Double Trouble! 

She was born straight out of an Indian matrimonial advertisement. Petite, with white, flawless skin, paired with sparkling eyes and wild, curly hair, both dark as night. In perfect contrast to her ethereal complexion. Pert and cute with a smile to melt the sternest heart….the stuff dreams are made of.

Until one looked deeper into her eyes.

And did they spell trouble - with a big T!

Fierce and independent, they warned of a will that did not and would not ever pay adoring obeisance before the altar of a lord and master (read Husband). She had a mind of her own and no mother’s son was going to tame her.

And that’s how it has been. She has lived life on her own terms from the word go.

She was all of 1 year old when I married her Mamu (maternal uncle) and consequently acquired the mantle of ‘Mami’ to her. It was at our wedding itself that I witnessed with awe her conducting the choir from her father’s arms. She was in her own world, supremely confident that the universe was her oyster and saw no incongruity in a tiny tot dictating the music to a bunch of adults. She waved her arms with perfect synchronicity, a beatific smile on her face, only to have it change to a fierce frown when she felt a note was out of place. All the while, the merry twinkle in her eyes, spoke of mischief personified. It was love at first sight for me.

Have I mentioned her fierce attachments and loyalty? Family was a given. And then there were the familial canines! I recall her one fine morning, deep in thought as she travelled in our (in)famous Jonga, her arm around the neck of our dog (appropriately named Shaitan, which means “the devil”!). After more than an hour of fierce concentration, she announced, with the air of a prophet who had arrived at an epiphany,” So Mami’s niece is my cousin by marriage, but Shaitan is my brother by blood”!!! 

Needless to say, my husband and I gravely nodded with one accord.

They say it is imperative to understand the protagonist in order to enjoy the tale. So, having set the stage for our saga, let me proceed without delay.

As we all know, every Indian female child goes through a rite of passage…..the piercing of her ears. It is a time honoured tradition and usually proceeds seamlessly when one is just short of one’s 7^th year. And so, we thought would be the case with our young heroine.

On the day of reckoning, off she set with her Masi (mother’s sister) to the jeweler’s, to have said auditory organs duly punctured. She hopped, skipped and jumped all the way, as was her wont, and merrily toodled into the hapless man’s store. Hapless you say? Patience dear reader. All will soon be revealed.

As they sauntered in, the jeweler readily came forward and expressed delight when informed about the task at hand. Promising to complete it in a jiffy, he grabbed the gold wire, picked up our bairn, sat her on the counter, reached for her ear and jabbed the wire through.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

No one had informed our rug rat that the piercing of ears involves a modicum of discomfort. In her tiny brain, the said task was all accomplished with great elan and the wave of a magic wand. So you can well imagine her unmitigated horror when she realized that the magic was missing altogether….and there was more suffering to come! As you can well envision by now, said sprog was not one to take things lying down! (Actually, when I think of it, she did take it lying down, but in quite inverse measure to what the famous phrase usually implies.)

Before her poor Masi could say “Willie Wonka”, our young babe had hopped off the counter and flung herself down on the floor. Once in a suitably supine position, she proceeded to let loose the hounds of war. Even Mark Antony could not have conceived of what followed. 

First came the blood curdling wail. (5 shops away, a customer lost his hearing.) Then came the thrashing of arms and feet. So fierce was the flailing that one tiny shoe was flung loose and went zooming across the room, narrowly missing the offending shopkeeper (and that was only because the braveheart was, at the time, cowering behind the counter in full ‘fraidy-cat mode). The climax was the deep puce shade that the convulsing tot acquired. Such was her rage, that even Mars, the God of War, swiftly hopped off his throne and sought shelter behind the imposing structure, peeping out in consternation at the carnage below that he was quite sure he had not ordered.

And in the midst of this chaos stood the bewildered Masi, closely resembling a tornado hit victim.

Between wails, the said lady seized her opportunity and scornfully said,” Oh come on Mia (the name has been changed in the interest of anonymity. The lass is now a married woman), get up and get the job finished!”

Now one would think that such scathing words as these would dry up the flow and lead to a meek conclusion.

Au contraire, dear reader. Be not fooled. Our babe is made of sterner stuff. Without missing a beat, she let loose her second missile (read shoe) which this time around found a hapless pedestrian who happened to be peeking in to witness for himself the 3^rd World War raging within the confines of a 10 x 6 foot space! The last we saw of the said on-looker, was a pair of shoes rising upward, attached to a hurling body flung backwards, thanks to the force of the said projectile.

Swiftly changing tactics, Masi tried coaxing, moved to cajoling and finally resorted to full-fledged pleading,” PLEASE Mia. Let him pierce the other ear!”

But a mule is nothing compared to my niece’s militant mutiny. Turning her face towards her hapless aunt, she let loose the final volley from her fully stocked arsenal…..a tear trickled down a woe begone countenance, followed by a hiccup.

Enough said. The battle was won. Without more ado, the routed aunt picked up her charge and began marching her back home.

With one ear pierced.

I will not sully your ears, dear reader, with the threats that ensued all the way back. Suffice to say that ‘closely resembling a thundercloud’ was putting it mildly when it came to the long suffering relative who had quite clearly reached the end of her long suffering tether.

On reaching their joint abode, the door was flung open, the offending minor rudely propelled into the room, closely followed by her fulminating relative. Into the thunderstruck silence came the climactic declaration, ”I shall NEVER take this &@#$%* child out ever again, so help me God”!!!

As for Mia….righting herself with agile dexterity, she flung herself pathetically into her father’s ever welcoming arms and declared in tones that parallelled her aunt’s in direness, ”She hurt me!”

And that’s when yours truly ambled into the room. Taking in the awful silence and the dueling duo, my eye fell upon the earingless ear, and without missing a beat interestedly inquired..”Where’s the other earring?”!!!

Hell hath no fury than a thwarted aunt. The silence gave way to a litany of complaints and out poured the heartbreaking story. Or that’s what she thought. Unfortunately for the self-proclaimed victim, the family she belongs to is not known for its sympathetic strain. Bring up or be one of 5 children and you quickly become inured to the most heart wrenching of tales. So instead of a balming, soothing clucking, said aunt found herself at the receiving end of a hail of laughter followed by a series of interrogatives demanding details of the entertaining escapade!

Now when it comes to the youngsters in our family, for some unfathomable reason, my husband and I are the final court of appeal. Once all the intricacies of the episode had been fully gleaned, hashed over and enjoyed to the fullest, the head of the family (my dearly loved and respected father-in-law) turned to me and instructed, ”Beta (daughter), get it done”.

You can imagine my consternation!

But all’s well that ends well. In complete counterpoint to the hell that had been let loose, our little one came along with me like a lamb, hopped up onto the counter herself and presented her unpierced ear to the terrified  shopkeeper with perfect equanimity. It took quite a bit of assuring, but he was finally convinced to complete his task and reaching very, very tentatively for the young lady’s shell shaped ear, he gingerly proceeded to spike it, following which he stepped smartly backwards and adroitly placed the counter between himself and the  mighty mouse. To his confusion, the terror of an hour before, thanked him prettily, about turned and trotted back home with me peacefully, where she proceeded to proudly present her ear to one and all!

I shall leave you, dear reader with a picture of the offended aunt looking suitably aghast at the compliments being showered on the chirpy heroine. She then looked at me and asked, “How did you do it?!”

But I think you will agree with me that one should never give away one’s secrets. So I sauntered out of the room in silence and to this day no one is privy to the threat of a sound thrashing that was issued before we departed for our destination. 

The fact that our little one is never quite sure what I am capable of, has its own advantages!!

 

 

  

                                        Almost There!

I have travelled the world. Literally.  Flown over vast spaces on holidays and sailed the 7 seas (with my Merchant Navy husband). But never have I ever seen any place as beautiful as the orchard we own

This stunning piece of property lies nestled in the Himalayan Range at a height of about 8000 feet. Unlike the usual stepped horticulture of the region, it undulates along the top of a mountain ridge and stands bathed in sunlight all day long. If one were to take a few steps beyond the front gate and settle down with a hot cup of tea, one would have the most marvelous, uninterrupted view of the valley as it gently slopes down to the legendary Sutlej River. The tiny “chappad” (pool) adjoining the wall to one’s left, attracts creatures from all around, who pause on their way up and down the mountain, to slake their thirst and rest in the cool shade of the overhanging trees.

To the right, is an open plateau. The sunsets are particularly picturesque here, because as Indra sinks down to sleep, the horses, sheep, goats and cows gather to graze and rest for the night. A peaceful, serene spectacle to calm the soul. Have I mentioned that the silence is so surreal that one can hear a bird calling from the adjoining mountain?

The piece de resistance, however, is the majestic cedar (deodar) forest that encircles the entire rear of the orchard, framing this tiny fragment of farmland and turning it into a magical masterpiece of stunning, unparalleled beauty.

It goes without saying, that it transforms into a winter wonderland when the snow blankets it all in pearly white.

Is it any wonder that everyone wants to visit?

Well, my revered father was no exception. Staking his claim to seniority, he booked a berth in our vehicle, demanding that he be transported to this famous fairyland the next time we journeyed there. He brooked no argument and overrode all appeals.

And so it came to pass.

Permit me a brief digression here, dear reader, to paint yet another portrait….of our
transportation (in due course, you will understand the significance of this). They say the mountains are ancient. Well, our beloved Jonga belonged to the same era. One of the fabled 'discards’ of the army, it had been refitted with a truck engine and was inordinately powerful as a result. However, thanks to Father Time and the vicissitudes of rough travel, this conveyance had reached a stage where the adjective ‘decrepit’ was nothing short of a compliment! Suffice to say that break downs were not a norm but a rule, and that I had gradually transformed from a wife into a mechanic’s able assistant as the years had gone by.

To continue with our tale…..

The day dawned and we set off in the month of November, bags packed, our faithful canine ensconced behind and my dearly beloved patriarch seated next to me. Do bear in mind that these were the days of yore when bucket seats and seat belts were still unknown features of the future. The Jonga had a single, straight bench in the front, which constituted the sole seating of the vehicle. And so there were the 3 of us – yours truly squashed in the centre with my husband behind the wheel and my pater on my left.

The initial bit went well. We cruised along gently curving, well tarred roads and soon the elder amongst us relaxed and became quite chatty, entertaining us with stories of hair-raising adventures he had been on. Needless to say, he starred in each episode and emerged the triumphant, rugged hero. Like well-trained offspring, we dutifully congratulated him each time
a tale reached its conclusion, admiring his tenacity, strength and courage. Unfortunately, this only served to inspire him to serve up yet another embellished fable and so there we were travelling up the mountainside being regaled by our daredevil.

Until a sudden silence fell upon us. This was followed by an unrelenting pressure on my left that sent me crashing into my spouse on my right. He, in turn found himself hugging the door on his right and thanking the Almighty for the said resistance, or else we may well have found ourselves sans a driver with yours truly literally in the driver’s seat! Of note – those were the days when I had still not learned to drive.

Seizing the wheel firmly, my husband applied a strong counterpressure and soon we were all once again back in our original spaces. Curiosity however, made us look towards the originator of the near catastrophe, only to find said perpetrator gazing fixedly out of the window whilst firmly holding the fixture in front of him in a white knuckled grip. Further exploration revealed the cause of this ungainly posture – we were on a narrow mountain road with his side close to the edge. From where he sat, he had a bird’s eye view of a steep 800 foot drop straight down to the rocks below and might well have felt he was suspended over the said precipice, with no life-saving seat belt to prevent the plunge. Suffice to say that most of the rest of the journey consisted of overt demonstrations of Newton’s 3^rd law, with action and reaction being the game played all the way up the mountainside!

Evening fell and we were close to our destination. One more road to traverse. When disaster struck. We found our way obstructed by a truck that had broken down in the dead centre of the road. Every manoeuvre to pass it failed miserably and then – our beloved Jonga decided
to emulate the deceased roadblock. As befits a vintage vehicle, it too decided to exercise its freedom of choice and, with a mighty gurgle, gave up the ghost. No amount of coaxing would resuscitate it. Like an old codger, it refused to budge and we were now faced with the grim reality that there was no way up except on foot, even as the sunset fell upon us.

Now, dear reader, do permit me one last digression. I promise it is relevant to the proceedings.

The final stretch of road that led up to our orchard had been built by us personally. In an effort to preserve the forest as well as our pockets, the shortest route possible was decided upon - obviously. Unfortunately, this also meant that the gradient of the said passage was extremely steep. To walk up it was nothing short of participating in an extreme sport.

So there we were, as the day passed into the night, boldly venturing forth where no man had gone before…..up our extreme sport road, in the biting cold. That the moon had chosen to hide behind the clouds was of no help whatsoever and that leopards came out to feast on such occasions, only served to add flavour to the already over-spiced dish of trauma.

By the way, have I mentioned that my dearly beloved papa had grown up in the mountains of Nainital? I haven’t? Well…he did. And I have lost count of the number of times we kids were told how unhealthy we urban progeny were as compared to the mountain goats like him, who had been bred on clean mountain air and steep, challenging slopes. So when we started on the ascent, it was a brave and bold man who swung into action. Our intrepid hero sallied forth with vim and vigour, scathingly beckoning us slow coaches to catch up.

Until he hit our road.

In the dark.

20 short steps up the incline, he decided to declare his close kinship with the Jonga and emulated it by abruptly coming to a halt. Inhaling mightily (read – huffing and puffing), he magically transformed from a swaggering sailor (he is from the Indian Navy) into a plaintive geriatric, declaring pitifully, “I’m old, I’m asthmatic. I can’t go on”, and that said, he plonked himself down on the nearest rock.

Imagine out plight! We were faced with the herculean task of getting our self-proclaimed champion up that impossible road in absolute darkness.

Now you may well ask - why do I keep stressing the lack of light? Elementary dear Watson – what one can’t see can be transmogrified. And that is precisely what happened. In the most
soothing tones imaginable, I coaxed said dying duck up onto his feet with the complete fabrication, “It’s not too far and the incline is a truly gentle one”! With that I hauled him to his feet and quite literally heave hoed him up the offending ascent, all the while cajolingly assuring him about how magnificently he was doing and wasn’t it an easy stretch of road to traverse?!

Unfortunately, the 8000 foot high rarified atmosphere, combined with the physical strain of the slope soon brought about another collapse. This time he flung himself dramatically onto our dear frozen mother earth and from that supine position pathetically declared, “Leave me behind sweetheart.”!!!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was when I truly rose to the heights of mendacity. Keeping in mind that we had the steepest part of the steep slope dead ahead, I magnificently declared, “No worries Baba. We are over the hill. From now on, it’s level ground”!!

God bless the blackness. Such is the power of suggestion (and prevarication) that, sighing a weary sigh, our relieved conqueror rose to his feet and staggered up that slope, fully convinced that he was on level ground. To keep the fable alive, I followed, crooning,” See, I told you – the worst is over.”!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we got our triumphant victor home!

I will leave you to imagine what happened the next morning, when the literal light of day, revealed the truth. I leave you with a hint……I suffered from extreme frostbite for the remainder of that holiday, thanks to the cold waves emanating from our offended lionheart. As for the rest of his days….my credibility rating lay in negative figures!!