Other STORIES from LIFE.

Prologue

We are the Gotariyas.

A rather famous (if you ask us) or infamous (if you ask others) eccentric family based in a village called Gotri in India, and like many Indian families, we are a joint family i.e. more than two generations living together under one roof – somewhat grudgingly, many a times annoyingly, but mostly happily.

By the end of this book, you may love us, hate us, even learn to tolerate us (best to try in small doses, trust me.) But you will not be able to ignore us.

Which is the case with most families, I suppose, more, you don’t even have a choice. With friends, sure, you can pick and choose at will. Make a project of it, if you want, but relatives, well, you just have to make do!

And Indian Gujarati families? Boy, are we difficult to fathom!

Loud, brash, embarrassing (duh!), obnoxious (for sure!), and yet so colourful! And I mean that literally. We Gujjus, we love our colours. You ever see a woman wearing a purple bandhani blouse, with a green skirt, and a peacock motif belt cinched across the waist? nope, that’s not necessarily a Gujju (such stereotypes!) She may just be someone who loves peacocks or brinjals, as a matter of fact.

Coming back to families, let’s imagine for a minute that you have a choice, who would you choose?

- The cool foi (paternal aunt), who used to slip you candies?

- The not-so-annoying guitarist bhaiyya, who introduced you to the Beatles?

- Maybe the eccentric grand-uncle - who travels around the world collecting stamps.

- The oh-so-cool didi with the OM tattoo and piercings?

Or maybe a twice-removed cousin who ended up being snow leopard food while on a self-discovery trip to the Himalayas. And now you are set to inherit his millions. (Well, a body can wish!)

Anyway, the point is that families are very important in a person’s life, even the lack of one, is significant. It shapes you and your entire life. The Gotariyas did that for me.

Have you ever wondered? What is the difference between the Tatas, Ambanis, the Kennedys, Rockefellers of the world; and the rest of us? No, it’s not just the credit history.

It’s more basic than that.

It’s paperwork. Yep, that’s all. Documentation.

All these great families have left a paper trail. Which talks about how great or at times, not so great they were, going back generations. That’s how we know of them. Through newspaper stories, tabloid articles, journals, estate maps, fire escape blue prints, sting operations, scandalous interviews; in short, documentation. So, that’s all this is, my paperwork.

Hi, I am…actually, let’s do introductions later, better yet how about you guess who I am as you read further in this book, for now we’ll just call me M. The following chapters hold stories, instances, truths, and sometimes exaggerated lies. Things that I have heard (mostly eavesdropped), told, lived, and sometimes coerced out of my unsuspecting relatives. If only, my elders (especially, the dead ones) were kind enough to just come back to haunt us, I wouldn’t have to do any of this. Ookusum, Oogesh, you listening?

But since they clearly seem uninclined to do so, I’ve taken up this job of putting down our history. And I’m not going to apologize for whatever nefarious ways I had to use to get to these truths. Afterall, It’s the Gotariya way.

Here is the tale of clan Gotariya, do with it what you will.

Dedicated to the future Gotariyas,

You’re welcome.

Rest In Peace

This story is a little true - a little imagined. The story is mostly true, maybe some things are imagined or rather reimagined based on my years of experience being a part of this crazy, outrageous, and absolutely amazing family. Some things herein are from my memories. Some shared during family get-togethers, some, during fights – which I think, is the best time for people to reveal all the best kept secrets - just to make a point – a privilege reserved for close-knit families and friends. And the Gotariyas are the definition of close-knit. All secrets are revealed at the top of our voices during every family meetup. But am I in this story? That’s a question that will only be answered by diving into the story. So, let’s get right to it!

Oogesh: Yes, of course, I need to know.

Vill: Why?

Oogesh: Why? Well, because people will see me like that.

Ojesh: But?

Oogesh: But what? I am your father; you don’t have any right to question me! In our time, we never spoke a word in front of our father, that’s how you show respect.

Vill: Bhai your father died long before you learned how to speak.

Oogesh: See, smart mouth. No respect at all. But despite that, look at me, I still show him respect, even when he’s no longer among us. Anyways, what matters is that when I say something it should be followed. No questions asked.

Ojesh: Bhai!?

Oogesh: What Bhai! I am your father, I say we need to decide it before, for when I’ll be… I’ll...

Ojesh: You’ll be dead!

M: Don’t worry, don’t worry. Nobody is dying. Well technically we all are dying. As mentioned in the Bhagwat Geeta, every single moment of our life, death is approaching us. Death is the only certainty in life. It is what gives life meaning. But, but, but, I am digressing. What I meant was, no one in the Gotariya household is dying, yet. We are too early into the book for family deaths. They will come though, but not just now. Well, at least not in this story. Though someone is dead. We’ll come to that. But first, the reason for interrupting the extremely fascinating conversation between Oogesh and his sons, rather his heirs (considering they were discussing his death.) is Popatlal. Popatlal is dead.

Who is Popatlal you ask? I’ll get to it, but before that, I need to introduce you to the why of the above conversation. You see, despite all the talk of death, this one is an origin story. Yes, here is when it was first mentioned, where it all started. The diary – its idea, conception, and the first entry, all happened on the day Popatlal departed the world.

Oogesh: That’s why it’s more important!! It’s the last time people will ever see me. I need to make a good last impression. They should remember everything about that day, what I was wearing, what food was served, what music was playing, everything.

Sorry, thought I would be able to explain more but it seems Oogesh is too impatient to wait till I have you guys up to speed. So sorry but you’ll just have to go along. I promise to try and help out wherever. But before we go, just recapping – Oogesh is the Patriarch of Clan Gotariya and Ojesh is his elder son, the heir and Vill, his younger son, the spare.

Ojesh: Are you serious? We are talking about your death, and you want to decide your clothes?

Oogesh: Well, I am the one that’s supposedly dead, of course, I want to know what you guys do after? After all, it’s the last time the world will see me. I should look my best.

Ojesh (sputtering): But you will be dead!

Oogesh: And your point is??

At his wits’ end, the elder son goes,

Ojesh: God there is no reasoning with this man! Vill you talk to him.

Vill: Bhai…do you even hear yourself? You want to decide what you will wear when you die, and whom to invite for the funeral, what to serve for refreshments?, Refreshments!? at your funeral!?

Oogesh: Yes, is that so difficult for you boys to understand? I mean I paid top dollar for your tuition. You can’t be that dense! You Vill? is this how you run your business? And you Ojesh, some manager you’ll be!? All those degrees accumulated over the years and can’t understand a man’s simple request?

I am back, I’m back! You all must be wondering, who was Popatlal? and why did his death create such upheaval in the Gotariya household? Truth is, Popatlal was a nobody, literally a village man, who lived a farmer, died a farmer, nothing extraordinary. Survived by a wife and a son, who also has a wife and a son. But his funeral now, that was an event to behold.

So, let’s begin at the beginning. Here it is. The whole story.

The iron was hot. The bed was set. Sheets tucked to perfection with a charso (blanket) double folded on top of it, to protect the sheet in case the iron burnt a hole through it. A bowl of water was also placed on the other side. Easier to reach without singeing your hand, or worse, toppling it over the piece of cloth being ironed. A white silk jabbha (long shirt aka kurta) was lying on the side, folded to almost military precision. Below it was a pristine white dhoti* similarly folded. (*type of sarong, tied in a manner that outwardly resembles loose trousers) The next item on the ironing artist's hand was a pair of shorts. Essentially these were boxers or underpants as you may call them, seeing as they were knee-length. They were made with a special cotton fabric, stitched to perfection by the generational family tailor, the inestimable Chaganlal.

Fun fact: Even today Chaganlal and Sons, run a successful tailoring business in Gotri. Though after his death the sons had a falling out, so now there are two ‘Chaganlal and Sons’ one with an ‘s’, the other with only one son.

Coming back to the shorts, ironing these underpants was crucial because the fold on these would decide the drape of the dhoti. One wrong fold, and people might get ideas. So, here was Oogesh smoothening the wrinkles on his underpants, pressing the hot iron on them till they became straight and crisp. Surprised that this trivial task was undertaken by the patriarch himself? The Gotariya’s were a very progressive family. They absolutely believed in the division of labour even for domestic chores. Also, Oogesh needed to get dressed for an important event, he couldn’t just trust anyone else with the fold of his dhoti now, could he?

All this was in preparation for one of the most important gatherings in the village.

A funeral meet.

Why? You may wonder, as we know Popatlal was not so important, then why?

Well because - Every person from the recently departed’s life and his social circle would come down to pay their respects. People from villages across the state would come down too. Also, the village politicians – the corporator, his retinue, the next election hopeful with his team of sycophants, everyone would be there. Not for poor Popatlal or his family but for the exposure. More importantly, to shake hands with the vote bank so to speak and of course, bask in the sense of self-importance for attending a fellow, not-so-privileged man’s funeral. The only other occasion that warranted such esteemed presence was a wedding.

For the men of the Gotariya family though, it was rather a matter of honor to be there for the deceased’s family. You see, they were one of the most respected families in the village. Oogesh’s elder brother had been a Sarpanch (head of a panchayat – village council) for almost 10 years and even Ookusm (his wife) had been a Panch sabhya (Panchayat member), so it was important to uphold their position as the caretakers. Also, due to the strategic location of the house, they were literally in the position of welcoming everyone.

The Gotariya household had a protocol for such events. The men would be dressed in their white kurtas and pajamas or dhoti while the women would be dressed in their finest white chikankari (a traditional handloom) saree. As all the guests coming to Popatlal’s house would stop by the Gotariya house on their way back, they needed to be so prepared.

So, there was Oogesh, the patriarch, of clan Gotariya in his crisply ironed underpants and dhoti-kurta sitting with Ookusum (his wife and the matriarch) on the huge wooden Jhula (swingset) in the middle of the living room, as if sitting on a throne. While the Vahus (Daughters -In- Law) were sitting on the opposing sofas on either side of the jhula. The sons were outside on the ootla (Patio) waiting to welcome the guests in. They would escort the guest in and take the seat by their wives, while the guest would be made to sit on the new* chairs placed near the door. (*not so new but they were only brought out for such occasions, with their plastic coverings intact)

The guests would be served tea or sharbat (juice). The makings of these were already readied in the kitchen, the minute the news of Popatlal’s passing was announced by the neighbourhood gossip, Maniben. The children were of course confined to their rooms.

Oogesh and Ookusum had a signal. Depending on how important the guest was, they were served tea, sharbat (Juice), or just plain water. If the guest was important then he/she would be offered an option of tea or sharbat, if less important than only sharbat, lesser still than no sharbat or tea, just plain water. No, they were not snobs, the person's importance was not related to his position or status, but rather it was decided based on how interesting their piece of news/gossip was. Anyway, the point was no one was allowed to leave the house without at least having been offered something, it was the principle of the things rather than the thing, that mattered. As it was a sad occasion there was no meetha (sweet) to be offered. The signal was simple, Oogesh would put fingers on his lips- to any onlooker it seemed like he was just contemplating things by tapping his fingers on his lips, deep in thought, but only the family knew – two fingers meant- ask him/her for tea or sharbat. One finger meant only sharbat, no signal meant only water.

Moving on, as the guests started coming in, they brought in gossip about the recently departed and his family,

First came Meero – she opted for tea.

Meero: You heard? The widow’s brother could not come down, he missed the bus. Now the next bus is tomorrow morning. Can’t wait all night with a dead body in the house now, can you?

Next came Saily (she chose Sharbat): Popat’s sister came in and started blaming Rama (Popatlal’s widow), she was shouting like a banshee…

Ookusum: Tsk tsk…Never did like her. Poor Rama.

And then came Bhailu, he was offered just water,

Bhailu: Rama kaki’s (Aunt) mother was crying so loudly, they had to call in the doctor.

Others too came at a steady stream – Talking about how many people stopped to speak with the widow, how many lit a diya (candle), how many just showed up for chitchat, who stayed for all the rites, who cried the most, everything was discussed. With Oogesh and others giving a dignified hmmm, tsk tsk as per requirement.

But the last person, Maganlal said something unique.

He was served both – Tea and later sharbat.

Maganlal: They dressed him in his old Topi (Cap/headdress). The clothes were new, don’t mind me but the cap was old and worn, what a way to go for a man I say. You never know, how the family would treat you once you were gone, right? eh…Oogesh? How would you feel standing in front of Chitragupta* in an old hat?

(*Chitragupta is a Hindu god assigned with the task of keeping complete records of the actions of human beings and punishing or rewarding them according to their karma.)

Here was a man, who was more concerned by the fashion statement that the dead was going to make in the afterlife rather than what he did while he was alive. Takes all kinds!

Soon as he left the house, seeing he was the last guest; the children were allowed back into the room. While the men minded the kids, the vahus and Ookusum started winding up for the day. Oogesh continued sitting on the jhula deep in thought. When he was approached by one of his granddaughters, a chubby little four-year-old Bhuri,

Bhuri: Dada (grandpa), are you going to die too?

Oogesh: (taken aback) No why, who told you?

Bhuri: The pandit uncle said old people die, you’re old.

Nothing like being confronted with your mortality in the form of a grandchild, is there?

Oogesh (smiling thoughtfully): Yes beta (child), we all die. But hopefully, I will not be dying anytime soon. I need to get you married first.

Bhuri (affronted): eek, no ways, I am not going to marry, dada (grandpa)! But if you die, will you take me along? You will get bored alone, and I want to see God too. Okay?

He laughed aloud,

Oogesh: hahaha, everyone has to make that journey alone bacha (baby), then as if deciding something he turned to his sons while settling Bhuri in his lap.

Oogesh: Ojesh, Vill…listen.

That is how the conversation started or should we say argument? With the Gotariyas, both meant the same thing, they discussed everything, only at the top of their voices.

Both sons together: Haan (Yes), Bhai?

Gotariya fact #1: Though fathers were called dad or papa, Oogesh’s children called him bhai. It was what they had heard him being called since they were kids and so it had stuck. It was also indicative of their relationship with him, for more than a father he was their friend, like an elder brother. And bhai literally meant elder brother.

The stories you heard, of him dancing, partying with his kids and their friends, everything was allowed in the family, irrespective of male or female - as I mentioned earlier, progressive to boot. As long as it did not become a habit and was done within the family. Outside the doors of the house, it was all about discipline, honor, and tradition. It wasn’t because they were afraid of society, but rather because they were aware of society’s ignorance.

Why the eldest son, Ojesh had once got his brother, his wife, and cousin all enrolled together in college at the same time for the same course. What happened thereafter, well that’s another story.

Oogesh: I was thinking, we should decide on my pair of clothes for the funeral and last rites.

Vill: What do you mean? Whose funeral?

Oogesh: Mine, I mean when you will dress my dead body before lighting the pyre. I think a raw silk kurta and cotton dhoti, we’ll get Chaganlal to make it.

Ojesh: Your funeral? What are you talking about, you’re…you are alive!

Oogesh: Of course, I am alive, I meant for when I die!

Vill: But bhai? What do you care about clothes, you will not be there to see anyway?

Oogesh: Of course, I care! It will be the last time people see me, one should leave a memorable last impression.

And thus, the argument had started.

Little Bhuri sitting on her dada’s lap realized a fight was going to start and so proceeded to cry, even she needed to put across her point and she did that too, just like a Gotariya, at the top of her lungs. The other kids scattered about also decided to join in. Hearing the commotion, the wives re-entered the room.

Ookusum: What’s all this noise? I had to ask Maniben to leave in the middle of our conversation. She will still be standing outside ears plugged to the door right now listening to all this, what’s going on!?

Ojesh: Your husband has gone senile is what it is.

Ookusum: Oho, that’s it? in a long-suffering voice she continued well, what did you do now? Smoked a bidi (cigarette) with Maganlal again? The doctor’s already warned you, but you never listen, want to follow Popatlal to hell do you?

Oogesh: What bidi? I haven’t smoked since this uptight son of yours was born and why would I go to hell? Poor Popat, you won’t even let him rest in his death? Poor sod, already placed in hell, and why would I be going to hell? You go, you are welcome to it, if they will take you, that is.

Ookusum: Why would I go there, I do the rosary two times, twice a day, once for my sins and once for yours. My place is fixed in heaven.

The Daughter-in-laws too used to the uproar, settled the kids down with toys and sat back to enjoy the fight.

Yes, weird but I once heard one of them say that in the Gotariya house it was a tradition to begin the day with a fight so that they were supercharged for the rest of the day. Nothing like a good shouting to get you going, they say!

Ojesh: Oh god! It’s useless to try and reason with these two, Ookusum! This man, your husband, wants to decide what his clothes will be, the ones we put on his dead body, that is.

M: I know it’s weird, but the Gotariya kids, at least the first generation addressed their mother by her given name.

Ookusum: Om namah shivaay! Om namah shivaay! No! may this never happen. I am not going to wear this stupid white saree for life. Listen you, you are not dying before me! I forbid it!

Oogesh: I am not dying you crazy woman, there she goes. Already celebrating my death, no white saree indeed, I know you will be wearing a siren red saree and go celebrating in the faliya (hamlet) when I take my last breath.

Just then the daughter of the house, Himja, enters, and Ookusum turns to her,

Ookusum: See what he is saying! God is my witness, I am a dedicated wife, even thinking about you dying is a sin for me. How can you say that? Are you hearing this Himja? Ojesh, Vill? See what nonsense he is saying, all I said was…

Ojesh: Of course, you’re worried about wearing white as a widow. And he wants to dictate fashion even in heaven, dear lord they are driving me insane…Vill, Himja, say something!

The daughter turns to Oogesh, immediately becoming a part of the chaos, though having no idea about the previous conversation.

Hemu: Bhai?

Oogesh: Don’t you start now, this is my house! And you should understand, am I wrong? Veena? Rajni? You tell me, my daughters. he turns to his daughters-in-law for support, and continues,

You will also agree, I am sure. Death is inevitable and I would rather look good, and people should remember me for years – here was a man who lived on his terms and died the same way too.

Beautiful thought, isn’t it? What better way to pass on to the next life (Indians, we all believe in Moksha.) What better legacy to leave behind than a life well-lived. The Gotariyas were a lot of things – eccentric, egoistic, arrogant but most of all they were pragmatic, and they had style. Such a unique way of looking at things even in death, wouldn’t you say?

The younger son thought so too and after calming down so did the elder son and everyone else in the family and thus we come to the origin of the diary.

There and then the dairy was brought out. A simple daily planner in worn brown leather. The diary held so many of these Gotariya family rules and regulations as you will see in this and the ensuing stories.

Oogesh: Himja you write, you have the best handwriting. I want it all detailed. Raw silk khadi kurta, white cotton dhoti...

The 14 year-old grandson (Revdi) chipped in: Dada Nehru topi!

Sorry, a sec – Nehru Topi is a style of cap or headdress popularized by the former Prime minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, hence the name.

Oogesh: Of course, white Nehru topi too. And I want a band.

Vill: (laughing) A band baja? You mean the entire orchestra? What? Do you want a funeral march?

Ojesh: hahaaha, why not? Music is a must, let’s have it…

Oogesh (smiling widely): Now you’re talking, yes ‘Darbar band’ from my hometown. And no mourning! well, you can cry initially of course. I know my daughters will miss me and...

Bhuri: Me too dada, I will go with you!

Oogesh: hahaha, yes beta, but not with me. First I will go make place for my bacha and then after 100 years you can come. Where was I…ah yes…I want all of you to eat the best food, pizza for the kids, and you can have just one day where you feed the family gossip mongers and other near and far ones but after that only my family will have meals together for, let's see we have 15 days mourning, right? So instead, you will have 15 days of celebration. Eat the best food, laugh, enjoy and remember me with smiles, that’s all.

And that was the first-ever entry in the diary. There were many after that, but nothing as beautiful or as important as that one. Years later when the diary was called upon, though not everything was followed as per the entry, and that’s another story for another time. One thing was ensured, Oogesh would have certainly been proud of the legacy that he had left behind.

The End.

This story revolves around a regular day in the ordinary lives of the extraordinary Gotariya clan. Oh right, you wouldn’t know - well the Gotariya clan is a famous (if you ask them) or infamous (if you ask others) eccentric family based in a village called Gotri in India and like many Indian families, they are a joint family i.e. more than two generations living together under one roof – somewhat grudgingly, many-a-times annoyingly, but mostly happily.

Here it goes,

A middle-aged lady enters the house from the backyard. She walks in purposefully holding a brownish lump. The family members gathered around in the sitting room look at her quizzically…she waves the lump and eyes the two young women sitting side-by-side on the sofa peeling peas... 

Okusoom (shouting): Who threw away this pillu?

Right, so the Pillu is a roll of dough, it looks like a brownish lump. It is basically wheat flour rolled into a dough to make the Indian - Gujarati bread called Bhakhri. Just FYI – there’s a glossary at the end but I understand sometimes you need context beforehand.

Now then back to the story, Oh, but before that to understand the importance of the pillu we need to go back a little...

The Gotariya life rule #2: It was an unwritten rule in the Gotariya household, with the light of the sunrise the first thing to be done was roll the bhakhri dough aka pillu. No matter the day, date, occasion, or event…come morning, the first thing to do was to roll wheat flour into a pillu. The day’s menu, of course, was decided later on. 

A few hours ago.

Just like every other morning, the older vahu (Daughter-in-law) Rajni of the house was going about her chores, dusting the living room while the younger vahu Veena was washing clothes in the chowkdi when the matriarch of the family, Ookusum called out,

Okusum: Listen, both of you, there’s leftover pillu from last night in the fridge, so use that for lunch. Mind you, don’t waste it…I am going to the temple, will be back in a few hours.

DIL’s (together): Okay, mummy.

A few hours later, Ookusum returns from the temple.

She marches into the house handing out Prasad to everyone around. She steps into the kitchen and starts inspecting the food prepared by the vahus.

She opens the containers and checks everything - Dal. Bhaat. Bhakri. Saak. Perfect.

As she makes her usual rounds around the house, kitchen, and yard, she rambles about the people she met at the temple and also on the way, complaining about the vegetable vendor, 

Ookususm: Just imagine, he was charging me 5 rupees 25 paise! The nerve! When he had just sold it to Nirmala for 5 rupees, luckily, I passed her on the way, and she told me. I soon set him right! Told him, if he ever tries to pull something like this again, he’ll never set foot inside our village bazaar, I’ll make sure of it! That’ll teach him.

Chuckling softly she continues…Nirmala told me, Raju (neighbour’s young son) was once again spotted at that store, trying to buy a pack of bidis (locally made cigarettes),

The daughters-in-law’s, used to the prattle answered absently -eh…huh…hmmm…oho…tsk, appropriately, wherever required, while continuing peeling peas. 

Ookusum: And did you hear?, the Patel’s Vahu, she’s once again back to her parent's house…new brides these days, no respect for anyone... 

Continuing her chatter she steps out into the backyard to throw out the trash in the gutter.

The gutter here, is an arm’s length hole dug into the ground to put all the waste/trash in and from where the kachrawalas would pick it up.

While throwing the trash she spots something that stops her tirade abruptly. Leaning down, she peers into the gutter. Narrow-eyed, she pushes aside the other waste with her hand and, pulls out a lumpy item…

Gross…I know, but well this was necessary…rather very important, as you will soon realize.

OOkusum (in shock): what’s that?…Is that? NO! It’s the previous night’s pillu! she stares at it, unable to believe her eyes - a whole pillu wasted! just like that? How? who? why? How..why???

In a tizzy…she stumbles, who could do something like this? just throw away a perfectly good pillu and when? It was lying at the bottom so…but how long had it been lying there? Why had no one seen it before?

And as the shock wore off, the anger started to set in…

There now, finally, we can go back to the start where this story started, you forgot? Well, don’t worry it’ll come back to you in 3…2…

Ookusum (screams): Who threw away this pillu? Who did this? an entire pillu? Who was it??  she eyes her daughter-in-laws - Who did this?... My, my aren’t we the royal family. We only eat fresh food, right? Just throw away the leftovers! What use is a little bit of stale dough now, when we can just buy the entire flour mill. Isn’t that right Rajni!?

Rajni (Elder DIL):  Oh mummy. I didn’t! I swear, I even checked the fridge, after you left but couldn’t find the leftover pillu, so I had to roll a fresh one.

The Younger DIL not to be left behind rushes out a denial too...

Veena: Not me either. I haven’t even stepped into the kitchen today.

Ookusum (mockingly): Not me...not me! (then, angrily) then who? Me? or did the pillu suddenly grow legs and walk down to the gutter by itself? 

The family patriarch, who until now was hiding behind the newspaper, reading the most important section – the Obituaries, 

For the older generation in the Gotariya family, reading obituary was a guilty pleasure. Guilt because well, death announcement and pleasure because it wasn’t about them. 

Looked up as his pleasure was disrupted by his wife’s incessant screams, he put aside the newspaper,

Oogesh (Patriarch – extremely irritated): Now, now, what’s all this? What has happened?... eh what in the world are you doing holding that lump of trash, stop waving that filthy thing around, just let it be…will you? What is that? Oh is that a piece of pillu?  

Okusoom: Yes it is…and you won’t believe where I found it. In the gutter!

OOgesh: Oh is that it, all this for a stale piece of pillu? God woman…just throw it away, already.

OOkusum: Throw it?? (She screeches affronted) throw it he says! just stale pillu, is it? Hah! But what about when you wish to eat your beloved bhakhru, what then? A little charred on the edge and you say we are wasting food and good money at that and now…just a pillu! Why..you..

Oogesh: Oh now I get it…I get it. Look if you don’t want to feed me just say so, don’t create a scene, you could have just roll a fresh one, but noooo, of course we need to have drama, how can we pass on the chance to go about shouting and screaming! well if it's soo much trouble for you, just let me to know. I can feed myself…all this for a lump of stale pillu!

Okusoon: See…see, now he’s gone off on another tangent…where did this come from? Not feeding you? Every day since I walked into this house as a young bride, why my only job as your beloved mother never stopped pointing out was to keep your tummy full. And I have slaved behind the stove for all these years and this is what I get for it?? 

OOgesh: Ah…there she goes, yapping away, again.

OOkusum: Why? I can’t even ask a perfectly valid question in this house now? I find out someone is wasting food and now suddenly I am the villain? Am I not allowed to say anything in this house?...

OOgesh: Oh shut it will you, not a moment of peace in this house, my mother lived to be eighty and never once did she complain…all you do is complain…

Yes, you guessed right…a marital spat ensued.

While the two continued their fight, which moved on to other topics ranging from eating habits to lifestyle choices to friends, to family members, to the condition of the village, the state, even the country at large! - the others resume their business, the arguments now just background noise to them. 

The only thing that seemed to be still most affected by all of this was the Pillu…just a few minutes ago, it had been on the center stage, figuratively, and now it was lying on the drawing-room floor, like a discarded prop, completely forgotten by all. 

Lying there, the pillu observed all this philosophically, wondering about its fall from grace. At the same time trying to remember how it had come to be in such a position when just a few hours ago it had been languishing in the cool refrigerator. 

Who was responsible for its current state?

The matriarch…but she was the one who had actually rescued it from the gutter, though she also did drop it down just now. The patriarch, he made her do it, or was it…ah  

A foggy memory surfaced, a pair of hands had picked it up from the refrigerator and had dumped it in the smelly gutter, but it couldn’t quite remember to whom did the fateful pair of hands belong that had brought about its downfall? 

The Pillu (thinking): Pretty sure they were female hands, delicate…who could it be? The Vahu? but which one?... umm, yes! there was a clinking sound too, wasn’t there? like glass and a haze of colour…something bright…yellow? Blue? what was it? 

Meanwhile, the fight continued in the background, but now it was just one person muttering as OOgesh had long since returned back to the obituaries,  

Ookusum: Fine, I won’t utter a word, not a word. Here zip! (makes a zipping motion) Anyways no one listens to me in this house…no one!

She continued while puttering about the room, placing, moving, re-placing things, around the room muttering under her breath: Won’t speak, won’t bother anymore, what does it matter to me? It’s your money after all…I…

When a maid enters from the backdoor and starts sweeping the room, naturally catching Ookusum’s eye, 

OOkusum: Oh, so you are back? Vacation over? No more holidays for you now, or else I will cut your wages. Just sweep the drawing-room, for now, do the back rooms later…said two days, and now shows up almost after an entire week, everyone here follows their whims…what can a body do? And still I am the villain…

She continues, settling down in a chair nearby wiping her hands on her saree, 

The maid (too used to Ookusum’s taunts) just nods and continues sweeping the floor. As she sweeps, her bangles make a clinking sound…the DILs notice this and so does pillu, 

The Pillu: Hey, what’s that sound?

Rajni (DIL-1): Nice bangles Kamla, are they new?

Kamla (Maid): Yes, got them from the old village market. 2 rupees for a pair. Here..

Kamla removes a few from her wrist and hands them over,

Veena (DIL -2): Show me…are they glass, nice and good quality too, very pretty! 

Kamla: You want some didi?

Veena: Yes sure!… Get me a dozen…

Kamla: Sure, I will, which colour do you want…red?

Veena: No no same as yours, these green ones look very pretty, don’t they Rajni bhabhi?

Rajni: Yes, they do.

Pillu (excitedly): Oh yes, it was green!! So it was the maa…ahhh..oh.

The pillu sputters as it is rolled across the floor and landing in a pile of dirt as Kamla waves her broom swipes it away.  

Meanwhile, Rajni: Mummy did you see these…? She holds out the bangles to Ookusum, who also starts admiring them, the three women start discussing colours and styles, the recent fight, completely forgotten. 

The pillu sitting on the floor surrounded by dirt, courtesy of Kamla and her broom, resigned to its fate waiting for the final swipe of the broom that would roll it out to the gutter again muses at its situation.

Pillu: Time! That’s what the game is all about. When the time is right, a roll of dough becomes the mighty pillu-feeder of the entire household and when it’s wrong, ha! It’s just a piece of leftover dough, easily replaceable by a better, newer, fresher version. Ah! Such is life.

And such was the fate of the pillu…

Today, though the Gotariyas have long since moved out of Gotri…the echoes of the pillu’s fall still resonate in the family get-togethers. Where now the new generation tries to solve the mystery of who was it, that actually threw out the pillu…and why?

The End.

P.S. Here are a few words to add to your Gujju (Gujarati’s -when addressed fondly) vocab.

Glossary:

Gujarati: People belonging to the state of Gujarat, in India.

Gotariya: An eccentric family residing in a village called Gotri.

Pillu: Rolled dough, mostly used for making Bhakhru.

Bhakhru: Slang/ term used for Bhakhri - when angry

Bhakhri: Gujarati staple, bread mostly made of wheat.

Saak: Sauteed vegetable, to be had with bhakhri

Bhaat: Rice

Vahu: Daughter-in-Law

Kachrawalas: people who collect the trash, sewage cleaners.

Chawkdi: A small open square space in the backyard designated for washing clothes/ utensils.

Prasad: Sweet offered to God during prayer.

Didi: Elder sister

Bhabhi: Brother’s wife/sister-in-law

Location: London.

Time: 8:35 PM.

Inside a little corner deli, the bell ornament on the door chimes as the last of the boisterous patron’s leave. In the ensuing silence the cashier looks around at the remaining few solitary guests.

Ding!

The sound of a mobile phone beeping breaks the almost eerie silence in the room.

At one of the occupied tables, a blinking white dialogue box appears on the formerly blank screen of the phone. A man’s hand picks it up. Long-tanned arm with almost delicate artistic fingers, nails chopped to the skin, a finger flips the side button, putting the phone on silent mode, a gentle press of the thumb on the screen, opens the message

Morning.

The man thumbs in a reply,

Had breakfast?

Putting the phone aside, he picks up a fork and knife and cuts into a piece of blueberry cheesecake, lifts a bite to his mouth. Any onlooker, would see a pair of thin, pressed lips on a plain, unremarkable face, brows furrowed together in concentration, eyes closed, savoring each flavor - tart berries, thick cream, and a crumbly crust, suddenly, the eyes open - sharp, piercing jet-black eyes, which transform the plain, unassuming face into one of ruthless determination. As the man stares out into the darkness, unblinking, through the glass windows, at the open street outside, the dark glass of the window reflects his image. A face surrounded by tiny blinking taillights of cars disappearing down the street, like a bokeh effect to a photograph, his face carved onto the cityscape.

In the reflection, his head turns away, breaking away from the image as he looks back to his plate, rests the fork and knife in an upside-down V with the tips of the utensils facing each other. The visual across the white table spread is one of clean precision, all the items lined with military preciseness, a spoon, salt-pepper shakers in the middle of the table, napkin folded - ruler-straight, placed parallel to the plate, an iron pressed newspaper folded beside it, on which the man had rested his other hand.

Location: Sydney

Time: 7:20 AM

In a street-side café.

‘One caramel macchiato…to go!’ the barista announces in a cheerful tone while handing out a cup to a young man with brown wavy hair, twinkling blue-gray eyes. He takes his coffee, smiles charmingly at the server,

‘Thanks.’

The young man walks up to a table facing the street, sits down, and takes a sip of the coffee while looking out at the hustle-bustle. His heart skips a beat as he spots an unmoving shadow across the street, his face depicts utter shock a second before his head hits the coffee cup on the way down. The coffee splashes everywhere. Inside the Café, the early morning serenity disappears as pandemonium breaks out. Somebody yells for a doctor while the other patrons rush towards the unconscious man. A woman pushes ahead of the crowd, moves to the young man, and checks his pulse. A few seconds later, she shakes her head and steps back.

Across the street, the shadow lingers. A tall figure in a long dark coat looks on, standing there for a few minutes, watching the ensuing chaos inside the coffee shop. When the approaching ambulance siren sounds, the shadow turns and walks away, whistling, pulls out his phone and starts typing, while being swallowed up by the throng of people on the sidewalk.

Time: 8:40 PM

Location: London.

Buzzz.

The phone vibrates on the table, the man takes a look at the message,

'Yes, Caramel Macchiato.'

He puts down the phone, picks up the fork, and cuts it into the cake as the fingers of his other hand resting on the newspaper start tapping out a tune.

Time: 12:40 PM

Location: Portland.

A man in a charcoal black suit enters a high-end restaurant, hands off his coat to the maître de, who smiles at him in welcome and gestures him to follow him to a pre-reserved table. He takes his seat as the maître de excuses himself by gesturing to a server who appears by his side. The server hands the man opened menu and proceeds to pour water into a glass. The server turns to leave, he steps away, and just then, the sound of glass splintering as the window breaks into a million pieces shatters the quiet, almost soothing din of the restaurant.

The waiter turns around, shock draining the color from his face as he sees the patron’s head hitting the table with a thump, blood flowing out from a hole at the side of his head where the bullet hit. A dark red stain spreads across the pristine white silk tablecloth.

Behind the waiter, a woman starts screaming.

About 1000 yards away, a man watches all this through his sniper scope for a few seconds. He straightens up, closes the emergency window, dismantles his gun, and places it back into a red velvet-lined violin case. He holds the violin case in one hand and walks out of the hotel room. Stepping into the elevator, he nods to the liftman while typing out a message on his phone.

Time: 9:00 PM

Location: London.

The phone screen lights up again, and this time the message reads,

Lunch is served.

The man places the phone back down and cuts into another piece of the cake. The fingers of the other hand continue drumming, but now at an increasing pace.

Time: 4:00 PM

Location: Toronto.

On the second floor of a multistorey apartment, the door-bell goes off,

Ding-dong!

A young woman, red-haired, large green eyes hidden behind a pair of oversized spectacles, looks through the eyehole at the pizza delivery guy waiting outside.

She opens the door, collects the pizza, counts out the bill plus tip, and hands it to him with a smile. The boy tips his cap in thanks and leaves.

The girl walks back to her desk puts the box down in front of the laptop. She takes a seat and smiles up at a bespectacled young man looking out through her computer screen, who returns it. He is holding a pizza box too. He opens the box and smiles shyly, as the girl follows suit when suddenly her laptop screen is hit by a splash of red, blood splattering all over the pizza. The man looks on through the haze of red at the girl’s head tilted to the side, hanging back, as blood oozes from a puncture wound on her neck, created by a sharp metal object protruding from near her jugular.

Calmly, he removes his spectacles and takes a slice of pizza from his box, bites into it, wipes his hands on a tissue, and picks up his phone.

Time: 9:15 PM

Location: London.

Message light blinks, it reads

Pepperoni Pizza for supper.

Placing the phone aside, the man picks up his fork and knife to gather all the remaining crumbs off the plate, takes the last bite. He polishes off the plate by making a screeching sound as the metal fork scratches in an attempt to get the bits of cream off it, licking the excess cream off the fork and knife, places them on the plate, together in the center, the tips pointing upwards like a pair of clock hands at noon. He picks up the starch white napkin to wipe off his mouth, refolds it perfectly, rearranges the newspaper, which had shifted a bit to the side. He pushes back from the table to get up, picks up his phone, looks at the dark outside, and then around at the almost empty deli as if taking stock of himself, reassured, he walks up to the cashier, hands out a couple of bills,

'Excellent cake', he remarks in a clipped tone, softened only by the accompanying smile.

The cashier smiles back and hands him a package,

‘Here's your one to go, sir...celebrating?’, he asks.

‘Yes, Thanks’

Holding the parcel in hand, he walks towards the coat rack, shrugs into his coat, puts on his hat, and steps out into the night.

Inside the café, the server is clearing off the table, when the cashier calls him,

'Boy!, listen, that gentleman that just left, he forgot his umbrella, go on return it.'

On the sidewalk, the man checks his phone,

No messages.

He opens a chat and types in, How about a late dinner? I’ll get dessert.

Pocketing the phone, he buttons up his jacket, just then, the waiter taps him on the shoulder. He turns to find him holding up his umbrella and the folded newspaper. Smiling, he takes the umbrella and newspaper from the boy, hands him a penny as thank you. As soon as the boy leaves, the man throws the paper in the street side trash can.

'State acquits four former agents, accused of colluding with foreign intelligence, citing evidence inconclusive', the newspaper headline screams at passers-by as the man walks on. He looks up at the sky just as the first drop of rain falls on his face, he opens the umbrella, and disappears into the night.

I’ve faced loss before,
and I’ll face it again before I go.
And truth be told,
the losses suffered before were much worse to bear.
Then why is it that this time it seems a little more.
The loss of a loved one is a loss indeed,
but what we mourn more is the loss of feeling a loss as deep.
Is it the insensitivity born of what the past endured?
Or is it the sensitivity triggered,
by the helplessness this one holds.
Looking back at the sufferings of the past,
What troubles more is the memory of the pain, than pain itself.
Is it the repetition that leads to acceptance of more?
Maybe it is not time that heals,
but the number of times one feels.
The incredibility of it happening to YOU,
is what hits most the first time.
But as life grows on, it gets replaced
by the certainty that it happens to all.
So now you have twice as much to mourn,
The loss of the one long gone,
and the feeling of their loss, you had held on.
And maybe that’s why this one feels a little more,
Because here’s a loss that loss alone can hold.
It’s not the parting that hurts,
because the one who has to go, has long been gone.
What hurts now is the memory of the part of YOU,
that they took along.

(Musings on a plane ride across the seven seas…)

As I flew up in the sky,
My world rejoiced.
My love rejoiced.
As I flew up in the sky,
Higher than the night.
My heart broke into pieces,
Like stars scattered across the sky,
Flying higher and above,
Where the wind blocked out all sound,
But couldn’t stop the vibrations,
Of the pieces wreathed about.
As the sky grew closer still,
My being took a turn away from me,
As I watched my world rejoice,
With pats and smiles and joy,
I smiled a smile too,
swallowed by their cheer.
And so as my world rejoiced,
My heart wept a million tears.

I still remember the first time I failed, It was a novelty, and even, in some ways, a moment of pride.

Well, it is one of the (supposedly) toughest exams!

Everyone fails, failure makes YOU better,

I kept telling myself.

The failure was acceptable, like a badge of honour,

and so easier to believe.

The trouble started when I succeeded.

Let me introduce you to the villain of our lives,

which we all aspire for, but fail to recognize it for the bad guy it is.

‘Success’ or as I like to call it ‘The fear of success’.

Because it’s when you succeed,

You can lose humility, gratitude,

the importance of advice, guidance - received,

because now you are the one giving it.

Success makes you dependent on it,

The arrogance of a win is much easier embodied than the humbleness of a loss, isn’t it?

You see, it’s scarier to succeed than to fail,

All our lives, we work, work and chase success,

and when we do succeed, we chase more success,

so now, failure, is a far gone thought, it’s something you can’t afford.

You can’t fail anymore uh...huh nope!

So, now, think, and tell me.

What is it that scares YOU more?

Success or failure?

(Translation: In the business of stories)

Kisine kal puch liya,
Jaane mann ko junjh liya.
Karte kya ho bhai?
Mann soche, samjhe, parkhe, samjahye,
usse pehle muh se shabd ne bol diya.
Ji, bas kahaniyo ka karobar hai.
Kuch suni hai, kuch sunayi hai.
Kabhi apni, kabhi kisi aur ki,
Bas sunte, aur sunate hai.
Kabhi naani se churakar pariyon ko mang late hai,
Kabhi andar jhaak kar khudko dhoondh aate hai.
Bas Kahaniyo ka karobar hai.
Kuch panno pe padhte mil jaati hai,
Apno se duur, gairo se kareeb,
Yeh kahaniya hi toh hume laati hai.
Bas kahaniyo ka karoobar hai.

(Topical: Indian CAA protests 2020)

Chehre par aati zulfe,
Jis tarah se uljhi hai,
Lag raha hai hawa badal rahi hai,
Alag alag chhor, uspe takrati maujh,
Zara si dheeme lag rahi hai.
Juda juda se log bhi, jaise vasta badal rahe hai.
Suna hai desh mein gali gali nare hai,
Samvidhaan humara hai, usee badalne nahi denge hum,
Par in badalti hawao se, zara darr lagta hai,
Kaano tak pahuchte naaro se,Mann machalta hai,
Hawaao sang kahin badal naa jaye,
Desh ki mitti mein, desh ki neev naa dhas jaye,
Jis daave par lakeer khechna chahtey haiDesh ke swaghoshit rakshak,
Usi daave ko kharij kar lad rahe hai,
Aane wale kal pe nisaar,
Sone ki chidiya nahi par yeh heere ki khan hai,
Nau jawaano ke balbuto par khadi is desh ki pehchaan hai.
Shayaad hawa ka badal na zaroori hai,
Sachai ki awaaz hawa ke badlne se nahi,
Hawa ka rukh sachai ki awaaz pe tika hai.
Acha hai hawa badal rahi hai,
Ab sachai rukh karegi,
Ab badlav ki aur mudegi.