Adieu, 2019

God is being good to me.

Durgapur was shrouded in fog on Monday the 23rd, so it was a miracle that my flight took off hardly half an hour late. I kept falling asleep on the flight, and the stewardess was kind enough to take away my food tray without waking me up. Arrived in front of Pupu's and Shilpi's office a little before 1 p.m., and we came over to Shilpi's flat - the new and bigger one - for lunch together. Then I had a lovely snooze while they went back to work. Talk about the perks of old age! I slept in Pupu's smart new digs that night, right in the next street, snug as a bug in a rug. As I said, I am infinitely thankful. What comfort, what joy, what peace... what a contrast with a tormented childhood and youth, full of privations and disappointments! What a blessing that I remember such a multitude of details so keenly, so that I can savour the difference so intensely!

The highlight of Tuesday, Christmas Eve, was the lovely dinner party we had at home, with Pupu, Shilpi, Aparna, Milli, Arpita, Pratyush and Kartikeya to warm my old bones while filling up on kebabs and wine and pizza. And  reciting poems off the top of my head, with a quietly attentive audience. Imagine, I was telling myself: I memorized these lines long before these kids were born!

Christmas Day was spent lazing and luxuriating, with a mid-afternoon walk around Lodi Gardens, something I can never have enough of. And regaling Pupu with another Parashuram story before going to bed...

The next four days were busy, because they were working days for both Pupu and Shilpi, and we got up early every morning to commute to a posh private school in Gurgaon, where Katha was holding their annual festival. About that, in a separate post, soon. I did a storytelling session in the course of the Parents' and Teachers' Colloquium (photo below) which most of them apparently enjoyed enough to ask for more. Kartikeya, in particular, was inspired to dub me with an honorific of his own coinage: 'Sircle' (Sir+Uncle).

Sunday was Pupu's birthday. Another dinner, at a fancy restaurant of the young folks' choice in Hauz Khas village.

These last two days have been spent lazing again. It's very foggy till midday, and bitterly cold: taking a bath is an ordeal, and sitting around in the mellow sunshine in the nearby park pure bliss. An astrologer had predicted long ago that in 2019 I'd find peace: it seems he was more than half right!

A new year dawns tomorrow. In this world swept by endless tides of artificially whipped up excitement quickly forgotten, does anyone remember APJ Abdul Kalam, and his once-much tomtommed Vision 2020 for India?

During this holiday I read Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's new opus, The Forest of Enchantments, or, as she has alternatively called it, the Sitayan. Very well written, though not in the same class as The Palace of Illusions.

The photo below is of a tiny tot who attended all four days of the Katha Festival with her mother, an angel of utterly lovable patience. Kept bringing to my mind Tagore's remark that the birth of every child is a reassurance that God has not yet given up on Man.

God tussi great ho! Peace on earth, and joy to all men of goodwill. Also, may all those who burn inside with all kinds of negative emotions, such as envy and spite and greed, find solace and comfort in the new year.

Mid-December notes

Glad to see that Tales from bygone days has been visited by a lot of people, probably because I provided a link in a recent post. There is a part two, too, you know. And talking of old posts, you might look up Moral Science, which was a subject we were discussing in class recently again. I am always surprised to see how old these posts have become, and how absolutely topical they have still remained!

This is playing out as one of the strangest winters in living memory. It’s December 14 today, yet the maximum temperature is showing no signs of dropping below 25 Celsius, nor the minimum below 14-15. Which means it’s comfortable enough, but far from a respectable winter. The sky is cloudy almost every day, but without any precipitation, so I almost feel jealous to hear that it has rained heavily in Delhi, while Kashmir is all snowbound.

Another year is now drawing swiftly to a close. These days whole years seem to pass in the twinkling of an eye. I am coasting towards (voluntary-) retirement, and the only thing that excites me about the future is the prospect of grandchildren.

I am also more than a little curious about how this state will gear up for the forthcoming Assembly elections over the next year. More and more the biggest question that looms over India is whether the democratic dispensation laid down by our Constitution makers will survive the increasingly frequent, violent and reckless assaults on it. Given that our entire body politic, including the ‘educated’ class, has become so uninterested in laws and rules, in decision making through informed and rational debate, in ideals like moderation, patience and decency, I have, I believe, grave cause for disquiet. The best I can console myself with is that I have spent the largest part of my adult, active, participative life already, and henceforth I shall withdraw more and more into the role of a passive observer, avoiding trouble as far as I can. A man can fight only so many battles in one lifetime.

It has occurred to me that at least a few people read my blog only to stoke their own fires of jealousy and impotent hatred, God knows why. I shall not do them the undeserved honour of taking cognizance of their individual identities, leave alone the ‘opinions’ they harbour in their sick little brains: my only advice to them is, stop visiting! You get one chance to be stupidly, ignorantly, pointlessly abusive anyway – then you are blocked off for good. I write here only for my own pleasure, and perchance for a few who enjoy what I write. The rest don’t count, nor ever will.

A boy who became an ex-student only a year ago and keeps dropping in was complaining this very evening how very disgusted he feels to hear his friends and slightly-seniors using abusive language constantly, compulsively, unthinkingly, regardless of company. There may still be, I reflected, some cause for hope. I wish our prime minister, while lecturing the country on why it is essential and important to be clean, thought it fit to insist that to be clean in the language one uses is an integral part of overall cleanliness…

I am reading Madam Justice Leila Seth’s autobiography, On Balance. I like to read about strong characters among women who were also big achievers without being rabid feminists, and Ms. Seth, who was not only India’s first woman Chief Justice of a High Court but a very successful mother who brought up three brilliant children, including writer Vikram, fits that bill eminently. I am barely halfway through the book, and I may write about it in detail afterwards, but right now I’d like to note I was bemused to learn about how she happened to name her second son, because it brought back memories of how we named our daughter. Did I tell you that story?

My publisher informs me that all through the year, To My Daughter has been selling slowly, but steadily. Reason for good cheer! All those who write long and earnest questions to me via email, I urge them strongly, buy that book and read it. You will find many of your questions answered, and in any case I can’t keep repeating myself for every newcomer who has become interested in me and my writing lately. That is one of the main reasons why I wrote that book sixteen years ago.

Another eight days, and my work will be over for this year. Yay!

P.S., Dec. 18: The Met. department got it absolutely right this time. As predicted, the sky is clear and blue today, the sun is mild, the wind is cold, and the water feels frozen. Winter, at last, is here.