It was a dark, dreary afternoon. My husband’s regiment had moved from Srinagar to Ambala Cantonment and we had just set up house. The day after day of rain was getting on our nerves,…and then the snake got in.
Number one son gave the alarm and the younger one who is brave in word but not in deed, climbed on the bed and screamed with full throated ease. I ran into their bed room. My first instinct was to calm him down and get the little one out of the room. Once outside, he became his old, bold self, and ran out to call for help Bhaiya, our man-of-all-work, scuffled up with a pathetic looking twig in his hand but was sent back to get a bigger one by my elder son..
He was happy to retreat. He peered through the window into the bedroom and wondered aloud, “ Could it have been a ‘girgit’ or a chameleon? There are plenty of them in the garden, you know.”
Number one Son was stung by this doubt; he knew what he had seen and gave Bhaiya an earful. Thereafter Bhaiya disappeared. When he finally got back, we saw that he had taken time not only to find the right-sized stick but also to polish it to perfection. He had brought two other Bhaiyas with him, and they too were armed with fierce- looking sticks. All three entered the room stealthily as if looking for terrorists and explosives. Number one son joined them. As they started moving furniture here and there, the younger one and I peered through the glass and remote- controlled the whole action. “ Look under the cot, lift that box, don’t go near the curtains”..I shouted out.
Suddenly everyone became alert. I saw the slithery creature crawl out from under a box towards one Bhaiya’s shoe-clad feet. He promptly jumped on to the bed ( spotlessly clean only a moment ago. My mind too jumped-from the problem of snake to the problem of mud stains on my Kashmiri bed spread.
Now the snake played hide and seek with its adversaries, scattering them to all parts of the room. At last, one Bhaiya, braver than the rest, hit it on the head and it stopped moving. The one on the cot now came down. “Don’t kill it,” he said, “you will get a curse. Just take it out and leave it”
The others opposed this non- violent movement. They hit it repeatedly, reducing its head to a bloody pulp .My son brought it outside on a stick. It was a krait.
The one who preached Ahimsa came to me with a worried frown. “Madam, it is wrong to kill a snake. It is God’s own creature. You must do puja as retribution,. he announced. We all laughed.
When my husband came home, we narrated our action- packed adventure with a lot of embellishments. The incident made me muse on all the stories and poems in which a snake appears as a hero. There is Emily Dickinson who came face to face with a snake and felt “zero in her bones”. Then there is Khushwant Singh’s Gunga Ram who fed the Kala Nag milk everyday and prayed for its patronage .Ironically,Gunga Ram was killed by the very same Kala NAg. There is also D.H. Lawrence who ill treated his royal guest and atoned for his paltry sin.
By way of atonement I decided to turn our puny krait into the hero of my next writing But the story does not end here. Two days later, we all were all sitting glued to the TV, enthralled by the adventures of Moulder and Sculley of X Files fame. Suddenly from the bathroom came the cry, “Saamp” It was my son again. The younger one remembered all my earlier instructions, but in reverse order.. He jumped down, put on his slippers, screamed, then ran out to call Bhaiya.
By now we were all attuned to the alien presence. Hubby, who was at home, took command and demanded a big stick. Son Number 1, an expert snake –catcher now, ran out to get one.Bhaiyas in plural arrived and it looked as though they had been ready and waiting for the command .I glared questioningly at the practitioner of ahimsa who carried the stoutest stick of all. He looked down sheepishly.
The search got under way. Three Bahiyas along with my husband and son entered the tiny bathroom, which meant there was not even space for a snake to crawl .I sympathized with the narrow fellow who was confronted by a grossly superior force. But miraculously, he had vanished.
The search party now opened the outer door and ventured on to the verandah. They shone torches into every possible hidey hole , much like the search operations to flush out terrorists. My son grabbed a newspaper and a box of matches and rushed out .For the next half hour I could hear shouts and yells emitted under varying degrees of excitement and fear. The suspense was over only when they came in, carrying a fierce looking black snake, with cuts and bruises all along its length.
But now, my son declared,” This is not the one I saw in the bathroom. That was brown, this is black.”By now it was mid night and the Bhaiyas were tired and sleepy. They were quite prepared to compromise on the colour scheme. But my husband was adamant. He ordered the search party back into the bathroom.
The narrow fellow did not stand a chance this time. They spotted him at once, hiding in the shank of the toilet, half inside, half out. By now even the proponent of ahimsa had turned against the snake. The snake was cut into two pieces, and so was the water closet, shank, lid and all. Our shock at the broken water closet far outweighed the triumph of killing the snake. Bhaiya was quite sure that the broken water closet bore testimony to the wrath of god. He came to me and said, “Madam, the snake is God’s creature. Unless we appease Nagraj, he will make us pay for our sin”
I agreed. My husband was muttering about a bill no less than 2000 for the water closet. Indeed we would have to pay.
The next day I wrote to my mother. There is a temple near our house in Kerala .where a special sanctum is dedicated to Nagraj.
I wrote to her to give an offering of milk, coconut, turmeric or whatever snakes like best and also to offer an elaborate puja. Then, at someone else’s advice, I bought five kg of onions, removed the peel and lit fire to it, in order to ward off evil. I keep reiterating the fact that I am an educated woman, disinclined to superstitious beliefs. Yet when another well wisher advised me to keep a bowl of milk at the hedge every day, I gave in again. I am prepared to go to any lengths to keep those narrow fellows in the grass where they belong. The thought of them entering the house gives me “zero in the bones”.
Shailaja Chandran
This article by Shailaja Chandran was published in The Indian Express, Chandigarh Edition, 15 Sept, 1996.
Friday 17 July 2009
Wednesday 15 July 2009
A fulfilled life in spite of unfulfilled dreams
I am glad I am living in the new millennium. The world is a much better place for a widow now than it was some half a century back. That was the time when a widow had to shave her head, wear white and live the life of a social recluse. It’s a different scenario now, thanks to the enlightened individuals who made progress possible. A thousand thanks to such who made this world so much better for people like me. If I don’t have to fight a series of battles for identity, if I don’t have to sacrifice my wishes and aspirations on the altar of convention and dogma, it is because the majority of the world is made up of humane human beings.
Seven years have passed since I lost my husband. It was hard to reconcile to the fact that the sturdy anchor of my life was no more there to lead me along life’s path. I was a pampered wife and had no clues about picking up threads which had broken alarmingly. My two sons were on the brink of tumultuous adolescence. As a yawning chasm opened up before us, I found myself thrust into the role of Father and Mother rolled into one.
There were days of blank depression and utter helplessness. Cocooned in misery, I was oblivious even to the pain I gave my children. The Army world in which I lived was forged together by bonds of love and brotherhood. They put me back on my feet. Like a true Army Officer’s wife, I took the vow to stand up and fight when the going got tough.
I was teaching in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Ambala Cantonment at the time. My colleagues at school helped me along as I made fumbling forays into the strange new world. A month after my husband’s demise, I rejoined duty. My naughty set of students, always bubbling with energy and cheer, stood before me in awestruck silence. As I set the tune that day, I had taken the first tentative step towards recuperation.
Destiny brought me to St. Thomas residential school, five months after my husband’s demise. I had toyed with the idea of settling in Hyderabad, but the fine moral support from my family lured me to Kerala. Perhaps, God had destined me to teach English to the students of STRS. The warm and affectionate students here have given me a new lease of life. As a new academic year unfolds, I feel the thrill and anticipation for another fruitful year. The flurry of activities as we move from Santhome fest to Annual Day, and finally the unshed tears as we bid Good bye to yet another batch with the blessings, ‘God will take care of you’, are indelibly imprinted in my life. Life has picked up a rhythm and a new meaning. Yet it is not all smooth sailing. Nobody can escape from turmoils and clashes when people of different temperaments work together. In life’s battles, you win some and lose some. I have learnt to pick up the pieces and move on.
As we prioritise work, there is no time to look back and ponder. Yet there are times when I yearn for the fun filled days of yore .The mind then speeds down memory lane, past the rose filled valleys of Kashmir, past the well laid streets of Chandigarh, then to Shimla and Dinjan and Hyderabad. The glittering Raising day, the cheerful Tambola sessions, the bonfire of Lodhi and the colours of Holi have become mere photographs in the album and a few cherished memories in a corner of my mind.
In the mean time , marvellous things have happened. My Mother, old and frail when we came here, has picked up the fire of the old Matriarch. She is my conscience- keeper. My children have overtaken me in height, weight and smartness. They too have their fits of animosity and rebelliousness. At times, I feel I am bringing up strangers. Life has taught us some strange lessons and after much turbulence, we have achieved a harmony of sorts. Last November, my elder one joined Infosys. My steps have become firmer now. I can stand up with pride and say that I have kept my word.
There are a thousand small things from which I derive my daily dose of delight. And now, as I draw my students into the enchanting world of Shakespeare, I count myself lucky in more ways than one. For I am living a fulfilled life in spite of unfulfilled dreams. Notwithstanding the rivalry, the broken dreams, the wickedness and the disillusionment, it is a beautiful world.
(This write-up appeared in the School Magazine, ‘The Threshold’ 2003-04. I was the Chief editor for the same.)
From Cipher to Cyber
In my children’s cyber world, I was the poor cipher Mom.
Their windows did not lend me light
The mouse remained beyond my grasp.
“Wake” said my elder son, “Change with the times”,
“Learn”, said the younger one, “ Be a Cyber Mom”
Sons turned tutors and held my hand
As I took my firstep into the Cyber land.
I mastered the keys and tamed the mouse,
Got trapped in the net , did surf and browse.
At times, I felt lost in this strange wonderland.
When my sons took off to far off lands,
Yahoo and Google brought them close.
Orkut is a network of old familiar faces
I realized the reach of the world wide web.
The cyber world ceased to be an unknown zone.
From cipher to Cyber have I come a long way.
No more a novice, though not an expert.
Much have I learnt, but there is more to learn
For ever beckons that untravelled world
Whose margin fades as I surf ahead.
(This is a poem which was published in the School Magazine, ‘The Threshold’ 2006-07)
Mind Your Language
The real aim of speech, it is said, is to get across an idea as faithfully as possible from one mind to another. But there was this gentleman, who on a visit to England, forgot the English word for ‘duck’ and exclaimed to the lady that her ‘bataks’ were really beautiful. Though he had tried to put exactly what was in his mind into words, the effect on the lady can be well- imagined.!
This may happen not only on foreign soil but even in India .The same words in different languages may mean entirely different things and can cause confusion where it is least intended.
A Keralite, having resided for the most part in the North, I have come across a number of such discrepancies in language which may amuse some or evoke anger in others. One such instance is the word ‘Kutta’ which in Malayalam is an endearment used to address someone dear to you. My husband is in the habit of using the word to address all members of our household. One of our Punjabi friends got a shock when he heard me demurely answering to my husband’s Kutta, ( which he took to be the Hindi version meaning ‘dog’)
In Kerala, we address Father as ‘Achcha’ , a common word in Hindi meaning ‘good’ .Having stayed in the North, I have picked up the habit of adding ‘Achcha’ frequently in speech. My poor Father took quite some time to realize that every time I uttered ‘Achcha’ I was not referring to him. Come to Kerala and ask for a ‘kalam’ and you will be presented with an earthen pot. ‘Kalam’ the Hindi word for pen, is in Malayalam, a pot used in the kitchen. This has given rise to many a verbal duel between my husband and me. As an aspiring writer, I am all for the Hindi ‘kalam’ which can slay even the mightiest. My husband, on the other hand, feels I must acquaint myself with the Malayalam ‘kalam’- an indirect way of telling me that I should stick to mastering the culinary art rather than venture into pastures new.
Even the parts of the body may sound similar but mean different things in different languages. The Malayalam word for face, ‘Mukham’ resembles the Hindi ‘mukh’ meaning mouth. And ‘nak’ in Hindi means nose whereas in Malayalam it is the tongue. No wonder then, while switching from Malayalam to Hindi, references to the body parts confused me more than anything else. I had even protested when someone described my soft spoken friend as ‘ that lambi nak wali aurath’ thinking he was referring to her as sharp- tongued.
Thus, our Bharat Mahan, though a great place to live in, is a land full of contradictions. Erroneous interpretations can cause misunderstanding even between the most well-meaning individuals. Compliments turn out to be insults and may boomerang. So, while traveling from one state to another, do a little homework on the place you are going to. Forewarned is always forearmed.
(This was my second article which was published in The Indian Express, Chandigarh Edition on 16 Sept, 1989.)
Short ‘n’ Sweet
High heels first came into my life at the not so sweet age of fifteen and then stayed on to prove indispensable to my existence. It was an age when I discovered that while I was sailing steady at a midget height of just under five feet, all around me, my friends were shooting up like ‘India- rubber balls’ While they added inches to their height, I added it to the heels of my sandals, until on top of a perfect three- inch stiletto, I could hold my head up and smile at anyone who passed by.
Practice makes perfect, they say. Now I can not only stand and smile, but also run and work and play with my energetic two- year old, all on top of my indispensable high heels.
My husband failed to understand how I lost in height as well as weight after our marriage. Until he saw my sandals. Now he marvels at the way I weave my way through a crowd, with a bagful of grocery in my arms, riding the needle- heels, as he puts it, and manage to remain in one piece.
The last six months of pregnancy gave me nightmares, for I had to do without my high heels. Oh, what a relief it was to put my feet back into the precious heels and feel on top of the world!
My neighbour shares my sentiments in this regard. One day, at a party, she hailed me from a gracious height of 5 feet 4” and pleaded with me to take hold of her small daughter who wanted to be picked up. “ I can hardly stand,” she said, “ And on top of that, she wants me to carry her” One look at her feet, precariously poised on her high heels was enough for me to make up my mind . I obediently picked up the child. Anything to avoid accidents.
That reminds me of one of the funniest incidents I have ever witnessed. At an award -giving function, amidst flash bulbs and wild applause, I saw an elegantly clad lady falling at the feet of the Chief Guest in an elaborate ‘Namaskar’. While the applause turned o catcalls and whistles, we discovered, as did the horrified lady, that one of the heels of her sandals had simply come off. Which made her victory a ‘lame’ one indeed.
I would advise anyone to put one foot forward, as long as the foot is quite firm on the ground. If not, as my husband says, “Short is also sweet”.
Shaila Chandran
Shailaja Chandran- Publications
This article was published in the Weekend Express of ‘The Indian Express’,Chandigarh Edition, March11, 1989
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