in time when I'm more than I thought I could be...

Give me one moment in time when I'm racing with destiny,

then in that one moment in time I will be free"

- Whitney Houston

04 Feb 2004

about dogs in the army ...

ABOUT DOGS

poornachandra

“The army is going to the dogs!” is a common exasperated expression I’ve been hearing all these years. “No, the dogs have come to the army” is the retort as common. What is it about the army and the dogs? It’s an existential problem I’ve been mulling over for some time. A retrospective view of my experience in an army gone to the dogs or with dogs in the army, as you like it or how you take it, is what I think will help me clear some mist.

During my jaunt on the Civvy Street my contact with the canine kind was limited to a distant view of these friends of mankind, cautious as I was due to my inability to differentiate between those that barked and those that went further to bite. But things changed once I turned onto the martial road and added my two feet in marching to the metronomic cadence. My encounters with dogs increased, and the respectful distance I maintained thus far began to decrease. I realized that the animals were mingling with the people like relatives. I also understood that one had to be either a dog or a dog-lover to make it to the cantonment who’s who. Otherwise, one could end up with a serious identity crisis. There were as many types of fanciers as there were varieties of dogs. There were the philosophers who thought that “The dog commends himself to our favor by affording play to our propensity for mastery.” There were cynical misanthropes who said, “The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.” And there were ardent supporters of ‘Animalloversunited.com’ who simply felt that “Happiness Is a Warm Puppy.” Wow!

Let’s leave the masters (and mistresses, to avoid gender bias and sound politically correct) and talk about the pets. Because they’re the protagonists of this piece. Also because they say “Like master, like dog.” If you shook hands (or paws) with one, it’s as good as making an acquaintance with the other.

Bozo was the ‘first’ dog I met in the army. He was the first citizen of the animal farm in my first regiment because he was the Commanding Officer’s own. He was always in a frazzled state, white hair turned dirty-brown and gone awry, eyes hidden under the very same hair, and never knowing whether he was coming or going. But he fraternized well with his master and gave him good company. Bozo was a Lhasa Apso, and the boss felt that he would do well during a high-altitude tenure, what with the added prospect of all those special rations. So off he went with the regiment, high above the snowline to the mountains, closer to his fatherland by a several hundred miles. But alas, neither the cold climate nor the tense circumstances of an insurgency suited him. The special rations didn’t help either. Both dog and master grew frail and cantankerous, eagerly waiting for deliverance from the high-altitude-and-uncongenial-area. Of course it came, well after both earned their medals for valorous service and the blue ribbon showing white peaks.

It was in a peace station when the first soldier of the regiment changed. There was a corresponding change of guard at the first canine’s chair too. The color changed from white to black, the name to Dollar, and the breed…I don’t know to what. This one, I guess, knew that his namesake was with the richest kid Richie Rich. He behaved in keeping with his regal status, and drew on all his perks and privileges. But he was perpetually in the company of Nonie the cat, and that really confused his sense of identity. He chased mice instead of men, and never really matched his master in stature or status, except when he pretended.

My exposure to canine lifestyle took a revolutionary leap when I volunteered and joined the Airborne fraternity. The sheer number and variety of dogs in my new regiment was an education in zoology and sociology. This was definitely the place that made someone exclaim that the dogs have come to the army. It could be the dog compartment on the Noah’s ark. And the masters and mistresses in this place followed the simple dictum “Love me, love my dog.”
Leading the pack were, as usual, the first family’s pet canines. There was Oscar the Alsatian and Simba the Labrador. Both were big enough to take a bite off my thigh and finish it without a burp. They maintained a haughty air worthy of the Egyptian Pharaoh, and disdainfully disregarded any friendly overtures from lesser beings like me. They roamed the unit area like kings and the subjects diffidently stepped aside to let them pass. If they had ranks in the canine hierarchy, these two would definitely be Colonels, or maybe more.

Our regiment was abode of breeds as exotic as the Masai warriors. There was Bimbo the Beagle, the playful one with a British lineage. The English blood didn’t make it stiff, though. She was all over the place, gregariously making friends with man and beast alike. Energy and enthusiasm marked her character. Sheba the mongrel surpassed all the others in friendliness and affection, remarkably making up for her lack of pedigree. But her saccharine sweetness could get uncomfortably cloying at times. So, one kept his distance. Then there was the quaint and contrasting character of Anastasia the Basset-hound. Ana, as she was called, appeared eponymous with some mysterious Russian princess. Pale, quiet and inactive, she seemed to be brooding over her colorful past, contrasting it with a drab present. Her dolorous expression reflected the collective sorrow of some bygone royal dynasty that had lost all its glory to the vicissitudes of history.

The regimental kennel had old inhabitants leaving and new faces showing up, whenever some human counterpart was transferred on posting. That made life in the kennel spectacularly kaleidoscopic. There was Lisa the German Shepherd who spent a good part of the day liberally vocalizing her emotions and tugging at her leash. Maybe she heard some amorous bark she found irresistible, or maybe someone found her too alluring. Whatever the case was, one day she inexplicably vanished, never to return. There was Tiger, the most inappropriately named hound ever, who wouldn’t chase a cat and could be scared by a mouse. There were Dalmatians too, but only two, instead of 101. Sheba and Pasha, as they were named, were very social to the point of being intrusive. They were fond of visiting you as uninvited guests and making their presence felt. Imagine 99 more of them Dalmatians to make up the numbers… what a prospect!

And thus there were dogs, and dogs all around. They are as ubiquitous in the cantonment as are neatly-trimmed hedges and well-maintained pathways. They have life so good that it necessitates the expression “It’s a dog’s life” to be redefined. They get a human companion who dutifully walks them, or runs with them, as the master feels apt. Good food in terms taste and variety is there for the asking. Their only competitors in terms of attracting affection are the master’s own progeny. And their closest rivals when it comes to demanding attention are humans of the feminine gender. Things couldn’t get better. It wouldn’t be just an anagrammatic twist if one felt that dogs in the army are almost divine, considering the way they are worshipped.

To talk of it, dogs have found context even in spirituality and Zen. There’s an interesting story is about the monk who said to a Master, "Has a dog Buddha-nature too?" The Master replied, "Wu" — which is what the dog himself would have said. That could be the answer I’ve been looking for.

That’s all about dogs.

18 0ctober 2002

about a turning point ...

A QUIRK OF FATE

poornachandra

I was reading a book on Indian history.

“Robert Clive was responsible for the establishment of the British Empire in India.” This sentence got me thinking. Thinking about that man and his strange story.

Clive! Baron Clive of Plassey. 1725 to 1774. British soldier and colonialist. Founder of the British Empire in India.

The problem child of an English commoner! A person who was pronounced worthless by the wise old men in his neighbourhood!

An exasperating young man whose father was driven to desperation and forcibly transported his son to Madras in the service of the East India Company.

That’s how Clive reached Indian shores. He was just an insignificant clerk, very much like his harassed old parent. Inconsequential with his limited and unremarkable talents. Practically a failure, very early in life.

But ambition, they say, is the last refuge of the failure. It was a wise man who remarked that the greatest evil which fortune can inflict on men is to endow them with small talents and great ambition. Ambition is the fuel of achievement. And the incentive to ambition is the love of power.
With an ambition that is a common affliction of men – lust for power, lust for fame, and lust for lucre – supplemented by the enthusiasm of the young blood throbbing in his veins Clive chose to forsake the scribe’s quill and pick up the sword. To be a soldier of fortune.

During the course of his tumultuous life in India, he was captured by French, escaped, was allowed to make his proposed daring dash to seize Arcot, held citadel eight weeks with small a force until relieved and captured other French strongholds. He left for England only to return again to India. He was governor of Fort St. David when he reduced the pirate stronghold of Gheriah. He was then sent to avenge the atrocity of Black Hole of Calcutta. Clive recovered Calcutta, defeated the Mughal nawab Sirâj-ud-Dawlah at Plassey, and installed Mîr Jaffar as nawab. At one time he was the virtual ruler of Bengal. He repulsed the Dutch colonizing attempt, entered Parliament in England and was raised to Irish peerage as Baron Clive of Plassey. He was sent out as governor and commander in chief of Bengal to right the disorder and corruption grown up in his absence. Then he reformed civil service, restored military discipline and obtained for East India Company sovereignty over the whole province.

Deep-rooted avarice and self-interest, strong elements of his character, stoked and sustained the fire in him. That fire kept him going through the ups and downs of life and he survived the vicissitudes of fortune. Using his brain and brawn both, Clive managed to gain a foothold across the threshold of the vast continent called India. He then handed over the spoils of his victory to his masters. All this, to impress his superiors and gain their approbation. For the pleasure of some plaudits. To erase the obloquy from his memory. The psychological reaction to a childhood filled with disapproval and scorn from his elders.

But –

That foothold – a consequence of one man’s desire for some accomplishment and satisfaction – underwent a transformation of exponential proportions. It paved way for the discontentment and misery of a nation. It grew to a gargantuan size, big enough to trample the freedom of millions of Indians. A man afflicted by the most common of human sins changed the course or history. A nation endured two centuries of servitude and suffering. No wonder that somebody exclaimed that history is often cruel, and rarely logical.

When a disgruntled failure decided to reverse his fate and prove his critics wrong, and prove that he was not worthless as they thought …

Providence ordained that India, a nation acknowledged for its wealth, valor and wisdom become a servile colony of an imperial power. A great nation subordinated by a country comparatively so small and so far away that it was barely significant before history willed otherwise.
A stubborn man clutched at his fortunes, and it became a vise like grip around the fate of a people. And to loosen that hold …

Multitudes cried, fought, sacrificed and died. Delicate skin tolerated angry whiplashes and painful welts. Brave chests were daringly bared to face a hail of bullets. Free spirits were tormented by long agonising prison sentences. Mothers gave up their children for the Motherland. Widows mourned their martyred husbands. Generations renounced their invaluable youth. Emotions swelled. Rebellion raged. Battles were waged. Heroes were born. Hearts were torn. Millions prayed. Legends were made. A momentous struggle was launched and sustained at great costs.

India’s historic saga through the tortuous path of time and an eager nation’s long wait for liberty… everything to loosen one stubborn man’s hold…

The catharsis came after what seemed timeless ages. For an era there were masters and there are slaves — and then, on an extraordinary midnight, there were the free. The shackles were finally broken. The language of liberty was jubilantly spoken. What a journey it was…

A journey that began with one man’s ambitious step. Clive. There’s a story that recounts Clive’s attempt at suicide. It was before his voyage to India. Despaired by failure and discouraged by taunts, he decided to end his misery. He tried to shoot himself with his pistol. The barrel was pointed to his chest when he fired. But the bullet, by some quirk of fate, veered and missed the heart by a hairbreadth. Young Clive failed to die and was condemned to live. It was then that he was sent away from English shores to seek a new life in India. What a twist in the tale!

What followed is… history. What extraordinary vehicles destiny selects to accomplish its design!

If –

If that bullet had stayed its course… if only it had found its mark… How different would the story have been! What course would history have taken… for India, for England, for the world and its entire people…

And to know that he eventually succeeded, years later, in killing himself on returning to England…

The verse of Samuel Coleridge says it all –

“There's no such thing as chance;

And what to us seems merest accident

Springs from the deepest source of destiny.”

19 October 2002

about birds...

AVIANS OF AGRA

Smrithi Poornachandra

The phone rings and I pick it up a bit reluctantly. I know it’s my husband calling to ask me if I have packed and am ready to leave to join him at Agra. I live in the hills with its verdant green forests and crystal clear cold mountain streams. I do not look forward to going to the hot and dusty, and not to mention dirty, plains of Central India. “What do you want me to get for you?” my husband asks. He is cajoling me into thinking it’s not as bad as I imagine it to be. “I don’t know”, I snap irritably, “Camels and peacocks, ivory and apes.” He laughs, “I don’t know about the ivory but the other three, you will see in plenty around these parts.” He was right. I have seen camels striding along the lanes of Agra and apes scrambling on the rooftops. Best of all, I have seen beautiful peacocks wander around the undergrowth and in the gardens. For someone who has seen these magnificent birds only in a zoo, it is quite something to see them wander around freely

It has been a few months since I have been in Agra, and I have visited the famous Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort. But when asked what I like the best about this place, it is the plethora of bird life here. For an avid bird watcher like me, it is wonderful to be able to spot Tree Pies and Babblers from the comfort of my room. It was only the other morning that I spotted a pair of Turtle Doves, a pair of Drongos, a Flame-back Woodpecker and a pair of Parakeets, all on the same tree in my backyard!

The Agra cantonment is home to many of these feathered beauties. Many cantonments all over the country offer an oasis for these harassed and beleaguered little creatures. It is within cantonments that trees are looked after, and the tiny amount of wild life in the form of birds and squirrels are safe from being hunted or killed. Even an amateur can enjoy the simple pleasures of bird watching without having to plan and visit a sanctuary.

Bird watching is becoming quite a popular hobby with those interested in the outdoors. More and more bird books hit the stands every year and the papers report something about bird watching and birds almost every day. To get started in this rewarding hobby all one needs is to just pay a little more attention to the life around them, just look around and maybe get a pair of binoculars There are many birds in Agra cantonment that are commonly seen and hard to miss around the place.

The most common birds here are the bold Jungle Babblers, greyish brown in colour with yellow eyes and feet. They hang around in groups of fives or sevens and more. They are sometimes called the Seven Sisters for their tendency to perch at one place and have a loud and animated conversation, not unlike a group of excited girls! Another hard one to miss would be the bright Indian Peafowl seen crossing small paths and walking around the undergrowth. Their harsh cries join in the early morning symphony of the other gifted songsters. It does seem a pity though, that they are hunted for their meat and their feathers hawked as fans in Sadar Bazar. One can only hope for severe wild life protection laws to save them.

The Black-rumped Flame-back Woodpecker is another interesting bird that can be easily spotted from afar as he goes about his business of busily checking the barks of trees for food. He can be identified by the flaming orange crown that resembles a rather comical wind swept hairdo. With his black head and crest, the Red Vented Bulbul, with a red vent and a white rump, is a dark brown bird busily looking around for any fruit trees he can visit. They are delightful to watch and not hard to spot as they flit from small hedges and trees.

One also sees flocks of Rose-ringed Parakeet or Parrots as we call them, sweeping across the sky at various times of the day, chattering incessantly. They seem perfectly able to hold a conversation even in flight. It is sad for these sociable little birds to be locked up all alone in a cage, with no one to talk to but us humans, who somehow take great pleasure in hearing them echo a silly word or phrase over and over again. Another great conversationalist would be the Mynah. They are a common enough sight with their brown feathers and yellow beak, eyes and feet. Their look-alikes are the Brahminy Starlings, with yellow feet, beak and eyes, but the similarity ends there. They have a black crest and rufous orange sides of the head and under parts. It is amazing to watch Mynahs and their displays of aggression towards any their feathered friends who have been unlucky enough to incur their wrath. Their cousin, the Asian Pied Starling looks like a Mynah with a black-and-white coat. Should you see a Crow with brown wings, lucky you! You’ve just spotted a Crow Pheasant or a Coucal.

The Asian Koel, a greenish black bird (he looks black from afar) with red eyes a green bill is interesting to look out for. Though the male is black the female is spotted and barred with white, and looks like another species altogether. The Rufous Tree Pie has a slate grey or brown hood, buffish under parts, pale grey wing panel and a long tail with a whitish tail band. To make it simpler, one could just remember it as a brown bird with a very long tail. It can be seen in gardens with trees and bushes.

There are various kinds of doves that have their nesting grounds around the cantonment -the Laughing Dove with spots only on its chest, the Collared Dove with a black marking on its neck like a collar, the pale grey Oriental Turtle Dove and the Spotted Dove, who as the name implies, has spotted sides and neck. It is a peaceful feeling to wake up to their gentle cooing in the morning as they welcome the new day, and it isn’t hard then to understand why the dove is a symbol of peace.

On the other hand, there are the bold and inquisitive Black Drongos with their forked tails who displayed great interest in my valiant efforts at the garrison swimming pool. A cheeky one even skims gracefully just above the water surface as if to show the tired and ungraceful human how it is supposed to be done. If that were not enough, the Changeable Hawk-Eagle soars, sweeps and glides in the Agra skies to demonstrate the nuances of flying to the Airborne Warriors. I remember seeing one of them lazily circling around an earth bound skydiver’s parachute at the Malpura Drop Zone, as if to urge this strange looking bird up in the air again. Look around in the open fields, and with a brilliant turquoise flash one is treated to the unforgettable sight of the blue wing-tipped Indian Roller. Though rufous brown in the nape and under parts, it has a greenish mantle and turquoise and dark blue wings and tail. They are easily seen as that unmistakable flash of blue among the trees.

The Jeet Singh Stadium is active in the morning, with soldiers doing their PT and hockey players fighting for a match. Yours truly was trying to learn to ride as gracefully as the riding instructor, who didn’t seem impressed at all by my repeated impression of a thrown rodeo star. Once, the horse cantered away having finished laughing at me and the field seemed to have stopped spinning around. I took a look around, and the world was magically transformed as I spotted a flock of Common Ringed Plovers feeding among the small pools of water. They can be identified by their orange legs and bills, and have prominent black markings on their face and neck, with a dull brown feathers and white under parts. These birds frequent mud banks, and are seen in large numbers in the stadium after the rains, along with white Egrets, Storks, Rails, Spoonbills, Lapwings and an odd Purple Heron.

A few six weeks ago our kitchen garden was “flooded” because of a leak in the water pipeline. Annoyance turned to delight when a Kingfisher visited the garden and decided to stay for a while. The leak has long been fixed, but I cannot help keep flooding the kitchen garden often, because the Kingfisher returns to keep visiting us and has even brought along a friend! As I sit in the patio editing this article, a plump black and white Oriental Magpie Robin is peering down anxiously at the Tawny Eagle perched on my chair. I found the eagle at the Jeet Singh stadium, with a broken wing and a damaged and festering eye. I got him home and tended to him. He is well on his way to recovery and is content if he gets his chicken (twice a day), and three hot-water bottles (changed twice) during the cold winter nights. During the day he just perches on my chair and sleeps, waking up once in a while to glare at me with his good eye when I move the chair into the sun.

Barbets and Bee-eaters, Cuckoos and Coucals, Drongos and Doves, Eagles and Egrets, Flame-backs and Flower-peckers, Hornbills and Hoopoes, Minivets and Munias, Orioles and Owls, Nightjars and Nightingales, Quails and Rails, Wagtails and Warblers… and the list is a long, long one. Look around and enjoy. While in Agra cantonment, watch out for Airborne activity of the Avians, and you won’t need to go to Bharatpur.

© 2007