When The Bells Tinkle...

 

At first, it's a gentle, little tinkle,

The prancing wind chime, with the breeze does mingle.

One barely pays much heed,

One doesn't even realize there is, of intervention, a need. 

Then the breeze does become strong, 

A child is caught in the bullying throng.

The wind chime does then madly jangle,

Often the rods and strings, in each other tangle.

But we, in our little cocoon of bliss,

So often, do the warning signs miss.

Then the danger bells begin to madly ring,

The voices in a child's head do begin to sing. 

But we, as adults, barely hear a ping. 

Then is heard the loud sound of a gong,

But life, we think, will surely move along.

The wind chime tinkles, then it jangles, 

The bell furiously rings, the gong gravely does us warn, 

But we, deaf, mute, blind, are of reason shorn.

The child is stuck in, of emotions, a roller coaster,

But such mixed feelings, we do not bother to foster.

Until, in the dead of the night,

When a full moon was shining bright,

The death knell has been rung. 

In deep shame, we, the so called 'educators' have our heads hung. 

Dedicated to all those students in India, whom we, in a bid to push them towards a brighter future, have ended up robbing them of any future they might have had...

Spare A Thought, Say A Prayer

 As August does into September meld,

Goodbye parties and last-minute shopping sprees are held.

Be sure that much in advance you have booked your ticket,

Else your university will start, and you will be on sticky wicket.

With much excitement, subjects for the new academic year are chosen,

But spare a thought for those students, who, in time are frozen.

My Facebook feed is filled with pictures of the 'First Day',

To all these dear students, my best regards I do pay.

But pause a while, spare a thought for those parents too,

Whose children departed and their souls to heaven flew.

No bags are packed, no flights booked, excitement does not reign.

Just heavy hearts, of grandparents, parents and siblings, full of pain.

In those houses, that particular child will never graduate,

No cap or gown or degree, for him or her await. 

Call it God's will or call it Fate,

Every such student's absence on my heart does grate.

So, in the midst of your own excitement and joy,

Spare a thought for that particular girl or boy.

 Even better, say a deeply heartfelt prayer, 

Around parental grief, it will become a protective layer.

The Old Order Falls

 The Old Order Falls.

Collapses, crumbles, gives rise to the New.
The last bastions, (and we, sadly, have a bird's eye view),
Seem to totter on their wrinkled and quivery legs,
Before they give up, of their lives, the last dregs.

They had watched over us, self appointed guardians humble,
When we as toddlers, took a tumble.
And they were just shooting the breeze,
When we, as children, scrambled up and down various trees.
At a later time, they watched us like a 'hooded hawk',
At our shortening hemlines, they would often gawk!

They witnessed our first crushes ,
And, of our youth, the first flushes,
In those days, we had fewer words and more blushes.
Unlike Gen Z, who, on the 'Gram' gushes.

As teens, we acted in plays at society functions and sang,
Decorated pandals, danced, gave speeches with a tang!
They encouraged us, feted and felicitated us, even fed us,
Gave us a sense of self worth, sweetly, of us, made a fuss.

And much like their ordinary bungalows and bowers,

Born of their blood, sweat, toil and tears,

Are now being bull-dozed into oblivion,

So also, this old upright order faces Armageddon.

Swanky buildings, thinly disguised as 'a bungalow',

Take up the maximum square footage allowed,

Who needs trees around a home, who needs Nature's rules followed,

When ritzy, fuel guzzling monsters, make a better show?

I try to hold on, with a tear in my eye. Oh, saudade!

To those nostalgic moments of my childhood and teenage,

But every time the news of the death of a childhood father/ mother figure, 

Is shared by my  mother,

I feel 'The Old Order Falls.'

Collapses, crumbles, as it is meant to, as it must.

But for me, yet another precious memory turns to dust,

As yet another 'old school' person's soul in heaven does rest.
One mustn't forget, each one of us, on earth, is a mere guest. 

                                                    They once proudly walked these lanes.

         

       Picture Credits: My Dad, late Col. Ajay Ukidve, clicked on a rainy Monsoon Day in Pune.

My Dad : The Father

                                                    

                         His eyes matched his uniform! So glad I donated them after he was gone! 

 3rd May 2024, it has been five whole years today since life, as we knew it, changed forever. We lost our Dad on 3rd May, 2019. Recently, a childhood friend from our Army Air Force days lost her mother and then she mentioned on our WhatsApp group that she now realized what many of us had gone through over the years, as we lost either one or both parents...

But my sister and I were still fortunate enough to have had my Dad around as long as we did, given the fact that he had been in the Indian Army and had often been in life threatening situations. I have young students who have lost their fathers as a result of the Covid pandemic or due to sudden cardiac arrests... As they cope with their loss in a stoic manner and stand tall and strong for their mothers, I admire them with all my heart. As I told a student of mine recently, listen when your father or mother tell you something, for only those who have lost a parent, no matter what our age may be, would give anything to hear that parental voice giving 'gyaan' ( imparting knowledge) one more time...

Every year I mark my Dad's anniversary with a blog post ( and a donation in his memory ) and over the last five years I have shared my earliest memories of him, his cooking skills and then his engineering and photography skills. Last year, I was unable to write anything as I was travelling across the Unites States and Canada on his death anniversary. As paranoid as he was about flying, I know he would have spent sleepless nights at the very thought of the long hours I spent aboard multiple planes, during this particular trip and crossing the Atlantic to boot! His favourite grouse was, " You people spend bl**dy too many hours flying!" Yes, I have quoted him to a T, including the forbidden swear word. After all, the colonialists handed down many defense 'traditions' to the officers of the Indian Army...

As I look back over the years, my Dad's generosity stands out more than anything else. He never really cared much about money or about materialistic things. He bought things aplenty, but could just as easily sell them off or just give or lend them to anyone he thought needed them. He could safely be called extravagant ( that's actually a euphemism for being financially imprudent, I can SEE him glaring down at me!) not only towards us, his daughters but also towards just about anyone in need, especially towards those who could not afford academic fees. Many a young girl is standing firmly on her feet today, only due to my my parents' unflinching financial support. In addition, my mother imparted English language skills to many young girls and both my parents provided emotional support too.

A very early memory stands out. The month was July, the year 1986. After a two year stint in Pune, my Dad had been posted to Gauhati, Assam. It was a long journey by train. Army Officers and their families, in those days, did not fly at the drop of a hat, the way they do now. So here we were,  travelling across the breadth of India, on a journey that spanned four days and three nights. The train halted at Patna, Bihar, which is a state in India. We were naturally wary, for many years ago, my maternal grandfather, enroute to his first job in the late 1940s, post a Masters In Business Administration from the United States, had been royally robbed on the train, in this very state. Pun intended, as my maternal grandmother was from the royal family of Aundh and was carrying most of her silver ware, as she never ate or drank from any other metal. The shock of the robbery ensured my grandfather's hands trembled from the minute he signed the police complaint, till the day he passed away, many decades later. My dad disembarked from the train to refill water in our 'surai' ( an earthenware pot designed for travel.) Remember we had no bottled water in India in those days and 'Sit On It' water campers were introduced into the army canteen just a few years later. . When he reentered our First Class compartment, oh yes, the Indian Army ensured its officers travelled only by First Class, there was a lady and a little boy accompanying him. The lady wore a 'mangalsutra', traditionally worn by married women in my home state and spoke in our mother tongue Marathi. The little boy remained mute, which raised my mother's suspicions. My Dad explained to us that the lady had approached him and had begun speaking in Marathi. She had told him that she and her son had been stranded at Patna Junction as they had been robbed. She needed some money to return home and she faithfully promised to return it. My mother was very skeptical as was my Dad. The whole story smacked of a con game and Mom said as much... But my Dad argued with us (in English) and asked what if the story was true. What if it was one of us in such a situation? (These were, of course,  pre ATM and pre cell phone and UPI payments days..). So my Dad generously decided to give the lady the benefit of doubt and bestowed on her the princely sum of Rs.500, from the money he was carrying to start us off in Gauhati, until he had a new bank account and the Controller Of Defence Accounts, Officers, deemed it fit to transfer his salary into this new account. This could take anywhere from a month or more, so imagine my mother's feelings! Rs.500 in those days could buy us groceries for more than a month....So the lady pocketed the money and diligently noted down our Pune address where my paternal grandmother resided. "I will send a money order", she said. And that was the last we saw of the Rs. 500! But to date, I myself find it hard to refuse people in need, especially if the need revolves around education and is within my financial capacity....We are more like our parents than we realize, admit or acknowledge.

The year was 1990 and ways were being devised to keep us army brats busy during the hot North Indian summer. Someone in the higher command had the brilliant idea of teaching us to drive an Army Jeep on an empty army ground and as we were all under age, the less I say the better it is! Today, this would be unthinkable and no one should even dream of driving until they get their license. But those were different times and we were strictly supervised by a battalion of army drivers and only drove on the ground. Anyway, all of us bonded well over these driving lessons and we decided to cycle down and watch the latest Bollywood Blockbuster in a tiny single screen theatre in Jallundhar Cantonment. I was thrilled, as I had never been to a civilian movie theatre without adult supervision.

 It was my mother who handed out pocket money to my sister and me each month and it was more than enough for our school-girl expenses. But going for a movie meant I needed more money and I approached my dad. I hesitantly asked for Rs.10 but my Dad simply dived into his pocket ( he never carried a wallet and would just stuff notes, and much later his debit and credit cards, into his trouser or shirt pockets!) and pulled out Rs.30 which he promptly handed over to me, no questions asked! I was dazed at the thought of getting so much money to spend in a day and once again I admired his generous soul. Needless to say, I had a field day at the movie theatre. Over the years, as I got married and then began teaching in colleges and at the university and subsequently launched my own academy, a lot more money, in different currencies like the Russian Rouble, the American Dollar, both the Tanzanian and Kenyan shillings and of course the Indian rupee, was to come my way, but those three notes of Rs.10 remain to date the most valuable sum I have ever held in my hands. 

The year was 1992. My Dad had been transferred to Na**t* up further north, from Jallundhar in Punjab and he had come to Pune in between on leave. My mother, my sister and I were in Pune as both of us were studying there. All too soon it was time for him to wind up and leave for N****t*. I was watching him pack. On an impulse, I suddenly asked him to give me his precious, fancy sunglasses. I used to commute to college on a two wheeler moped and the sun often hit me in the eye. Or maybe because my Dad was being posted to a new city, I just wanted to hold on to a part of him, as we did not know when we would see him next, or, and this dark thought always lurked in our minds until he retired, if we would see him ever again at all. Without a second thought, my ever generous Dad whipped out the sunglasses from his packed suitcase and handed them over to me. My heart rejoiced! "Had they been mine", the teenage me thought to myself , "I would never have given them to anyone!" It was on that very train journey that my Dad and three other army officers were robbed in the middle of the night from a First Class Train compartment and my Dad lost all his personal belongings and literally got down at N****t* station in his nightwear and bathroom slippers. He was also robbed of his Identity Card. All that was left of his belongings were the sunglasses he had given me at the last minute. Today, I own multiple pairs of sunglasses to match different outfits, which are coordinated with even my hand bags and my foot wear but none are as close to my heart as the ones that my Dad had given me on that day so long ago. Even more precious, is the thought that most parents never think of their own needs first, it is always the children who come first and this is something I wish many of my students would realize sooner than later. 

If you grew up in the India of my teenage, you would know that eve teasing was a reality and something that most of us faced in our college years. I too faced a horrifying incident where the boy in question, drunk on too many Bollywood movies, accosted me on the road and thrust a letter in my hand, just as I had slowed down my two wheeler to turns towards our Army Quarters. I glanced down and saw the letter had been written in what I thought then was red ink, but later realized was blood! I raced home, jumped off my bike and began screaming for my Dad. He was home on his annual vacation from N****t*and he came running down the stairs. I narrated the incident to him. My parents were already aware that I was being harassed by this person. Harassment, in the pre internet days in India,  meant getting anonymous phone calls and being followed as one went to college or coaching classes. But now this person had taken things to a different level and my Dad immediately filed a police complaint. 

Now remember this was an era where such incidents, unlike in the India of today, were brushed under the carpet, as everyone wanted to 'protect' the girl. My Dad was firm that a complaint was the best form of protection and he let the law take its course! This was the best possible example he could set for us, that we should never bow down in the face of wrong and being girls did not mean that we could not act against the opposite gender. I wish more Indian women had been taught this lesson by their parents..... The boy was arrested and firmly chastised by the police, taken to court and then later let off on the promise that he would stay miles away from the female gender, until he completed his education and went back to his home town! I have not seen him since but the way my parents handled the situation shines like a beacon of light for me, even today. 

Today, I am in Kenya, my sister is in Singapore, my mother is currently in India but our thoughts are with the one person who set so many examples for both of us and who played a huge role in making me the person I am today....my generous, rather hot tempered, lavishly extravagant Dad! 

                                     

                                           As a newly commissioned officer 

                                                                  My parents