He carried dirt under his fingernails

Many of you vising this blog may already know that I published my first e-book recently. Yay! The book's been getting a lot of love and some fabulous reviews. I'm chuffed to bits. I've been dancing and singing like the bulbuls all week. It's a happy time in a writer's life when her words find welcoming hearts.

Today, I'm here to share a poetry recital of a spoken word piece which is also the last chapter of the book. 

You can download the book for free here : And all the Seasons in between

I'd love to hear what you think of the poem and of the book. You can leave your comments here or on theblogchatter.com 

If you'd like to read a review before you make up your mind to download and read, here's one that'll convince you:-) Book Review

Have a wonderful Friday. Till we meet again. 

And all the Seasons in between #blogchatterEbookCarnival

Yesterday was a big day for me. I became an author, a book author, an e-book author. Yay!

The process was harder than I had imagined. Ever since high school, I've nursed this dream of becoming a published book author one day. It's so much easier to keep dreaming. As Trudy wrote in one of her A to Z blog posts this April, 'opportunity comes wearing overalls.' Yes, the reality of all success is hard work--pure and simple. 

In my mind, I had thought that with over eight years of blog posts to my credit, cobbling an e-book together would be quite easy if I just sat down and did it. Ha! 

Suffice to say, I had to climb a very sharp learning curve very quickly and keep at it. My family and lovely friends helped me and cheered me on. All that hard work was worth it. 

Drum roll please....Here it is--my first book :

And it's FREE. FREE. FREE to download here:  And all the Seasons in between

All you have to do is sign up with Blogchatter using your FB or Google account. It's straightforward and very quick.

Aditya Vikram, a talented poet friend who read the final draft of the book told me what he thought of the book. I've picked the best to share here:

"But there's so much more than just nostalgia. It's packed with a way of life. A closeness to nature that all of us wish we could have. Characterizing natural elements like animals and plants, and especially, conversing with them is a trait many writers have explored. I was glad to find it done very well in an Indian context in your work. There is a sense of innocence in the narrator of the book that makes it endearing and easy to read. "

Thank you Aditya:)

The book should take you an hour to read. The covers have been designed by my daughter, Arshia using Canva. She also added her own watercolours to the pages of the book. You'll love her art.

A big THANK YOU to the team at @Blogchatter for this platform. Their hard work made my transition from dreamer to doer possible.

After the excitement of the book launch, I went to bed on a high last night. This morning, another rejection (from a literary magazine) was waiting for me in my in box! I saw it. Felt a twinge of deep disappointment. But then decided to write this post and continue celebrating.

Life is an up an down game.

It's up to us how we play it. It's a choice we have and we should choose wisely. After all, this day, this moment is one of its kind. It will never, ever come back.

So choose to download my book this weekend. Read it. And please give me your honest feedback. Your comments will help me to whittle a better book next time. You can ask me questions about the book here or on Blogchatter.

Before I go, one last thing...the blurb. 

Stay safe and healthy.

Till we meet again.

Happy New Year!

Dear Readers, 

Happy New Year!

I hope you've all been well and healthy.

My January turned joyous when I saw this animated illustration yesterday. It's been done by the amazingly talented @bohrasisters. 

I've been following them on Instagram for sometime. One of their recent animated illustrations reminded me of my grandfather. So, I sent them a message and we connected.

I wasn't sure why I reached out but I could see my memories reflected in their art. So, I shared a couple of my A to Z (April 2020) memoir posts with them.

Then magic happened.

They were as thrilled as I was to illustrate some of my memories. 

Here's the one that arrived yesterday:

It's a scene from the post that follows. You may have read it in April, but if you've not, then enjoy:) And even if you have, come along for another reminiscing...
This post is an amalgamation  of genres. Imagination has been allowed to fly to the land of  fantasy despite the lockdown. Names of  two main characters have been picked purposefully: one from a children's book and the other from Greek mythology. Their names may be imaginary, but all the characters in this tale are real. All events are real too, well mostly. 

Thank you and I hope you enjoy it.

(Picture: clicked in 2019, Jhinjhi Village, Uttarakhand, entroute Kuari Pass)

                                                                                                                        

Milk for Radishes

Surrounded by High Mountains of the Himalayas in the north and Shivalik Hills in the south, lay a valley called Doon. The green, green valley gurgled with gushing waters of River Ganga in the east and River Yamuna in the west.

Legend has it that a wise Wizard once lived in this land. The people of the valley called him Papadash the Perfect. No one knew where he had come from. Some say he hailed from a faraway Western Kingdom of the Northern Frontiers: the land of Perpetual Spring. But, everyone in the valley knew one thing for sure: the fact that Papadash the Perfect had magical powers. 

People of Doon, the Valley of Green, had heard stories about the wise Wizard's ability to talk to plants to help them grow. It was believed by the young and the old that he sang lullabies to the climbing vines so they could sleep peacefully at night. 

For it is common knowledge that only a well-rested vine can bear sweet grapes and this is the way of the world.

Also, in the Valley of Doon, not far from Papadash's Great Garden, there lived a little girl whose only dream was to be the Most Green Gardener of all times. 

Her name was Artemis.

The Moon had hung so low and so full on the night of her birth, that her mother decided to name her after the Goddess of Moon.

“We shall call her Artemis.” she told her husband.

Artemis grew up in a field of Wildflowers where her mother and father lived. They were the Beekeepers of the Valley.

“Half for us and half for the bees.” Her father would sing when they went collecting honey.

For it is common knowledge that Man was assigned by the gods of All Things Sweet as nature's Beekeeper, so the bees would never, ever go hungry and this is the way of the world.

 By the time Artemis was six years old, her dream to become the Most Green Gardener of all times had taken root in her heart. 

 

 “Why don't you work as an apprentice with Papadash?” suggested her mother who wanted to help her daughter but didn't know how.

Artemis's big brown eyes opened up like saucers. She dashed off before her mother could finish saying what she had to say.

 

Dragonfly’s wings, transparent and tender, rose up in protest. She had spent the entire summer teaching Artemis how to dance like a Dragonfly ballerina. In fact, Artemis had only recently mastered the art of hovering still in position 5 on the very tip of the guava tree branches. It was a secret the two friends shared. They were preparing a dance to surprise mother and father on Summer Solstice day. This apprenticeship would get in the way, thought dragonfly and decided to follow Artemis.

   

With her wild hair blowing in the breeze, her apple red cheeks flushed with excitement, Artemis reached the Big Metal Gate of the Great Garden where Papadash the Perfect lived. 

"Ah...Ah…hh..." Artemis huffed for breath as she stood face to face with the wise one, looking up into his gentle eyes, trying to get a few words out. 

"What is it child?" Papadash asked.

"I want to be your apprentice forever and ever and... I want to be the Most Green Gardener of all times and ...I want to most certainly I want to and ....you have to say yes... and I cannot go back now... And I want to and... please and..." Her words rattled off like a woodpecker's drumming: on and on with no gaps for gulps of air.

 

Dragonfly flew in. She hovered anxiously between Artemis and Papadash.

"Child." said Papadash softly and put both his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. "What took you so long? I've been waiting for you all these universes."

He smiled. His eyes twinkled. He patted Artemis's wild hair and took out a twig that had hopped on for a free ride.

Artemis's heart was singing like a lark. She was trying really hard not to jump up and down. Instead, she used the back of her hand to wipe off drops from the tip of her button nose. All that running had made her nose run too.

Before taking her hand to lead her down the crisscross bricks of the path that led to the Great Garden, Papadash bent down to pick up a bottle of milk that was lying by the Big Metal Gate and slid it inside the deep pockets of his robe. 

Blue Bird of Middle Himalayas, perched on Mulberry, watched as they reached the shade of her tree.  Papadash turned to Artemis and said, "Now, I know I said I've waited for you for many galaxies which is true, but this apprenticeship is very, very special. You have to accomplish a Task before you can be accepted. For this is the way of the World of the Wizards."

Artemis's eyes opened wider. She shook her head up and down to show the Wizard that she was listening.

"You can be my apprentice for ever and ever as long as you can spend One Day--Today, with me in the Great Garden without asking a single question."

"That's easy!” chimed Artemis, cheering up at the thought of such an ordinary Task.

 

Dragonfly, too, cheered up.

 

Papadash the Perfect nodded kindly and carried on walking holding her hand. He bowed his head low as he passed under the pink blooms of Bougainvillea. 

For it is common knowledge that all blooms and flowers are a gift from the gods of All Things Beautiful and bowing to show them respect is the way of the world. 

The first stop they made was by a short Pomegranate tree. 

Papadash picked up some mud, mixed it with water in his bowl of brass and turned it into a paste. Artemis watched silently.

He then took a big helping of the paste and applied it on the trunk of the tree like balm.

"You'll be fine young man. You'll survive. Those silly cats don't know how to climb. I'm sorry! Here... here." Papadash kept talking to the Pomegranate in his soothing voice while applying the paste.

 

“You can ask him, he won’t mind.” Whispered Dragonfly in Artemis’s ear softly.

 

“No, Dragonfly. I want to pass the test.” Artemis stated clearly to her friend.

Next, he took a long strip of cotton cloth and wrapped it around Pomegranate's trunk like a bandage. 

"There!" exclaimed Papadash, happy with his workmanship. "This will do."

A tiny whirlpool of questions was beginning to churn inside Artemis's tummy. Bandages for trees? But she reminded herself of the Task and kept quiet.

They bid Pomegranate goodbye and Papadash added, "Get well soon." before he turned towards the patch that was the Giant Bed for Radishes.

Artemis saw rows and rows of bright green leaves sitting up straight in the Giant Bed. 

"They like their Bed fluffy like you do." smiled Papadash. "So, I rake the soil and mulch and mulch. Air loves to tickle Earthworms you know. And when Earthworms are tickled happy, they make the Bed fluffy like clouds."

"How does he know about my bed?" wondered Artemis but bit her lips hard to stop the words from escaping her lips. This Task was making her tummy ache with all the questions that were piling up inside her belly.

 

“Go on….you know you want to ask him.” Encouraged Dragonfly.

 

Artemis ignored her and carried on.

Next, Papadash took out the bottle of milk he had been carrying in his robe and undid the lid. He bent down towards the Bed of Radishes and poured out a little bit.

"There...there...my babies...drink up the sweet milk. It's fresh from Cow. She knows you need it to make you sweet and ripe." whispered the wise Wizard to each Radish as he poured a little milk down into the soil.

It was getting too much for Artemis. She had never been silent for this long. And the whirlpool of questions was churning inside her like a hurricane now. If she kept quiet any longer, she'd burst open like a seedpod, she thought.

The wise Wizard uprooted a Radish. It shone smooth and white like the moon in the afternoon sun. He shook it a few times to get rid of the fluffy soil and gave it to Artemis to eat.

She was happy to take a bite for this would stop the question from escaping her lips. 

"Crunch...Crunch..." Artemis could not believe how sweet the Radish was.

She thanked Radish and the fluffy soil for giving her such a tasty treat. 

For it is common knowledge that all food is a gift from the gods of Soil and Earth and saying thank you to them is the way of the world.

By the time she had finished eating the Radish and saying her thank you, Dragonfly had filled her ears with more questions.

 

Artemis could hold back no more. She blurted, “How do you know Radishes like milk Papadash?”
    

But, before she could finish her question, she was back at the field of Wildflowers, under the guava tree where Dragonfly had taught her all the movements and poses.

 

 “No!” sobbed Artemis. “This cannot be.”

The Mountains High of the north and the Shivalik Hills of the south still recall tales of the wise Wizard who lived once upon a time in a Garden where Radish drank milk. The River Ganga and the River Yamuna babble about his magic that turned the whirlpool of questions inside Artemis into songs of belief, of magic and of the way of all the worlds across all galaxies and universes. The Wind carries tales of Dragonfly’s selfishness who wanted her friend to be only hers and how Artemis worked hard for a whole long year before she found the path that led her back to the Great Garden to ask Papadash once again if he’d take her as his apprentice.

 

For it is common knowledge that dreams are worth pursuing through disappointments and hardships and that is the way of all the dreamers of this world and beyond who are able to turn their dreams into reality.

 

************************

Papaji, my grandfather did indeed bandage his plants and feed milk to his radishes. He even soaked seeds in milk before planting them. Whenever we asked him, he'd say it makes his radishes sweet like milk. We often ate vegetables pulled straight out of the ground, unwashed. And if Mummy complained about hygiene, he would say: "A little dirt will make them stronger." 

I continue the 'talking to our plants and trees' tradition in my garden in Doha. 

A note about the names:
Papaji's name was inspired by my daughter's favourite book character when she was a toddler. He's called Balderdash the Brilliant. Artemis was an easy choice. 

Reflection Post 2020 #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers and Bloggers,

Thank you for joining me today as I reflect upon 
an April that has just gone
'twas full of words galore
wrote plenty and shared even more

This Challenge of A to Zee
of the year Twenty, Twenty
was a foraging for me:
harvests rich with words obsolete
of poetry and poems and funny treats
of history too that read like rhyme
I gathered a lot of knowledge this time

Jade's herbs and Deborah's dreams 
snuggled under Frederique's quilts 
and asked for more extraordinary
tales of The Multicolored Diary

Then there was our rambling Keith 
who often made us bare our teeth
For he made us laugh and explode
such funny stories of old words he wrote

Srivalli's poems as delicate as dew
Nourished hearts and souls quite a few

Namratha's lyrics were no less magical
In fact, every Minute she wrote was quite capital

Ira, living her life to the fullest
added many deep thoughts into my basket of harvest

While I pondered upon dear Ira's words
my namesake Arti carved out her space 
and stuck a maroon bindi in its heart shaped place.

Poetry penned in Moon Dust,
Spoke of care for the old who may have gathered rust
of forgotten routines, memories and such.

Pradeep's X was a treat
Which followed a delicious dosa of wheat
He shared too a new spin on Do Re Me

And Karen's posts spoke of many things that bring her bliss
From goats to Puffins to Xmas trees and taking risks

Then there were Viyoma's tales of cities three
She filled them with monsoons, Windsor castle and '5 flavored pachadi'

Nisha, too, of travel spoke
to Riga and Prague with Rum and coke
and sometimes of Triya and Sid, her bloke. 

Succinct and unusual were Shweta's definitions
of nouns such as salt and revenge who were sent on missions
to destroy my belief that less is not more in writing compositions

Lessons were learnt of History, both old and not so old
While Kristin shared letters 
and memories of her ancestors
Sonia, the one with hundred quills 
mentioned warriors and forgotten keys
and strung out songs that are not often told
From History of Human, young and old

Then there were those who visited
my blog, read and commented:
the ones who weren't to A to Zee bound
Friends in virtual land and around
who over time have gotten close and kept me company--
Cheers Ish, Pinkz, Jz, April and Yamini

Dear Vidya and Nisha shared generously
memories of their lives
in Kota and in Mumbai

Sahitya and Seema
Simmi and Sharmila
stopped by when they could
and posted comments as they should
for I had sent them messages in advance
to inform them of my April plans

Those of you who were tagged
on my facebook page and nagged
to read and comment by me
Deserve a special trophy
for your reading loyalty
All I have to say is this 
Thank you all--dear Mr. Mrs. and Miss.

Thank you too 
to the ones who
visited me once or twice or maybe thrice
Your presence here made me feel real nice

So, if you'd like to check out a few
names I've mentioned in my review
click on the link that is hyper
and discover many  a poets and writer

But the biggest thanks of all you'll agree
is for the fabulous team of A to Zee
Who made this frolic happen
in a far away magical memory garden

And if perchance
you've missed the dance
of words of plenty
Worry not
just click on a title below
and jump into a garden where memories overflow...

A for Aloe Vera    B for Bullock Cart   C for Chaunsa 

D for Dewdrops on Daisies  

E for Embers    F for First Kiss   G for Gurudwara   H for Hiraeth   I for Images 

J for Joint Families    K for Kingdom of Kitchen   L for Loon Kalari 

M for Milk for Radishes    N for Nidar   O for Ouch  P for Prabhat Pheri

Q for Qawwali         R for Resting Roses      S for Second Daughter  

T for Telepathy & Toxic Collision Weather

U for Under Star we lay at Night     V for Vadda Veda    

W for When Papaji swore               X for X my Heart             Y for Yours Truly

Z for Zarraa Zarraa

May your May be filled with colours and panache
Like the Great Garden of Artemis and Papadash

May many hands of May fill our hearts with gratitude
for those who serve at times of such magnitude
nurses, doctors, porters and personnel
on shift after shift like a carousel

May our hands in May
I pray
Be filled with flowers and plants and vases full of kindliness
"Laughter is carbonated holiness."
is an Anne Lamott quote
that Deborah wrote
and I added to my harvest for I found it noteworthy
'cause, you see
my mother who was fond of learning had this philosophy:
"Be like the bumble bee..." she used to say "visit all flowers to collect your honey."

If, you'd like to see me again
Catch me on Instagram
as arti.a.jain
for I'll be posting a photo a day
to celebrate May
in a series focusing on the right attitude
of Ma(n)y hands of gratitude

Remember this:
Gardens don't need soil to sprout
"Wonder wanders within and without"
commented Yamini on my day of Zee
If lack of space ever bothers me
I paint on walls and plant a tree
Got a beating once for decorating walls which was bizarre
But all those memories will have to wait for my next memoir:)

Till we meet again 
So long
Times are tough
I know
So leaving you with words
I adore
of Tagore
"The butterfly counts not months 
but moments, 
And has time enough."

Antwerp. June 2019

T is for Telepathy and Toxic Weather #AtoZChallenge

A friend shared this in a WhatsApp group a few weeks ago.

"Maawan diyan aandran" : If literally translated, maawan means mothers and aandran means instinct. But for all those who have felt is and experienced it, the phrase means telepathy.

Seema and I often wondered about Mummy's supernatural powers to catch our lies by just looking at us. But let's rewind back to a time when I didn't have my sister or my brother as accomplices in sharaarten (mischief) and therefore no one to share my wonderment with about this thing that Mummy possessed--this uncanny ability to uncover the truth even though I dug deep, deep holes to bury it and added mounds of mud on top just to make sure it stayed underground--never to be found.

I was four years old. Two houses down the gully, a baby was born. As was the custom of the times, all the neighbours paid the new born's parents a visit with sagan (a gift for the new born--usually money in an envelope or a set of hand knitted cardigan and booties). The visits commenced after a period of forty days (chaliya) of social distancing had been observed by the new mother and her baby. 

Mummy asked me to come along. I was thrilled.

The baby, however, was far from thrilled. He was rather shrilled. He cried and cried and didn't stop so he, or rather the bundle he was swaddled in, was passed from godi to godi (person to person) to the soundtrack of ...olle, olle...na..na...shhhh....na...puttar...olle ...sona baby kaun hai...shhh...followed by the standard lori (lullaby) of the times...lallaa..lallaa..lori..dhoodh ..ki...katori....but the new baby refused to lower his decibels. One of his aunts took pity on the mother and her visitors and took the baby to their verandah for some fresh air.

As was the custom, we were offered tea with namkeen and mithai and fruit. Mummy was a teaholic so I'm sure she must've had a cup. But what I remember is the apple and the orange that were brought on a plate because the most beautiful looking knife I had ever laid my eyes on was lying next to them.

While adults talked, I watched the cutting of the apple with the prettiest looking knife. The only knives I had seen till then were the ones Beji had in her kitchen. They were functional and had never caught my eye. Papaji's pocket knife, however, was dear to us for it gave us the first slices of any fruit our grandfather cut--apples, pears, guavas, mangoes and even the unpopular chakotra (grapefruit). 

One day, when I grow up, I will have a pocket knife just like Papaji's and I will cut the fruit myself. I used to cook up dreams of a sharp future when I was four.

The handle of the knife in our neighbour's drawing room was white. Red and orange were also present on the white. What they were, I couldn't make out as the hand that was holding the knife was working deftly and quickly. Red apple skin was snaking down to the plate in spirals. 

Halved. De-seeded. Quartered. Sliced. Arranged in a semi circle on the plate, the hands offered the apple to me. 

I took a slice and said thank you.

The knife had been left on the table, next to the plate of gulab jamuns. Its blade was as long as its handle and almost as big as my hand.

The hands picked up the pretty knife and magically folded the blade back into the handle--just like Papaji. I could hear my heartbeat getting faster and louder. My future was coming into sharp focus in front of my eyes.

Suddenly, all around me, the adults started moving. The hands had picked up an orange to peel but they put it down in a hurry. The new baby hadn't stopped bawling so it was decided that he must be hungry so his mother who had been talking to Mummy got up to leave the room.

We left too.

I couldn't wait to get back home. The knife felt so mine in my fist. It felt cool and smooth--like a marble. And for the first time I realised that the handle which housed the blade, was curved slightly, like a loosely drawn C. 

I had seen my mother keep an old iron knife under pillows to ward off bad dreams or evil, so I knew where I'd hide my precious when I got home. And I did. 

The rest of the day went by so slowly. Evening wouldn't fall and night took forever to knock on our door. 

After dinner, when I was alone in the room, I took my precious out. The handle was white with little red and orange flowers painted or printed on it. The blade unfurled out of its sheath like a ballerina--effortlessly, gracefully.

"Arti....." Mummy called. 

Blade in handle. Precious under pillow. Head down. Eyes Shut. Sleep--not to be found for a long, long time.

Next day, Mummy asked me, "Where is aunty's knife?" when I got back from school.

I was stunned and very, very disappointed.

I was made to go to the neighbour's house to return the knife and apologise. It was the most humiliating experience of my young life. They were a lovely, warm family and our families continued to be close, but every time I stepped into their drawing room, the episode of my knife infatuation followed by its short stay under my pillow haunted me. 

For a very long time, I didn't see that I had done anything wrong. As far as I was concerned, I had picked up a beautiful thing and taken it home with me--like I did with flowers, twigs and pebbles I found irresistible in Papaji's garden or any other garden.

"But did you ask them if you could take it?" Mummy tried to make the rules of society and morality clear to me.

It took me a few years to figure that out that the difference between theft and taking is the asking of permission. 

*****************

A mother's instinct is a difficult thing to explain. It's easy to experience. And in times of Covid19, when mothers like me, whose children couldn't travel back home from universities etc., worry for their safety, I feel we can send them our best healing, protective armour like energies through mediation and prayers and perhaps telepathy. 

May they be safe and healthy in these testing times.

I'll leave you with this song sung by our daughter, Arshia. She writes, composes and plays her own creations and every now and then, she shares. The more I write about my childhood, the more I miss my children. It's a funny connection of life and nature. 

Hope you enjoy it.

Toxic Weather by Arshia Jain

What are your thoughts about telepathy? Or a mother's instinct? 
Did you ever get tempted to steal/borrow without asking when you were little?
If you'd like to share, I'd love to hear.
Please be safe and stay healthy.

Welcome to my A to Z Blogging Challenge of 2020

Dear Readers,

Awkward pauses hold my thoughts captive as I try to type out a post today to say hello to you after a gap of an autumn and a winter. Two seasons apart has turned me into a tongue tied blushing bride: I'm not sure where to begin and how to give form to the stream of emotions that's gurgling inside. So, I'll do as the wise people say. I'll start at the beginning.

For me, beginnings are easier to get to when I work my way back from the end. The end of 2019 threw some curve balls at us as a family and when 2020 shone on the horizon, I was in danger of boxing all of last year into one big disappointment box, tape it up with 'why us' and post a big 'I'm feeling sorry for myself' label on it.

But, someone, somewhere, in this dimension or another, was looking out for us. Hearts healed and bodies bounced back to health.

Ironically, just as I was beginning to flex my writing muscles and get the grey cells ticking to the tune of writing regularly, news of corona-virus threatened to capsize my feeble attempts to get back to blogging.

The heart said not to bother with the challenge in such challenging times and let this year's A to Z slide by just like 2019. But the shutdowns and curfews and the inability to continue with my work at the local hospital have opened up a parallel universe of unencumbered time.

So, I thought to myself, why not step into this expanse and write?

I've been toying with the idea of writing a memoir for over a decade now. But, somehow, I haven't put in any real work into the idea. So, this time, thanks to the discipline of this challenge, I hope to make a start.

For the month of April, I will be sharing stories and memories from my childhood which revolve around my grandfather's garden.

I've inherited his love for the land, soil and seed and in recalling my fondest memories of him and his beloved garden, I hope to introduce you to him, my Papaji. Of course, no mention of Papaji is complete without talking about his better half, my grandmother, Beji, who he doted on and whose kitchen will provide some of the tasty flavours of this month's posts.

The posts this month will follow only one rhythm: that which goes from A to Z. So, the seasons and the mood may change every day--be warned. Not all that you'll read here in April will be happy and full of light. Some of the posts may make you unhappy or sad. But such is life.

Apart from my grandparents, you may meet a few other members of my family, but the focus of this month is Papaji and Beji. So, come along and meet them and some flowers, fruit and vegetables that grew in a plot of land I remember as heaven.

It all happened in the mid nineteen seventies in Dehradun in a garden that was attached to a house built for refugees who'd left their homes and lands and moved to the newly formed India in 1947.

Papaji and Beji were two of the fifteen million people who were uprooted from their homes to honour a line drawn on a map by Sir Cyril Radcliffe.

Roots and branches will keep you company on this blog during this month of A to Z.

See you on the 1st of April 2020 with the first offering of "Papaji's Garden".

Keep safe and healthy.

Love

Arti

H is for Head Wash Day #AtoZChallenge

Sundays were head wash days when I was growing up in the late seventies in Dehradun, India. In fact, they were all about washing. Sundays, I mean: heads and laundry and cars (if you had one) otherwise, scooters and cows and dogs and cats, even if you didn't have one. You could wash your neighbour's or friend's cat or scooter out of the goodness of your heart.

"Kal time se uthh jaana, sir dhona hai."  

"Wake up on time tomorrow morning , you've got to wash your head." (The literal translation of sir is head but  the inference is hair.)

For the purpose of this post, imagine a head full of lush, dark tresses when you see the word 'head'. In salons and beauty parlours in India, even today, it's non un-common for the stylist to offer you a head wash before they cut/style your hair.

Most daughters got tucked in beds by their mothers with those words on Saturday nights. I say most because back then most of my friends had long hair which needed extra time and effort to wash, oil and plait. Mine, however, was short. I wore mine in a boy's cut because my mother refused to fuss over hair styles first thing in the morning. Plus, if one got lice, short hair was so much easier to tackle than long tresses. My mother was extremely practical.

I didn't mind. I was once teased by a group of boys at the local temple who called me Indira Gandhi (on account of our matching hair styles). Hers was salt and pepper whereas mine was oily black. I didn't mind one bit. Heck! I was sure I'd end up as the next PM of India. I was almost ready. My hair, at least, was.

Sundays dawned with activity everywhere in the house. The kitchen sang with sounds of garam, garam, paronthe (hot, hot, flat bread) sizzling on the tawaa with ghio (ghee). The wadda veddha (the big veranda) thumped to the beat of damdi (a fat and blunt stick used to beat heavy bed covers etc.) and the queue to fetch garam pani ki balti (bucket of hot water) shrank as the morning matured into early afternoon, outside the gussalkhaana (bathroom) in the nikka veddha (small verandah).

There was only one electric heating rod (knows as immersion rod to us) to heat up the water in our household. Beji would tell us tales of times when water had to be warmed up on a chulha (an earthern or brick stove) and how it would take the entire morning for the family to wash their heads and how amazingly lucky the new generation was to have electric heating rods which warmed up a big bucket in just 15 minutes and there was no smoke to singe your eyes or the need to blow on the fire with a metal rod (I forget what they called it) and deal with the soot.

The only and a tiny disadvantage (as I saw it but never pointed it out to my grandmother) was the mild electric shock one got when one checked the water temperature in the bucket while the rod was still plugged in. And when we did do such foolish things, we tried our best not to cry out or we'd get a big telling off and a HUGE dose of 'I told you so' from ALL the adults in the house. And there were a few of them then: grandparents, parents, two uncles, and  an aunt. Who wants to be passed from one adult to the other with a string of 'I told you sos'? They'd start off soft and concerned but by the time the fifth adult was roped in by the other adults, it sounded more like a loud sermon given collectively by an orchestra of upset family. Neighbours were welcome to join in in this collective telling off. After all, a village raises a child, so why can't an entire village chide the child,too? Indian parenting knew no boundaries back then. Believe me.  

I would stand in a corner, by the bathroom sink, shiver a little with the after effects of the shock and very quietly go back to fetch my bucket and wash my head.

Warm water and shampoo?

No, silly! Shampoo or Sunsilk as we called it back then was rare and precious. Most heads were washed with Shikakai soap (a hair soap bar) which claimed to clean your hair and up till the point I used Sunsilk for the first time, it did a decent job, too. 

But, once my older, college-going cousin, Mamta didi, shared her bottle of Sunsilk with us, there was no looking back. Shikakai soap? Please...how backward do you think we are Mummy? Besides, that soap is awwwful! 

There were the die-hard herbalists who soaked shikakai and amla in an iron karahi (or bowl) with reetha (soap nut) overnight and put the yucky looking paste on their heads first thing in the morning and washed it off approximately at the time when pressure cooker whistles went off in kitchens of the neighbourhood. So around lunch time. Head washing came in all sorts of shades back then.

Sikh turbans, washed and starched, would hang like colourful flags from rooftop banneri (parapet). Duppatas would be hand dried by pairs of women. Children would play ball and get a yelling if their ball hit a white dupatta. Darji (our Sikh neighbour) would look like an Indian Santa Claus with his glowing beard and flowing hair, drying in the sun. Young sikh boys would play marbles or stapu (a street game) all Sunday morning with hair flying everywhere.

Before dusk, though, I'd sometimes sneak into Darji's house and watch him prepare his beard and tie a scarf around it, like a bandage when one has a bad tooth ache. I would watch him, spell bound and fascinated, tie his turban, like a magician, turning a very, very long piece of starched cloth into a majestic padgi (turban). He'd put it on before going to the Gurudwara in the evening.

Temple bells would mix with sounds of evening ardaas from the Gurudwara and we'd know any time now our mothers and fathers would be calling out to us:
"Homework ho gayaa? Bag ready hai?"  Is your homework done? Are your school bags ready?

Sundays, our head wash days, would end with clean hair and tired little bodies, for we only went indoors for meals or the evening film on Doordarshan. Our Sundays were mostly spent outdoors or in and out of neighbours' homes and kitchens, but never in ones own home and never entirely indoors. No, sir.

*****

Did you have a day assigned for hair-washing when you were growing up?

Last year, I wrote about laundry on L day. If you'd like to, you can read on here:

L is for Laundry

I came across this chulha recently on a trek. We were passing through Ali Bugyal, one of the most beautiful high altitude meadows of Uttaranchal. It's perched at 10,000 ft above sea level in the Himalayan range.

Tea (Indian style) was being cooked in this pateela (pot) on the chulha.

I will be here with 'I' (don't know what the I will be...but It will be)