A subject to remember

Returning home late from work, I could hear the racket even before I opened the door. Nischal's mom is quizzing Nischal on Hindi. His assignment is to put words of a jumbled sentence in the proper order.
"Nischal - you've written काला ('kaala' - black) wrong! You've split it up as का  and ला ('kaa' and 'laa' )! The phrase should be 'काला गुलाब फूल' (Black rose flower) ! "

Now - that 'black rose' intrigued me. Not that I think Nischal's hindi teacher isn't poetic. But the rare times I 'help' him with homework, I compose hindi sentences and he quakes in fear. Apparently sentences like 'मेरे सर पे बन्दर बैठा है ' ( 'A monkey is sitting on my head' ) deepens his teacher's frown.
Another train of thought is Nischal's mom's hindi skills. She absolutely loves speaking in hindi, but friends firmly ask me to sign a 'No hindi by Anu' clause before they agree to come to our parties. People these days are way too health conscious, if you ask me.
So these two trains were on a collision course in my head and I had to wave the red flag.
"Maybe .." I ventured, but she cut me off with a wave of her long hand. She was already conquering the next sentence and dragging an unwilling Nischal behind her. He had given up already - mindlessly cycling through the 5P5 permutations : "है चाँद रात निकलता में "( 'Moon night comes out in') was his next try. Actually, hindi is such that most permutations would work. But he's a master at navigating through a minefield of proper answers.

But imminent train crashes do demand some persistence. I continued my frantic waving until the hindi professor took a breather.
" It's  गुलाब का फूल ला (Get the rose flower) ", I said " the का and ला (kaa and laa) are separate ". Nischal was already dreaming about his post-ordeal plans. I don't think a 'Professor Nischal, Hindi Literature' plaque will ever grace our house.  "Oh!", the mom smiled meanwhile. As usual, there was no guilt at murdering Hindi for the Nth time. A phrase from a Megadeath song came to mind
"And when you kill a man you're a murderer
Kill many and you're a conqueror
Kill them all and you're a God"

"Night at Moon comes" (में है रात चाँद निकलता) was Nischal's next attempt.That prompted the conqueror to turn back to her subject and her pursuit of divinity. So, I thought I'll try Nischal instead. "Nischal, what is the subject here in this sentence? "

Nischal looks at me, and after a small sigh he says patronizingly "Hindi"

On Ancestors and temples

"Your ancestor can't be a temple, Nischal!" boomed Anant's voice. Anant is Nischal's oldest buddy where we stay. He also has a throat that parade commanders would kill for. He whispers a mile away, we wake up with a start. And he's just 8. Soon, the world will be waking up with a start.
Maybe it was the wonky sentence, or Anant's voice.. I started paying attention. Nischal repeated his argument a couple more times, and then ran up to me. Anant and the other troops also followed.
"Pappa, isn't our ancestor a temple?" - his eyes full of confidence.
"Our ancestor is in a temple," I corrected " there's a small temple built for him inside a big temple, and his statue is in it". Since the keywords existed, that was enough for Nischal. Not so for his cohort. A noisy 'is a temple' vs 'in a temple' argument broke out until I convinced them to go chase a football instead.

Months passed, and it was early October. Dasara dolls had taken over my facebook feeds. My better half wasn't satisfied with  draping just herself with silk sarees this time. She wanted to drape one around 'Smashaan Kaali'. The 'Smashaan Kali' or 'Kali of the cremation ground' temple is at Gokarna, our village on the Arabian sea coast. Only our extended family men have been priests here for as long as anybody remembers. Truth be told, my wife has been talking about draping Kali for many years now. So, we made the trip.
Gokarna is a temple town - Shiva, Kali and Ganesha being the main deities. There's also a Vishnu temple tucked in that I've gone to once in my 4 decades of existence. The 'Smashaan Kali' is at the end of the village - almost at the sea shore. The ground around is sandy and you can hear the sea. The sea breeze ruffles your hair as you walk past burning embers of a recently burnt body to see the goddess within. The goddess is surprisingly small in size, but fierce looking with good detail. For reasons I quite don't fathom, my wife finds her 'so cute'. I'm sure Kali would beg to differ, if she could chime in.
The main Kali temple is at the entrance of the village, and is called 'Bhadra Kali' - the guarding deity of the village. In those premises, in a small enclosure, stands a little statue of 'Jatga'(ಜಟಗ ) - pronounced 'JutGaa'. Our ancestral home is a few hundred feet from the Bhadra Kali temple.
As a kid, I spent many summers there, and my granny Kalyanamma had an evening ritual. Freshly bathed and in fresh saree worn traditional style, her eyes looking large & innocent in high-power spectacles, hands shaking and carefully preparing wicks and oil lamps. We kids would sometimes help her - I can still  smell the oil and wick, and hear her clinking bangles. We also went with her to the Bhadra Kali temple, and watch her light lamps for Kali and 'Jatga'.
It was only in my teens I learnt that 'Jatga' was our ancestor, and much later I deciphered that to be the proper kannada word - 'Jattiga' ( ಜಟ್ಟಿಗ ) - a word stemming from 'Jatti' (ಜಟ್ಟಿ ) meaning 'Wrestler', 'Strong man' etc.
As a family tradition, 'Jatga' & 'Maasti katte' (more on that later) are remembered in every major festival. Before the ceremonies in the house start, we all visit there, offer flowers, break coconuts, light incense.. the whole pooja ritual. One person takes the role of spokesman, talks about projects/problems any other family members are facing, and asks for blessings. In the family, a visit to the village automatically means a couple of minutes with folded hands and closed eyes in these two places.

The night before our trip back, we decided to visit the Bhadra kali temple. The kids naturally preferred to worship the iPad goddess until I mentioned Mr. Jatga. Soon, the curious cats were walking to the beat of the rain, and the questions started flying.
Nischal: 'Why is Jatga in the temple?'
I           : 'Jatga was a strong man who protected the village from attacks. He mostly died protecting the village in a glorious manner'.
Nischal: 'Glorious?'
I           : 'I think he killed a lot of attackers, and stopped the attack..'
Nischal: 'How many did he kill?'
I           : 'Don't know that, but the point is ... it was a big enough deal that they made a statue of him and put it in the temple'
Nischal was quiet for a while.. probably hearing the sounds of battle. The old rusty sword in the house was probably looking shiny and new in Jatga's hands. After visiting the goddess, we stomped over rainwater puddles to the little temple of Jatga. There was no light inside, and I used the phone's light to show the statue to the kids. They folded their hands and closed their eyes for a couple of minutes before heading back.

'Jatga has a wide nose.. like Ajji (grandma)', said Nischal with a faraway look.
'And a big head  - like you' he added after some more observation. I would've given a lot more than a penny to see the movie he was seeing.
'A lot of our relatives have that too..' I remarked .. recalling a linkedin search I'd done a few years ago for the last name and finding many men with big heads and big shoulders. Not a pretty sight by far, but it felt good to feel that Jatga was still part of us. I real

ized I'd never observed the statue much all these years. It took a 7 year old to open my eyes. As kids, we all used to join in the laughter when dad made fun of mom's wide nose. For the first time, I felt a small twinge that I didn't have her wide nose.

Maybe my imagination, but the kids seemed to be walking straighter as we headed out of the temple.

Everlasting conversations

Nischal is bored, and unwell - not being allowed to go run around with his buddies. I blurt out without thinking "Do you want to come to the office?". The phrase barely left my mouth, and his mom pounces on it faster than a leopard on a wounded bunny.  In a couple of minutes he's walking with me - drawing book, pencils and stuff in hand.
I'm still recovering from a dengue-like virus - my walk is more of a panda's shuffle. After a couple of rounds of running ahead and coming back to me, he decides to walk with the panda. The questions start to fly.
"Pappa,  is it true that if you do something very good and die, you will become a God?"
These days, I think teaching religion to young kids is pretty harmful. So, I counter: 
"If you do something very, very good to people, they'll treat you like God?"
"Do you need to die to be treated as God? " comes the next rapid-fire question.
"Not really" I say, "but some people take so much effort doing good stuff that they die from it"

 A few moments pass.
"Pappa, if you do bad things, you'll go to hell.. right?  ..and heaven if you do good?"
" I don't know. People say that, but none have seen heaven or hell ", I say.
"Ajja (grandpa) has seen heaven, I'm sure" he says.
"Maybe, but he's not come back to tell us that, has he?" I reply.
"No..  " comes the reply grudgingly.
I pounce on that pause:  "Do you feel good when you do something bad to somebody? Or rather, when you do something good to people, don't you feel good? " 
"Yes, I do... and I am very careful. I don't do bad things" he says.  My eyeballs nearly slip out through the corners. But I continue
"So, that is enough for you to do good things? Do you need heaven or hell? " I ask. He nods in agreement.

We get to the car by then. The next round of fire starts as we drive out of the gate.
"Why don't we have everlasting life?"
I'm sure that is intended to impress. I don't smile in surprise, or react to the usage. His mom - would stop the car, get on the hood and do a dance number in celebration. Instead, I go ahead with my trap: "Should people keep on being born, and not die?" I ask( he nods ), "then won't the earth get so full of people that there won't be any standing room? "
His eyes widen in realization of the problem. I push further. "What about food? What happens once they eat up all the plants and animals on earth? Will everlasting people live without food?"
He spends a few seconds thinking if everlasting beings can die if they don't eat.
"How about making plants also everlasting?"
"Many a time, we eat the whole plant - like the coriander you love in your daal? Can a plant be everlasting after it's eaten whole?" I ask.

The car is silent for a few seconds. I then break his rumination : "You know, your Ajja is still alive in a way". That perks him up.
"Our bodies have small things called 'genes'. They decide how you look, whether your eyes are like your dad's, how tall you will grow, how smart you'll be.. etc. These genes come inside you from either your dad or your mom."
His face is still blank. I connect the dots some more..  " So, I have genes from Ajja/ Ajji, and you have some of those same genes along with your Amma's. That's why you look like me in some ways, and like Amma in some other ways. So, you're also carrying your Ajja's & Ajji's genes. So, you have some part of your Pappa, Amma, Ajji & Ajja inside you and will have them even after they die."
His eyes widen in amazement at the thought. He takes a second look at himself and smiles.

I push further "So, when you get married & have kids, and although I'll get old and die, I will still be in your kids.." - I stop when I'm faced with his authoritative little palm.
"I'm not planning to get married. I hate girls" he says abruptly and with utmost confidence.
"Yes, that's the way you'll be now .. but .. "
"No, I'm not getting married" he says pulling himself up to his full 7 year old height.
I just nod slowly.. going back to when I used to say such stuff... and see that we've arrived. I start talking about not banging car doors, and watching for traffic. 

The Dining Table Thespian

Your arm is hurting like hell. The pungent fumes rising up from the volcano don't make it easier. You've been hanging on the cliff edge for what feels like forever now. You're feeling so weak that letting go seems a pleasurable act. The fear of falling down hundreds of feet into molten lava has lost it's dark sheen and seems like a cloudy & fluffy end.
You look up and you see him. Your dad. The man who's responsible for your being here, and is looking at you with empty eyes. Unyielding, unmoving and not reaching out an arm to help.
But still, with the last vestiges of energy, you speak "Pappa, ... I just can't do it. I'm done". Your voice chokes and falters towards the end as more acrid fumes rise up. Your eyes tear up - not sure if it's the burning, or the emotion.

The emotion is true, although the scene is marginally different. Replace the volcano with a half-eaten dinner plate, and fumes for that horrible food our cook prepares. Ok, it's not the arm that's hurting.. it's just my butt, from sitting at the table for so long. I was done with these vegetables even before they were planted in the ground, but this cold & heartless Dad seems to not care. For all his fancy degrees, he doesn't seem to have a vocabulary beyond 'No'. How many ways of saying 'No' are there? He 'No's them all.
Actually, I'm mostly done. I've carefully spread out the food so at no individual point is it more than 1 cm high. Then he says he wants the plate cleaned out. So, I created smaller clumps of food so some plate surface shows beneath. But it still fails his 'plate surface area percentage' metric.
I've even 'accidentally' dropped some food. Still, it's not enough. Doing a 'Shawshank Redemption' without raising suspicion requires some freedom of movement, and moving is hard when you're under observation: searchlight beams trained on you, and probably machine guns behind them ready to fire. To add to this, the chair I'm sitting on is rigged - it squeaks & groans when I try moving a little. Thankfully Dr. No doesn't get on the floor and count morsels.
You might have sniggered when I said  "search lights & guns". That's only half the picture. There's the vengeful watch dog. He sits almost next to me. He's big, growling, watching, and ever ready to get the aforementioned Captain Negativity's attention. He derives great pleasure from my pains. So, he's ready to get his revenge by calling out 'Pappaaa.. '.
At this point you're either googling 'talking dogs', or have surmised I'm talking about my big brother. His desire for revenge has a grain of validity, although grossly disproportionate. I might have told on him to the aforementioned authorities. I have also been generous in not telling on him for many days. But instead of gratitude, I get called a blackmailer. I called it exchanging favours, but this guy adores Sensei No No - being his son and all. So, the negativity is not at all surprising. I might have done other minor things - breaking his model airplane, irritating him continually, teasing him on everything he's embarrassed about, breaking his painfully constructed lego superstructures, etc. But that's what loving brothers do. He just doesn't get it.
Both of them look through my carefully constructed film of tears, and Father No says: "Finish it! You're a bag of bones already! Soon you'll get shipped to E****ia". Seriously, I've heard that for the past 5 years -and so have my play-buddies. I guess fathers memorize from shared cheat cards- given their rather limited vocabulary.  

Just then the doorbell rings. My despair turns to joy. Enters my dear Mother from the gym .. and sees me in my agony. I bring back the cliff and the volcano to my mind, and the tears I shed are enough to douse one.  "Let him be!" she says. "The food is cold already. He can't eat this anymore. Torturing him like this .. that food won't even digest". I don't bother to correct her distorted sense of the digestion process, but quietly start to slink away. "But he does this everyday!" retorts Captain Negativity, but he doesn't hold a candle to the brightness of Wonder Woman. That war was lost long before I was even born. These words are like those American Civil war reenactment battles - shooting blanks.

It's only 15 minutes later she yells about the amount of food I've spilled off the table, but I pretend to not hear. This isn't the first time, and she will never connect the dots, though; those cliff-hanger-imagery induced tears have the power to cloud all logic that moms can muster. One hug from me erases all irrelevant data and she's composing poems about me.

Wonder Woman is putty in my hands. Heh Heh Heh.

What's in a (middle) name?

Nischal's mom has this question as often as there are traffic jams in Bangalore: "Who do you love more? Amma, or Pappa ? "
Nischal mostly tries to be as politically correct as possible. He gives answers like  " I love both of you... ",  "You both are my parents.."  etc. Then his mother presses him repeatedly with threats of kiss storms, and he usually capitulates. This capitulation, however, shouldn't be mistaken for him lying. He's just being moved out of his politically correct stance. Even as a little baby, his eyes would light up when he caught sight of his mother.

Back to the present. Nischal, his mom & I were out to renew our passports. She came up with the same question, and he readily answered 'I love you more, Amma'. Being tortured again - specially within sight of a few other 6-8 year old kids out there was clearly an embarrassment best avoided. But he didn't realize that was just the first step in his wily mom's plot.
"Amma is very sad that none of her boys are carrying her name.. " she continued in a 'poor little me' voice "now that we're getting you a new passport, why don't we change your middle name from 'Natraj' to 'Anupama' ?"
Nischal didn't drop his smile, but remained silent and pretended not to hear. But you could almost hear the gears turning.
I added fuel to the fire "Yes, I think that's not a bad idea! "
Nischal continue to smile, and said "But it will make it difficult at school, no? My work books, class work books .. already have my present name"
FYI: None of his school books have his middle name. They just have his first and last names.
His mom kicked into higher gear "No, that's not a problem. We'll just get fresh labels and fix that problem". She also clapped her hands in glee as if Nischal already agreed " I feel so good Nischal will carry my name. I'll fill up his new name in this form"
I could almost hear the gears shift now.
"No that won't work" he says hurriedly..  buying time.
"Why not? " presses his mom.
"Because ..because... pappa doesn't have his mom's name as his middle name" he blurts.. and he joyfully makes another connection "..and you also. Your middle name is taatha's(grandpa) name - Nagaraj! "
But she wasn't giving up. After all, his mom. "But my mom didn't want me to take her name. So, I didn't take. Now I want you to take my name"
There was even more pretend-glee at display .. she started clapping her hands, and started repeating his name with her name as the middle name. "So, you like 'Nischal Anu' , or 'Nischal Anupama.. ' ? " she asked.
Nischal, still was calm and smiling, but I could see the panic seeping through. He definitely didn't want a 'girl name' stuck to his - notwithstanding the bottomless sea of love he had for his mom.
He repeatedly said 'no ' to all his mom's pleading.
She finally shifted to an oft-repeated song that's usually sung in a crying-baby voice: 'Nobody loves me, everybody hates me..'. There's not much of a tune to it, nor are there any lyrics of note. She's the music composer, lyricist and lead singer of this absurdity,  but it has served her well so far with Nischal.
The song begins, and I realize the circus is going downhill now. The elephants are going to fall off their unicycles, and the monkeys will smash their guitars on the heads of hippos. It was time for me to retreat into a book, or a game, or even plead with a kind tortoise with extra room.

Amazingly enough, the trick works. He concedes " I'll have both papa's and your name as my middle name".
Not knowing when to quit, the mom switches to aggressive, and pity-raising mode every 2 minutes.

This goes on until Nischal manages to see the form, and his name. He breaks into a grin that pretty much says "So much for your drama.!"
Just then, our number gets called, and we hustle onto the booth. He also does a double check just before the form is submitted.
I for one, am glad we won't be visiting the passport office for a few years.

Edit: You'd think the mom would let it go. But, No. She brought it up again in a couple of days. Nischal - being her own flesh and blood - was prepared: "Actually, Anna(older brother) should change his middle name to yours. His name is Avaneesh, and 'Avaneesh Anupama Gujran' matches well, just like 'Nischal Natraj Gujran' matches.
Not only was the mom left speechless, the older brother had a perfect 'deer in the headlights' look. 

The birthday gift

I'd just stepped into the house - from work.
 
"Papa, today was Sushanth's birthday!"
I nod absently.
"And I had nothing to give him! I gave him a 1 Rupee coin as gift! "
I pay attention and look at him with surprise/confusion.
"I tried calling Amma, but she didn't pick up. I didn't know what to do!" he continued, " so I took money from my box ( pocket money) and gave him"
I nod in appreciation, start walking in, and something strikes me. I turn back to him :
"Tell me this, I've given you more than 1 rupee, for sure. Have you spent that somewhere? "

He smiled ..like he was caught at something, and collected his thoughts quickly. 
"No, I had 10 rupees more. But I didn't want to give him everything just because it's his birthday", he smiles " .. so I thought I'll give him 1 rupee ".
I wanted to ask him what would 1 rupee buy, but I also appreciated that he thought about giving his friend something - not wait for his mom to buy a present at some later date.
So, I just smiled at him and walked on.

What are you going to do about this girl?

"Papa, where are you going tomorrow? " - Nischal seeing my packing.
"Mumbai" I say.
"Why are you going there? " - comes the next question.

We are sitting in the office.. Anu is sitting in the living room. Nischal is sitting at the computer table.. so his back is facing the other room.

"I'm going to a marriage there" I answer.
A brief silence.
"Then, what are you going to do about this girl? " comes the next question.

I look up to see his palm pointing to the room behind him over his shoulder.
I'm confused - for a moment - before I recover.
"What about her?" I ask.

He thinks for a beat before he says " Oh.. your other girl is going to stay back in Mumbai? "
"She can come here also, you know. If you like" I counter with a smile.

He puts down his pencil casually. "I want to go to Amma "
"Not until you finish writing that 49" I reply - not fooled by the nonchalance.
The page is filled up with number 49 in record time, making me think I should emulate Calvin's dad more. He runs out to his mom. I follow him.

"Amma.. pappa is getting married!" . She gives me a puzzled look, but catches on quick.
"Good for you. You're always complaining about how much I hug you, kiss you and all"
He is now taken aback by this turn of events.
"No.. I'm fine with your kissing. ... I like your kissing. But I want you only, Amma " The panic in his voice does it for her.
She hugs him and says "No my little baby, I'll only be your Amma. Pappa was just joking! " He's not fully convinced. Then she picks him up and the kiss assault starts.

Only when I see his escape attempts start, I know he's convinced .. or dad's bigamy is not a priority item anymore.