Fair and Lovely

‘Gudiyaraaniii! Aehhhh gudiyaraani! Where are you?’

Oh god! There comes Prabhaben again, the maalishwaali, my personal masseuse. It’s only been a month since I arrived in this world, 27 days ago to be precise, and I’m already wondering if it was worth the trouble. Worse, I sometimes wonder if Mummy feels the same way too about the hardships she undertook to bring me here, given Prabhaben’s ceaseless tirades against me.

While Mummy was still marveling at the miracle she was holding in her arms on day one, I could hear visitors whispering to her: ‘You can try again.’ ‘This is just your first time’ ‘The odds will surely favour you the next time.’

Although they had no clue, I knew just what they meant. ‘Only if you had prayed in the temple, God would have shown the kindness of granting you a son.’ My first lesson on the ways of this world.

I quickly grew suspicious of all outsiders. So when Prabhaben flounced into my life in her kitschy chiffon saree, a red saucer-sized dot on her forehead advertising her marital status, she became the chief object of my abhorrence.

She studied me with a stern professorial expression, inspecting me like a rat held by its tail before dissection. ‘Your daughter has a lot of hair on her forehead,’ she said to Mummy with a hint of disapproval. ‘Plus, she barely escapes being called dark.’ Then, throwing me up in the air like dough, she declared, ‘But don’t you.worry, laado. Your hair will be gone in a few weeks time. And you’ll be wheatish to boot.’

‘Thik hai, then.’ She got down to business now. ‘We need a floor mat, sesame oil, chickpea-flour paste, towel, clothes and diapers. And I hope you haven’t forgotten the baby powder.”  

Mummy produced the needful as if by magic. As Prabhaben plumped down on the floor mat and began undressing me, I could hear her innumerable bangles clinking. Greasing her palms with sesame oil, she rubbed them on my body with full force. “Urrrghhhhhh” I gurgled in pain and gave Mummy a hurt look. ‘Don’t cry, my baby. You’ll enjoy this,’ her eyes said. With her rough, cracked fingers, Prabhaben then kneaded my earlobes and cheeks.

‘Waaaaaaaah!’

It was like being moulded into a shape my body and soul weren’t very keen to assume.

And just when I thought this maalish madness was over, Prabhaben smeared some chickpea-flour paste on my face and began rubbing my cheeks in small circular strokes. Then, without warning, she plucked out, from its very root, a hair from my forehead. It wouldn’t be the last one she plucked.

‘Arrrrrrghhhhhhh,’ I wailed, mortally wounded now. ‘O masseuse from hell. Why don’t you grant me a quicker death?’ I wanted to ask but Mummy intervened on my behalf which offended Prabhaben no end. No one dared challenged her six years’ experience. ‘Don’t blame me, didi, if you don’t find a groom for your daughter when she grows up all dark and furry.’

‘Furry? Me? Stop treating me like a Chewbacca,’ I wanted to protest. ‘Is this all there is to being a girl?’

But Prabhaben hadn’t finished yet. Holding me upside down by my feet, she poured oil right into my nostrils, three drops in each. Perhaps this was her way of making sure I breathed only days. ‘Didi, your daughter has a tiny nose. We’ll have to pull at it everyday to get it to the right size,’ she joked. She was a fault-finding machine for sure.

‘Enough Prabhaben,’ Mummy interjected taking me in her arms. ‘I love her the way she is because I made her that.’ I finally smiled my first toothless smile.

P.S. This is a short story of little girl.

Dear Little Sister,

 I don't think I remember the day we got you home, I was too small myself. I don't really remember holding you in my arms or sharing the cradle with you. I don't remember even sharing pacifiers or feeding bottles with you (and thank God for that!). But you have still been a part of my existence for as long as I can remember. You were my little sister, part of me and I always knew we were meant to be together.

I, however, do remember my attempts to poke your twinkling eyes in amazement as a kid (and you thought I always intended to blind you) and smelling your fragrant hair (and your irksome look at that).I remember being threatened to pay a ransom of Rs 2 for keeping that secret that after all was disclosed. I remember buying stuff for you from the school cafeteria because “princess” hated standing in queue. I remember explaining the shopkeeper to pull out only that blue shade dress that you had on mind and wanted to check out but would never spell that out to the shopkeeper yourself. I was expected to be brave enough to crack that mind challenge and get that demand fulfilled. I remember how unlike so many sisters, you never really liked sharing clothes, always worried the dress may lose its sheen if I wore it. Yes, I remember all this and more.

But then I must say I have loved all these quirky moments and have willingly given in to your diktats because without you around my heart would have had a little place missing. Devoid of these amazingly moments, our childhood would have been boring.

Thanks for being my rainy day companion, partner in crime, my defence attorney and the private eye (snooping around for clues). My life wouldn't be the same without you.

Bless you on your birthday, and remember you are always in the heart - tucked so close there is no chance of escape.

 Love, Sis

Agra: Incurable nostalgia

I was born in Agra. Fifteen years hence I may not consider myself a proud Agraite (and I have compelling reasons for doing so) but there are some memories of the town of my childhood that are still etched in my mind besides the Taj Mahal ofcourse!.

Dalmoth, Petha and Gajak:  The cacophony of the vendors on the trains that run on the Agra route make sure no commuter passing by Agra misses to taste the savories that have achieved an iconic status. Dalmoth and petha - vanity and pride of any Agraite. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Dalmoth and petha is to any Agraite what vada pav is to a Mumbaite.  As a kid, I remember occasionally gorging on this humble sweet candied pumpkin during my breakfast, lunch and dinner (and the next day of course was dedicated to nursing the stomach aches). Thankfully, after I moved out of Agra, I had to cut down on my craving but gift packs of dalmoth and petha have been a ‘must’ item on my vacation shopping lists. Sinful indulgence isn’t easy to ignore you see!

Seth gali: I attribute my love for spicy things in life to Seth gali. Though it must be more than twenty years back that I last visited the place, the Seth gali ka bhalla and crisp elongated golgappas still kindle my gastronomic sensibilities. Interestingly, those days, the dingy chat outlets served the golgappas in saucers and the water in small tea cups. Damn the gods if the slurp of that tangy water didn’t stir your soul. Every spicy session therefore was well complimented with a piping hot plate of gulab jamuns. Of course, others like Bhagat Halwai and chat centre at Sadar Bazaar charmed the Agra foodie with the same fondness over the years but Seth gali to me remains an incredible experience that is more felt than tasted.

Sadar Bazaar: Away from hustling-bustling Raja ki Mandi and Kinari bazaar bylanes, walking along the clean, wide roads of Sadar Bazaar was always a joy. I loved frequenting the Modern bookstore on main road, walking down to Laxmi Vilas Palace for a crispy paper dosa and then stuffing myself with cone ice cream from the Kwality ice cream parlour while engaging in window shopping.

Six-seater tempos: These unsightly transport modes bellowing smoke wherever they rumble have only added to the chaotic conditions of the city. However, in the absence of any public transport system, you can only be thankful this cheap option at least existed. Never mind if it accommodated not six but eight to ten passengers, two dangling from the driver’s seat and others compressed to capacity on other passenger’s lap. I too have taken rides on these diesel monsters, occasionally obliging strangers leaning all their weight (and with all their might) on my feet without a protest. I am told the vehicles are now banned for environmental reasons. I only wait to see if that has made Agra’s skyline any clear?

Pedal rickshaws: Nothing better characterizes the pace of city life at Agra… slow and squeaky. Having travelled in pedal rickshaws all through my school and college years it amazes me when I wonder how I managed to reach the school before assembly time back then. Sheltered by the canopy of the rickshaw, it’s been a joy ride racing back home on a sunny afternoon after a shopping spree or enjoying the rains while the front wheel wedged through the rain water. Occasionally, when the brakes failed, some of the joy rides even ended into mishaps but pedal rickshaws still allure the Agraite in me.

Bachoomal & Sons:  There was no birthday, no Diwali, no Durga Puja celebration that was complete without buying the latest from this fashion stopover.  I and my sister have had numerous occasions to dress in some really gorgeous outfits from the Bachoomals. This was a luxury that my parents happily indulged us in even though I know the price tags even for those days were fancy. Bachoomals have long been lost the competition to the burgeoning lifestyle malls but am sure for our generation the name springs nostalgic fashion celebration.