Restarting Yoga

 It has been seven years since I left my yoga practice.  Life is busy with the lockdown and I would perhaps have delayed restarting if it were not for the frequent headaches which have been plaguing me in the last several months.  I find myself wide awake at four in the morning (the result of going to bed at eight at night with my son), lying in bed with a throbbing head and nothing to do.

So yesterday, when my husband suggested I get up and try some yoga, I staggered out of bed and said, "I don't know if I have the energy," but I did try.  And it felt like coming home all over again.  I knew immediately that it was the perfect thing for me in the mornings and I must continue.  I love waking up when it is still dark and perfectly still- to feel the stillness within and not worry about matters the world is concerned with.  It is a time when all the wisdom of ancient teachers seems to hover somewhere around you, waiting to disclose itself if you are ready.

The hardest aspect of the new schedule was convincing my little son that it is okay for me to wake up at four thirty in the morning, but not for him.  Having a sleepy and irritable seven year old wandering around, following me would be disaster.  So, for now, my husband has agreed to keep an eye on my son in case he awakes, until we all get used to the new routine.

There were other complications, as I realised this morning.  How do I know when to wake up without setting an alarm, without disturbing anyone, without endlessly getting up to check the time in the dark (as you may have guessed I am not a gadget oriented person).  I usually gauge the hour by the amount of light entering our bedroom window (we get to see clouds and trees, moonlight and fireflies outside at night, which is very exciting, so we usually have no use for curtains- waking up when the first ray of light enters our room).

Last night I was so happy that I did not dwell on the specifics of early morning awakening.  This morning I woke up, ready to step out of bed when my husband told me,"It's still three o'clock.  Go back to sleep."  Sleeping was out of the question but I did my best to relax and rest.  I got up around four thirty and began my practice soon after.

It has been so long!  I am so stiff!  I know I can barely move and sometimes my back goes into a spasm, sometimes my legs cramp up- nerves and muscles all over are protesting.  But it feels the same as it always did from inside- just perfect!  I think that I will not remember the movements, it has been much too long.  But my teacher's voice and my own years of practice take over and I am soon finding my way, one step at a time- evaluating what my body needs, what the next posture I need is, how much I can stretch and so on.  For my yoga training has been with a teacher who let me learn by myself, in my own way.  It was never a group class, I was never handed an easy solution, I had to find my way through by focussing internally, with just a little guidance from my teacher.  This helps me enormously now, as my teacher probably knew it would.

He always insisted that yoga is for everyone, no matter what their physical condition - it just has to be modified to suit each person's requirements.  And so he emphasised the principles, not achieving one particular specific goal.

By the time everyone was awake, I was done with my practice, feeling energised and ready for the day.  

I am grateful to my teacher and I know he is glad I have restarted my practice.  Being the remarkable teacher that he is, he had told me,"There is no hurry.  Enjoy the time with your son, young children need a lot of attention."  But he had also told me that if I did the complete practice, my headaches should go away.  So here I am, at the threshold of another new beginning, waiting to see how it unfolds.

Birthday Surprises

 Mummy woke up to a new day.  Like all days, some things were the same but some things were very different.  She squinted in the dim light.  

Appa was already up and ready, whispering something to her.  She listened carefully.  It did not sound like, "Happy birthday," but more like, "There's no water in the taps.  I am going to outside to check the tanks.  Go back to sleep."

"No water in the taps" was a bit worrying but not as worrying as "Going to check the tanks", for it was still quite dark and the tanks were high up.  Of course Mummy knew that Appa had climbed many tricky rocks and mountains in the past and water tanks were nothing compared to that, but she still worried for a moment.  "Going back to sleep" was, of course, impossible.

In his sleep, Osito Nayan sighed contentedly.  He and Samatva were dreaming of their own tricky mountains to climb.  

As the light broke through, everyone awoke and had to share the half bucket of water that remained in the house.  It was still too early to call the pump house but Appa was slowly getting to the cause of the problem.

He had stepped out into the garden, to check the maze of pipes and valves.  Osito Nayan promptly followed.  

Mummy was a bit annoyed.  "You should have waited until we began breakfast," she said.  "How will I get him ready in time for school if he's wandering outside?"  

"He has to learn to get back inside.  This CANNOT wait," said Appa, and he was right, as he often is.

So, when Osito Nayan was finally convinced it was a good idea to get back, he meandered to the dining table to begin his breakfast.  

Appa returned and said, "Someone closed the inlet valve at night.  The pump house said they had sent someone to close the sewage water connection but actually they turned off our water inflow.  Also, the gardener left the tap open in the garden."

The gardener, when questioned, claimed it was actually the monkeys.

Anyway, at least there was no leak and more water was gradually pumped in by the time Osito Nayan's classes began.

As soon as we switched on the computer, there was a flashing red light- no internet!  Osito Nayan began to cry.  He hated glitches in his classes.

"Explorers need to be brave and strong," Appa reminded him.  "They have to deal with all kinds of unknown things," so Osito Nayan tried to cheer up.  It was hard.  Samatva slipped a paw into his hand and held it tight.

Mummy tried to get the backup internet on but it refused to work.  It was one of those mornings.  She called the internet company.  "There is a break in the cable Madam, my worker is already there," the man told her.

"It must be because of yesterday's rain," said Appa.

"It must be because of the monkeys," said Mummy, who liked to blame everything she could on the monkeys (just like the gardener).

Osito Nayan didn't care what it might be due to.  He was still crying, still hoping he would be able to join his classes and, soon, with the help of Mummy's cell phone, he was.

"Don't switch on the video right now," he said to Mummy.  "I want to calm down."  So when he felt calm and brave enough, he began his classes and everything went very smoothly.

Classes over, it was time to dwell on other important matters.

"I'm so sad I couldn't give you anything for your birthday," said Osito Nayan to Mummy.

She gave him a big hug.  "You give me a lot of happiness, which is the best gift," she said.  

"How about a card?" suggested Samatva.

"You are wearing ice cream coloured clothes today Mummy," said Nayan, "so let me make you a big ice cream card."

Samatva and Osito Nayan proceeded to make a big, beautiful card.

"This looks wonderful!" said Mummy.  "What flavour is it?"

"Rainbow flavour!" said Nayan, "The most delicious!"

Then, Osito Nayan thought of other important birthday things.  Like balloons, cakes and candles.

"Mummy, can we have a balloon game?" he asked excitedly.  "Will I be able to blow some balloons?"

"Yes, after dinner," said Mummy.  "Let me search for some."

"And what about a cake, Mummy?  Can I blow out the candles on your cake?"

"I'm not getting a cake," said Mummy.  "You know I can't eat chocolate or coffee or citrus things, and no one really knows how to make a good vanilla cake."

"We know Mummy!  Let's make one!"said Osito Nayan.

"Yes!" said Samatva, "I love vanilla cake, not too soft and not too hard, not too sweet and not too creamy, with just the right amount of.."

"There's no time today,"said Mummy, "We have so many assignments to finish.  So I have just ordered some food and we will have seviyan for dessert."

"I like seviyan too," said Samatva, "Not too thick and not too thin, not too nutty and not too plain, not too heavy and not too light, not too warm and not too cold.."  Samatva was a very particular bear when it came to the matter of food.

So everyone had a delicious dinner, there was plenty of water and plenty of internet.  The restaurant had somehow figured out it was Mummy's birthday, so they did send a cake with a candle to blow out.

There were balloons to blow and play with.

"A lovely party!" sighed Samatva in satisfaction.  "I'm ready for bed now."

But Osito Nayan wasn't.  "I want to stay up forever and juggle the balloons with Samatva," he said.

"Samatva is ready for bed," said Mummy.  So, very reluctantly, Osito Nayan came to bed.

After many moments of tossing and turning and trying to escape and get back to the balloons, Osito Nayan said, "Mummy, I can't sleep.  Can you tell me a story?"

So Mummy began a story- "Once upon a time, Osito Nayan and Samatva went out into the garden to play. As they were searching for new and exciting things, a gust of wind blew them both up, up and away.

Osito Nayan sat up immediately.  "A huge gust of wind?" he asked. 

"You have to lie down and close your eyes," said Mummy, "otherwise the story won't work."

So Osito Nayan and Samatva lay down once more while Mummy continued-

"Hold on to me, Samatva!" cried Osito Nayan, "So we don't get separated."  And hand in paw, they flew over many lands until they gently came down to a land full of balloons of all colours and sizes.

There were so many balloons that the people there used them for all kinds of things.."

"What kinds of things, Mummy?" murmured Nayan.  And as Mummy told him, he drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.  Samatva was already fast asleep.

It was a full moon night and the moon shone through the trees.  Mummy lay back contentedly.  She was full of happiness, and thankfulness too, for her special family that made every moment, however imperfect, seem like the best possible moment.  Something she would not want to exchange for anything else.  

Notes of music filled her ears.  The best kinds of notes - the ones that hung unheard in the air, waiting for someone to bring them to life.  She thanked Life too for the gift of music that it had recently presented her with.  So many birthday surprises!

Memories, Music And More

A couple of months ago, before my son Nayan's summer holidays began, I started my search for a music teacher for him.  Nayan had been missing his music classes, which had abruptly ended with the pandemic.  I thought this would be a good time to restart.  

I knew my son well enough to understand that he couldn't be put into a very regimented programme.  He rebels if he feels pushed and I also didn't want his joy of music turned into a routine of monotony.  My husband and I discussed this.  I couldn't think of where to start but my husband suggested folk music.  That seemed to be perfect but- how does one find a teacher for this?

I asked a lot of people- parents, teachers, musicians.  It took a month and a half until I was finally connected to a folk singer in Bangalore.  He promptly got in touch with me but said he mostly played folk instruments of Bengal and could sing a few folk songs but only in Bengali.  I felt it would be difficult for Nayan to learn songs in a language he was not familiar with, so the musician very kindly offered to introduce me to someone else in his band who was a singer and knew Hindi.

It took a while to get connected and the singer said he was too busy to take classes, but he would ask a friend of his.  And so on.  This went on as a kind of Chinese whispers, each step taking us one step further from our point of initial contact.  After a while there was just silence.

One day, while talking to my sister in law in Delhi, I mentioned my ongoing search.  Immediately she said, "I have the numbers of some teachers who taught my children."  In a few seconds, a number flashed on my screen.

"What does she teach?" I asked feeling a bit dizzy.  It had been too fast.

"Western music.  Fun, happy songs."

"Er- do you have anyone for Indian music?" I asked, not very hopeful, but yes, she had!  My sister in law is a walking repository of information and numbers.

"This is a very old number," she said, "but try it."

I tried it and within a minute I got a reply.  "Please call tomorrow evening to discuss this."

The next day, the classes were fixed up and we were to begin soon.  I still had no clear idea of what Nayan would learn (whether he would learn at all, sitting in front of a computer) but it was a beginning.  I hoped it would not be too classical or rigorous for him.

Now, two weeks down the line, I can only smile at the way things have worked out.  We are learning Indian classical music.  It is rigorous, it involves work, it is also playfully done, and my son loves it!  I discovered the teacher was Bengali, and now we are also being introduced to the language and music of Bengal through him.  I say "we" because I have also been induced to learn music, initially as an attempt to help my son and now just because it is so enjoyable.  It is a strange feeling to embark on this learning so late in life but if my vocal chords are not complaining, why should I?

My husband's mother comes from Bengal and this is why the Bengal connection is particularly meaningful for our family though it has cropped up inadvertently in the music class.  I remember snippets of Bengali music heard in the past years- Rabindra sangeet in Kolkata, songs of boats (because my mother in law worked with boat builders) and the beautiful folk music of Bengal.  I cannot forget the Baul singer who visited the family house in Kolkata every few weeks and his simple yet haunting songs.

With all these memories floating through my mind, I am pasting below a snippet from an earlier blog I had written about the Baul singer and his song that I had recorded at the time-

  

"In the midst of all this, I feel truly blessed to have our local Baul visit every Sunday morning.  He walks down the street, playing his simple string instrument and singing his soulful songs.  Hardly anyone listens but he always stops in front of our family house, where he knows someone or the other will emerge.  And if I am there, I always do.  I love listening to these down to earth songs with mystic roots.  Songs which remind us that God must be searched for (and discovered) within our own hearts, by ourselves.

Bauls- the wandering mystic minstrels of Bengal used to travel from village to village, bringing these messages and their wonderful music to the common man.  Each village would provide them with food and shelter and take care of their needs.  Now things have changed, the Bauls have to fend for themselves and their travel is restricted.  They are hardly seen in urban settings, except for a few high profile ones, who perform periodically in concerts.  These performances are quite powerful but they often lack the spontaneity and simplicity found in a more natural setting.

This time I was fortunate enough to have my cell phone with me while rushing down to hear the Baul.  And so I made my first recording of one of his songs, the link is given below.  There was plenty of neighbourhood action at the time of the recording (and my hand finally shook when my little son made a beeline for the road).  People were coming and going, the driver was revving the car, the dhobi arrived with his bundle of freshly ironed clothes, an irate crow was demanding his biscuit breakfast and so on.  But the Baul was lost in his music and in his world - which is as it should be - and it reminded me to search for what gives my life meaning and pursue it without distraction (or at least attempt to)!"

Baul song

I am also putting a link to a tune played by Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Ali Akbar Khan long ago for a concert in aid for Bangladesh, called Bangla Dhun.  It still echoes in my mind occasionally, reminding me of stories I have heard from my husband's family- of the plants (the special round chillies, the fragrant coriander-like herbs, the gandharaj neebu), the ponds near each house, the playful rivers, the birds and their songs- and the special Padma river fish- the ilish maachh- not to be found as easily any more.  But the memories- and the music remain.

Bangla Dhun

How Samatva Got His Name

A very long time ago, maybe about four years, Osito Nayan looked up from his exploration of the floor to find some new faces at home.  There was a tall fellow who towered above him.  He was carrying a little brown bear.  “This is for you,” he said to Nayan.

The fellow was so tall and Nayan was so shy that he forgot to say, “Thank you”.  The bear, however, was just the right size and quickly slipped his paw into Nayan’s hand.  “How nice to meet you,” he said.  “Can I see your territory?”  His voice was not at all gruff or growly as Nayan had imagined.  It had the sound of melted chocolate.  His paw was soft and warm.

So Bear and Nayan happily set off, to see the train tracks and other exciting things that were strewn about the house.  Nayan wondered where the tall fellow had come from.  

“America?”  volunteered Bear.  But Nayan felt he might have come  from other exciting places, perhaps near Serbia?  Or Croatia…?  “Probably Slovenia,” said Bear who seemed to know all about these things.  And that seemed to be about right.

Bear soon became an important part of Nayan’s life.  They woke up together to discuss Plans for the Day.  

They ate breakfast together.  Bear introduced Nayan to the importance of licking a spoonful of honey with some ginger in it.  “Keeps the throat in good order,” he muttered.  

“Yes, I haven’t had a sore throat for days now..” said Nayan.

They had other meals together too.  Bear usually ate three fish- one green, one yellow and one orange, as those were his favourite colours.

“Orange is my favourite colour too,” said Nayan.

Bear needed a name so Nayan looked into the book he was reading.  It was by Richard Scarry and it showed a great big bear called Kenny.  So Bear was named Kenny Bear.

Kenny Bear and Nayan discussed the great mysteries of the world.  Like how so many exciting countries ended with ‘ia’-

“Serbia,” said Nayan.

“Croatia”, said Kenny Bear.

“Slovakia,” said Nayan.

“Slovenia,” said Kenny Bear (though perhaps they spell it Slovenja).  Kenny Bear knew all about these things.

“California..?” asked Nayan.

“Hmm,” said Kenny Bear.  “It’s not a real country though it could be one.”

“India,” said Kenny Bear, “is also a very exciting country.”

“Hmmm, yes of course,” said Nayan.

Now Osito Nayan had grown much bigger and was already going to preschool.  He missed Kenny Bear but he made other friends in school.  One of them was a little toddler called Samatva.

“Mummy, can Samatva stay with us?” Nayan asked one day.

“No, I don’t think so.  Samatva is so little; he will miss his family and they will miss him,” Mummy replied.

“Well, do you think we could get another baby called Samatva?”

But Mummy said there were no babies coming along the way.

“Do you think we could order one from Santa?”

“No, I don’t think elves can make babies.”

“But what can we do, Mummy?  I really want a Samatva at home.”

It seemed to be an enormous problem.  But Mummy looked around, the way Mummies sometimes do.  And then she came up with a solution the way Mummies somehow do.

“How about we change Kenny Bear’s name?”  she asked.  “I think he has outgrown ‘Kenny’ and ‘Samatva’ is a much nicer name.”

“How is it much nicer, Mummy?”

“It has a lovely meaning- it means treating everyone and everything equally.”

“Hmmm… It also has a nice sound,” said Nayan.

“I agree,” said a little voice that reminded everyone of drippy chocolate.  “A Bear has the right to choose his name.”

“I love this Samatva best of all, I don’t need another one!” said Osito Nayan giving his bear a hug.  “He always agrees with me.”

“Yes,” said Samatva, hugging him back.

Thoughts In A Pandemic

Oh can you bring for me

Spray from the salty sea?

The sight of shifting dunes

Eight to ten midnight moons?

Oh can you bring to me

Creaks from the ancient trees?

Four songs the swallows sing

Flutters from new found wings?

Where does the silence lie

In me, or in the sky?

All things I long to see

Spring from old memory…

A Writeup For My School

 My school is celebrating its 40th anniversary this month.  I was a part of the first batch of the school, and the school has asked our class to make a short video of our experiences and remembrances.  I decided to write an essay to share my experiences of the ups and downs of school life.  Here it is!

My Memories of School 

I would like to thank Gyan Bharti School for this opportunity to share my thoughts, and also all my teachers and classmates.

As I was amongst the first batch of early students, I want to share memories of the very special year of 1980 and the extraordinary core of people who gave the school its roots and at the same time encouraged it to reach up to the sky.  Since then, our school has branched and blossomed wonderfully and I am sure my classmates and many others who have been involved in this process, will talk more about it.

My first impression of Gyan Bharti School in 1980, was a warm brick building with a hall ideally designed to play hide and seek in (not that we were ever allowed to do so)!

The school’s introduction to me occurred swiftly and dramatically – on my first morning at Assembly.  As we all sat cross legged on the mats, I could feel my feet getting gradually numb.  I knew it was impolite to fidget while people were talking so I sat absolutely still but in a state of inner anguish.  As soon as Assembly ended, we all stood up- or at least I attempted to.  What happened next was that I smoothly and effortlessly keeled over.  I made a few more attempts, with little success.  I could see a group of faces looking- startled, amazed and - amused.  That’s how I became instantly known to everyone as the girl who couldn’t stand!

Subsequently, I learnt how to unobtrusively shift my weight and wiggle my toes to keep the blood flow going, and the memory of this episode gradually faded.

Our classroom was small – but it was the perfect size for us.  There were just a handful of students and teachers under the helm of Mr. Kapoor, making the most of the limited resources we had and working together as a team.  At the age of ten, we felt perfectly equipped to cope with the challenges of building a new school and our teachers and very experienced Director encouraged us in our efforts.  It was this experience of putting aside my personal goals for a little while in order to carry out a challenging and interesting task as part of a larger whole, that has stayed with me and helped me adapt to my changing responsibilities at home and work throughout my life.

The very first teachers I encountered were the ones that left a lasting impression on me and shaped my values.  They were Chaturvedi Ma’m, Anju Ma’m, Usha Sarin Ma’m and Chandra Ma’m.  As days sped by, new teachers - and students joined - enriching our school experience in myriad ways.

As the senior most class, we also had the responsibility of taking care of the little ones- a task we took seriously.  I remember Deepak spending time during every break to push and whirl little children on swings, to the loud chorus of “Deepak Bhaiyya, dhakka do!”

I remember the first project I assembled on a large board in the hall.  Anant had just joined the class; he and I were assigned this task.  As both of us were rather short, it was quite a challenge reaching the top of the board to pin up the charts!  But it served to break the ice and get to know a fellow student.

We had only been a few weeks in school when the activities began- a precursor to many more that would follow in coming years.  

For Children’s Day, we made a beautiful paper model of a children’s park, complete with grass and tiny flowers.

We celebrated Diwali with a garbha dance – it was incredibly tricky managing a sari and a pair of sticks!  But the beautiful melody of the folk song our teachers sang as we danced still echoes in my mind.

Towards the end of the year we put up a ballet.  I think it was based on the story of Prahlad, but I cannot be certain because in order to include everyone, many delightful characters were introduced and the story deviated considerably from the original!  It was this feeling of inclusivity, especially in the first year, that brought a very warm feeling of happiness within me.

Not all moments were inclusive, however.  With complete awareness of the constraints that comparison brings, I cringed each time I was called on stage to find everyone clapping for me.  I would have preferred to have my friends sharing their own accomplishments with me rather than clapping for me.  But I had not the courage to voice my views at the time.

As I grew through the months, so did the school.  I cannot do justice in recalling all the people and events that have made me and the school what we are today.  But here are a few people and memories that have stayed uppermost in my mind-

I am grateful to Dr. Sharma for joining the school mid term and cracking the whip to get our clueless class well prepared to face our first Board exam in Maths.

To Dr. Brar, for leaving the Chemistry lab completely open for us to use at any time, under the supervision of Satish, the lab assistant.  Having worked in many labs later, I realize that it was a rare opportunity given to high school students.

I recall with great fondness the administrative staff, in particular, Mr. Taneja.  Each time I met him, he would ask, “How is your class doing?  Do you need any kind of additional support from the school?”, and he always listened to my answers gravely and carefully.

I remember marvelling at the extraordinary combination of Art and Chemistry that went into our batik paintings.  The incredible way in which Mrs. Arora (or Art Ma’m) taught us, with minimal words- the need to imagine, conceptualize and then work towards creating a piece of art.  And the realization that at some moment the medium takes over and something magical happens to your creation.

I distinctly recall Mishra Ma’m, who provided a special spirit to the fiery roopaks.  She also introduced us to various sports, including basketball – a game I instantly loved and still enjoy playing.

I cannot forget the time I heard Wasif singing.  He usually never did, preferring to keep a low profile.  However, one morning, when there were ripples of restlessness in the Assembly hall, as students waited for Mr. Kapoor and Chaturvedi Ma’m to come, a teacher beckoned Wasif, led him to the stage and suddenly asked him to sing.  I remember the grace, dignity and beauty of Wasif’s performance and the music has remained with me to this day.  

An unusual experience that left a tremendous impression on me occurred during the horse riding class.  One of my classmates, Tripat, somehow managed to edge his horse out of the fenced enclosure.  Suddenly we heard a pounding of hooves and saw Tripat- a largish fellow transformed into a small speck in the horizon.  The riding instructor wasted no time in leaping onto a horse.  Then he looked around and somehow decided that I should accompany him on this rescue mission.  All through the classes, I had been sedately practicing trots and canters and now, suddenly, I felt my horse break into a gallop to keep pace with the instructor’s horse.  I clung to the saddle, hoping desperately that I wouldn’t fall off as we raced down the sports field to the hills beyond.

We managed to reach Tripat in good time and it was only on the journey back that I realized I was actually enjoying the gallop- feeling the strength of the horse and the wind in my face as we sped along.  Perhaps no one will believe now that once it was possible to see – and reach the little green hills by galloping through our school’s fields!

But in essence, this is what my school experience taught me- while moving along predictable paths, sometimes, without warning, life sweeps you up and takes you to unknown places – and all you can do at the time is to try and stay in the saddle.  But if you believe in life – and yourself –  then at some moment you find yourself enjoying some part of the ride, no matter where you are going.

As this was a small school and we were the first batch, the school was keen to provide all the support they could for us to do well in the Board examinations.  There were pluses and minuses.  We had special teachers and extra classes to help us prepare for the tenth standard exams.  Alongside, all our regular teachers reminded us of how important it was to do well in these exams, in hindsight it must have been important for the school to have their first batch do well.  As class topper, the burden of this fell to a large extent on me – or perhaps this is how I perceived it.  It was not an easy load for a child of fifteen.

I was gently reprimanded for the various careless mistakes I made in my ninth standard final exams.  But what nobody knew was that I had taken each exam without sleeping the previous night, due to nervousness.

My family situation was a bit different from others as my brother and I were staying away from our parents (who were at the time stationed in Bangalore).  For the tenth standard exams, I requested my mother to come and stay with me just for the duration of the exams, and of course, she was very understanding and reassuring about it.  

This academic pressure only increased in the last two years, bringing a shadow to the otherwise sunny aspects of school life.  It was at this time that my mother was diagnosed with leukemia and there were many moments in which I felt completely alone.

As we moved through teenage years, I felt a growing sense of alienation from many of my classmates, which saddened me.  There were distinct camps of ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ and the boundaries were sharply defined.  Any attempt to communicate with a boy was greeted with hoots of derision.  The people I had grown up with suddenly seemed to be like strangers.

Over-sensitivity has always been a weakness of mine and over the years, I also sensed a strange internal competition that some of my classmates had set up to try and beat me in academics.  None of this was induced by me and I felt uncomfortable with a situation that I had not the means to resolve.

I felt the same on the playing fields many times.  After hearing several times teachers saying, “Here comes the class topper.  Let’s see what SHE can do on the field,” I retreated into a shell during many of the games.  I longed for anonymity and was always thankful when I got a chance to play basketball as no one could closely monitor my movements on the crowded court.

However, these aspects were a product of the particular states of mind and the environment that all of us were immersed in.  It blew away with the passing of years and I am truly glad to be reconnected with my classmates through largely happy memories.

I was overcome by the genuine warmth with which I was welcomed to the class Whats App group - I had put off joining this for many years until some of my friends tracked me down and said they would be happy to catch up with my news.

A few months ago, when my father unexpectedly passed away, my classmates got the details of the Chautha ceremony and some of them turned up to be by my side at this difficult moment.  It was a gesture that deeply moved me, though I was unable to express it in words at the time.

But that is the wonder of childhood friendships fostered by school ties – they never grow old, even if we do!

Excitements of the Day

Yes, we are all locked down - down but not out!  Each day brings a battle of its own.  But it is almost summer now; nature heedless of man, unfolds at its own exquisite pace.  We are fortunate to have garden with a few fruit trees, some herbs, plenty of bees, squirrels, monkeys and an occasional snake to break the monotony.

We had many eventful moments yesterday.  The not so great ones were our cycle valve tubes getting leaky and our new car battery dying.  Now only my son is able to cycle about and fortunately our old yellow car is still trudging along.

I have been working on a live yeast (and bacteria) culture for bread (as we are running out of baker's yeast).  I was all set to start the bread early yesterday morning when we suddenly decided that we should get down the mangoes from our trees.  In hindsight, this was a very good idea because we had a terrific storm today and the monkeys came this morning searching for fruit.  (They found no mangoes left but threw down some hefty jackfruit, which I am still clearing up.)

Anyway, the mangoes had to be brought down with a hooked stick and they fell (or we caught them) in our bedsheet.  We got three bucketfuls of mangoes and my son was busy handing them out to neighbours who wanted some.  Most people nowadays assume you get ripe orange mangoes from markets and that's how they like them.  Not green and waiting to be covered up in straw and ripened, so there were not many takers for our fruit.  But we are busy wrapping them up and they should ripen in a while.  The fragrance is incredible and I wish we could preserve it on our bedsheets too..

So, I was late by a couple of hours to start the bread.  Anyway, it was fun to make, and I and made a loaf from the Tartine  recipe book.  It was so crusty outside that I had to saw through it and inside it was a bit like sourdough bread, but I think it is not a bad beginning (only my husband has taken the plunge and eaten it so far!).

 And, tomorrow is another day, hopefully filled with - better bread, mango chutney and eventually- ripe mangoes!