Birthday coming

 I am told I will be 90 in a few days.

Only lucky ones get to be old.

WOW, What a journey it has been. There has been mud and the lotus bloomed..

Love and loss.

Resolutions.Be like a tortoise. Withdrawn and complete in myself.

Try writing poetry. Take back singing. Complete Arkdeept.

Fourth installment of my memoirs.

Laugh more,  Ignore criticism. from self and others.

ना काहू  से दोस्ती, ना काहू  से बैर।

Nayra's birthday yesterday.
There is a special bond.
I went to India five years ago, broken, confused, unable to cry.Stunned. Frozen.
Nayra was three months old.
Her mother brought her and put her on the sofa besides me.
I looked at her.
A baby, three months old.
Bright eyes,contented. loved.
Start of a new life. years stretching ahead.

one life ends at 88. another life begins.

Now five, she will have a memory of me.
She will remember me as someone who lived very far away, as afar as Delhi is fromLucknow. She calls it nakhlow.
How could she have an idea of the distance between India and US.
She will remember me as someone who brought glittery gifts, lighted up balls, necklaces, dolls.
That is enough for me.

I have no memory of my father. A recreated memory , from my mother's accounts.
I am almost three. There is a solar eclipse, an armchair. Someone is sitting in all white clothes and opening the cages of little lalmuniya and letting them fly out, one by one.
I stand next to him, looking bewildered at the birds flying out of the cages.
Is it a true memory? Recreated. I don't know.
Just one evidence.
 that I existed in my father's universe.

Mother dies. I fly out to India, praying frantically that She remains alive so that I can call, Mother, I have come.
But that was not to be.

We open her trunk.
She hardly had anything. Just a few clothes. a few notebooks, a few religious books.
and four letters from father. Just one line, Usha must be talking now.

I wanted to take that letter, but hesitate, I have taken almost everything, her books, diaries. I asked Parul much later about my mother's trunk and she said , termites ate everything so I gave that trunk to that junk man.
I was stunned. My father's letter and in it my name Usha must be talking now.

Life ends with a whimper, not with a  bang. Sorry TS Eliot for botching up your famous line.

Research scholars want to know all about me. There is not much available.
First I will post a list of previous scholars and their questions and then their answers.
A lot of work, but then I can send them to this post.

So finally the time to leave. Still very nervous, still too many gifts because the generation change. Now most things are available in India. There was a time for cassette players and CD players.Synthetic saris by the dozens.
All that has changed. Still suitcase gets packed and gets very heavy.

Finally the winter has come. Temp is -1 degree F. white snow all over.
The birds wait, too cold  for me to go to the feeder to fill it.
I worked at my study all morning. Skipped lunch, got ready to go out, was surprised to see the snow falling heavily.
I decided to go out anyway.
The car doors are frozen shut. Tried hard but they didn't budge, so came back, finished reading the newspaper.
When I was teaching I always went to India for winter vacation. First there were nieces, they wanted nylon saris, wool, socks, ribbons, jerseys. Adidas shoes. Things were not available in India. My suitcases were always loaded. Yet most of them were not satisfied, one gift for each person was never enough.
But now it is different, everything is available. Still ,chocolates, dolls, kiddie watches, Superman, Spiderman, fake jewelry. Almonds. Pure cinnamon. Long stay lipsticks. Anyone who says यहाँ तो सब मिलता है, is happily crossed out from the list. Then this mumbling,इस बार हमारे लिए कुछ भी नहीं?
Now those nieces are grandmothers. Fifth generation children, still the same love for me, eagerness, happiness. Fake jewelry, watches, special pencils, highlighters, jugglers are for them. Also Danish cookies.
When Tarun was three he visited us here. Last year we  saw a video of that visit. We were sitting at the dining table. There was an open box of Danish cookies at the table. Per was eating out of that. Tarun says, "कितनी सारी खाएँगे?" We laughed and I pulled the box saying" You have had enough." Per looked very surprised but didn't say anything. Now I wish I had let him eat the entire box but Tarun was afraid that Nana will eat all and nothing will be left for him.
Every year the cookies come for Christmas and I buy four boxes. They take a lot of room in my suitcase and disappear very quickly.
To get back to being housebound in snow and cold.
What do you do?
Read, watch tv, cook, clean, tidy up.
I am thinking the last part of Alpa Viram where being snow bound plays a very big role. It came automatically to me at the time of writing, though it was dripping hot in Delhi. NowI sit and look at the mountain of snow and wonder if I should do more editing?
Probably not, because the first draft is often the best draft.
Tomorrow more snow will come and will also get colder.
I wonder how long the airports will be open?

Coming Home

Two years gone. Have not been back on this blog, because.
the novel is still unpublished.
It had so many mistakes /typos that I withdrew from publication.
The proofreader didn't do his job. The typist changed names, messed up chapters.
When I thought the effort it took to write it,
I come to India, I don't meet anyone, don't go out. There is a reason.
The flat is closed for a year.
The animals are having a picnic, spiders, mice, birds.
There never any water because the pump is jammed.
SO a call to plumber, he changes the pump, now there is water, a crew comes, cleans and dumps all the trash outside.
Now the food has to bought, atta, daal spices, milk butter.. everything.
Drinking water has to be ordered.
The maids disappear, no cook, no-one to sweep, clean.
Order food from Sagar Ratna. Jet lag. Lie on my bed and listen to the planes landing at Indira Gandhi airport.
I can't complain. People advise, sell the flat, come and live in a five star hotel.
I want home, sounds and music of India, not a luxury hotel bed and luxury hotel food.
For most Indians it is a dream, to escape and live in a hotel.
Anyhow, I wrote the novel in the heat of May, with the cook running away and the maid gone to her village for a wedding. Dust piled, I coughed, the dabba gave me indigestion.
Friends talk of their luxurious, carefree life. I visit Krishnaji and see how well her live in maid takes care of the house. I visit Nirmala Jain and see how her daughter-in-law runs the house. Shashi sits in her luxury flat, Rekha comb my hair, she tells her personal maid.
Neighbors see that I have come, hellos are exchanged.
I think of Bhisham, I remember Nirmal before Gagan married him, our talks late into the nights drinking coffe.Rajendra, Ajit and Snehmayi. Onkar andKirti. Get together at Srikant Varma
Jokes, laughter.
Now the silence. Only memories. cherished.
To get back to the novel.
Two years later I am wondering if it is relevant at all?
It is just a novel. I hope a good read. No agenda, no vimarsh Just a story of a young woman finding herself.
 I have sat and corrected, proofread and now will be bringing it back to get it published.
See you soon, India.

Nice cold day with sunshine. The clocks go back an hour.
I am already thinking of the. next project, in English.
Let's see how it goes.