A Voice for Change

 She is a doctor’s wife. She is more an observer of his life rather than an active participant in his profession. His mornings many times begin with a call from the relative of a dying patient. He isn't doomed. His grooming isn't affected. He dresses, polishes his shoes, ruffles his son's hair, plants a kiss on his wife's cheek, and grabs the car's key with a sprint in his leg.  The doctor's wife is shocked. Someone is about to leave this world. How can he be so casual about it? But like most wives do, she keeps her opinion to herself. She will bring it up at night as a starter and then go full throttle in accusing him of being insensitive. Like he is towards his patients, he is no different towards her emotions.  That night he is late. Before he gently opens the door to their bedroom, she is blissfully snoring. He quietly tosses his sweat-soaked shirt in the washing machine, caresses his son's forehead, pulls the blanket up to his wife's chin, and like ...

 Born in Bombay, raised in Mumbai, the local train travel is imbibed in my system.  The adrenaline rush to catch a specific train is indescribable. Standing in the long queue to book a ticket, getting reprimanded by the railway clerk for not carrying change, brushing past sluggards who find railways stations idyllic and while time doing nothing, dodging pervert elbows, and then finally landing on the desired platform, was a sweet struggle, I lo oked forward to every morning during college days. The entire struggle would find fruition once inside the train. Finding a seat was no Herculean task. Yes, one had to be lucky to find a window seat. But a seat to sit and enjoy the chugging on wheels was sure.  I caught the same local everyday for straight six years. I made friends who shared breakfast and stories with me. Women of different age and personalities bonded. The 30 minute journey passed in a blur. On holidays, I could actually walk the length of a compartment. As a chi...

 Once I demanded a treat from a friend, he had reached a significant milestone in his career. 'Let’s party!' I urged him.  ' Party??!!! You don't drink or eat non-veg. What kind of party do you expect me to throw for you?' His response shocked me. But he was correct in way. In an era, where celebration is equated to overflowing beer mugs and KFC chicken buckets, he wasn't sure how he could enjoy with a friend like me. I stepped back. I understood I was not a piece that fit in his jigsaw puzzle.  I love to watch people getting on a high and chilling in the moment with a glass of wine or vodka. Each has their special way. I don't condemn them for not being like me. But gradually I drift away and celebrate in my own company. Finding my type is rare. But yesterday was a different experience. I partied, let my hair down, enjoyed a simple meal, and walked amidst the greenery of nature. Before I could do all of this, I worshiped and prayed. Yes, I was at a temple, ...

 My maternal grandmother-Aaji was a poor woman. She didn't leave heaps of gold or hectares of land for her only child, my mother. Her sarees were also cheap polyester and nylon. Her wedding silk saree and the ones gifted by her nieces, nephews, and later my mother were the only pricey possessions she had.  My grandfather was a civil engineer who never believed in taking anything more than he deserved. Thus, my Aaji had limited resources to run the house. Yet, she made sure my mother was educated and worked as a banker till full retirement. Though Aaji had a Godrej cupboard in which the entire family's clothes were accommodated and still there was space, my mother today has an entire wardrobe to her name with silks from varied corners of the country jostling for space. Aaji gave her the power to build an inheritance that she herself couldn't raise.  Last year, Aaji passed away at a ripe age of 94 years. She left a one-room apartment for Aai. The place soon went into redev...

 Sixteen years ago, fresh out of the medical college, as an enthusiastic doctor, I visited the Bidada Medical Camp in Kutch Gujarat, as a volunteer. Amongst the thousands of patients I saw, this mother, aged between 65-70 years, stayed in my troubling thoughts for a long time. She had come to the camp to meet specialists who were visiting India to treat the ragged and frayed people of Kutch for free.  I remember her as a mother of an adult specially abled child. The father had passed away a few years back. No siblings to follow. ‘What after me?’ was the thought that stung her day in and out as she cared for her son. She had come to the camp in the hope that somewhere there would be a place that would care for her son once the heavens had embraced her. The staff refused to help the mother because her plea did not fall into any surgical or medical category.  Years later, as I read the book Not Before You, authored by Lata Gwalani, this mother knocked on my doors in Jaya’s d...

 What a miracle she was!! Waking up at the crack of dawn, before the first ray could find its way flittering through the dense blanket of darkness- she was my Amma. Splashing some cold water on her comely but tired face, she lit the firewood to facilitate a warm bath for both of us. This firewood was a stellar luxury, for the zamindar granted us the comfort only on special occasions. And today was Diwali!  As she washed her long locks, which were tied in a taut bun, Chutki, my elder sister, demanded to be lifted in her arms. Amma quickly winded up the bathing ritual and rushed to comfort Chutki. The first light that dispelled the darkness of the hut scared Chutki. It had become a routine for her to wake up crying, as the demons of the past brought out their ugly heads in her dreams.  "Kuruvi…" Amma's little birdie, that she was, "…we are far, far away from the tormentors. The ghosts of animosity have left for their graveyards."  Amma clemently brushed aside the ...