I don't know yet...

Geeta starts from home having gone through a rushed morning routine of packing lunch for her 10 year old and for her husband. She also stops by to check on her in-laws who stay a couple of blocks away. All done, she ticks off in her head. And then heads out to her workplace. She debates between being extravagant and taking an auto or getting pushed around in the Metro. She’s hoping that an auto will show up first and she will be able to take that as an excuse for spending more on herself. 10 mins, no luck! Geeta decides to walk towards the Metro station.

As she is about to cross the road, a bike zooms past and a shining new BlackBerry falls to the road with a thud. Her instant reaction is to pick it up. And then, a minute later, start the doubts and the questions. Geeta starts cursing herself for having picked it up and not minding her own business. She thinks if she should just wait for the biker to return to claim it, if yes, for how long should she wait? She looks around furtively half hoping that nobody saw her pick the phone up and at the same time hoping that someone did, someone who can take the responsibility away from her. She looked at her watch and knew she would never make it to office on time. It was already 5 mins past.

Geeta decided to check the phone and see if she could reach someone who could inform the biker. But then, she thought if she should call up Rajiv and ask him what to do. She instantly decided that that was not a great idea. He would just give her a long lecture on how she should take her own decisions. Phew! She looked out in the direction to where the biker had disappeared hoping and calling upon Ganapati to make the biker come back and take his phone back.

It was already 10:45; Geeta quickly decided to keep the phone in her bag and get on to her office. She thought she would work it out once she was there; no point wasting more time standing in the sun anymore.

As soon as Geeta stepped into her office, she could make out that there was too much tension in the air. She glanced at her manager’s cubicle; it was empty but the room looked as if it had witnessed a meeting already. She was done for now! She walked over to her workstation and switched on her machine. The BlackBerry in her bag was forgotten as she got engrossed in reading up her office mails and going through the minutes of the meeting. Her absence had been noted! Well, now Geeta had that to worry about too…phew!

She got on with her work of collating the invoices into an excel sheet and hoped that she wouldn’t make any silly mistake. Before she knew it, there was Sudha asking her to come for lunch already. She got up and saw that it was 2:00 pm already. As she picked up her bag to get her lunch, the morning’s events came back to her. She quickly picked up the BlackBerry too and thought that she would check on some names and maybe call them. In the cafeteria, she waited for Sudha to buy her food. And started fiddling with the BlackBerry hoping she could find out something about the owner and return it. She noticed that in the Call Log, no names showed up; there were just a couple of ‘unidentified’ numbers. She went on to look at the Contacts. As she scrolled down to check the names, she felt weak in her knees. She was tempted to look at the Gallery and saw a couple of pictures and her fear was confirmed. She looked up to see if anybody had noticed her. And then quickly kept the phone back in her bag without making that call that she had intended to… Suddenly, she had lost all interest in her lunch and didn’t even want to talk to Sudha. She started fidgeting about and thought of a number of excuses to go back to her workstation and think out the problem clearly. Problem? Could she hear herself think? What was she calling a problem? Why was this a problem? She should do what was right! Call up someone in the list of contacts and inform them that the phone was with her and how she had waited for the biker to return etc. etc. Yes, this was clearly the thing to do. So, why the hesitation?

She looked up and saw that Sudha was taking her time, chatting away with the new joiners. She silently picked up her lunch box and her bag and walked back to her workstation. Once at her seat, she took out the phone again and saw that there was a reminder blinking on the BlackBerry. It said – “This is it! Sharp at 5:18 today!” and had a smiley next to it. Geeta shivered involuntarily. She dismissed herself for such thoughts.

It was almost good; she had finished her backlog and was just thinking if it was a good idea to leave early, but decided against it. Suddenly, the strange phone came back in her thoughts. And she quickly checked the time on her desktop. It showed up as 4:30 already. For no apparent reason, a shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the ominous 5:18. What should she do? What would her mother have done? Why was she thinking of her mother??! What would Gandhi have done? But she was NO Gandhi. She was she… Geeta, a simple girl brought up to do simple tasks and not ask too much…Really? Was that all she was? Couldn’t she be more than that? Did she have to conform to those ideas about herself all her life? Geeta snapped out of this reverie and scoffed at herself for not focusing on the ‘problem’ at hand. She decided she would leave early, go to her favorite café and then call up on one of the numbers on the phone that she had found and well, that would be that.

It was finally 5:00 before she could walk out of office and that too after the giggly new girl gave her a dirty look and muttered “half day”. Phew! Geeta turned the corner and started reading the café’s menu in her mind; she knew what she wanted – a nice grande café mocha with maybe a cream bun…What was she thinking? How frivolous could she get? She had to make that call first and that would decide the rest of the evening, wouldn’t it? As she walked on, she stopped for a second in front of the police station and then walked on. She found her café to be quite quiet. It was already 5:15 and she fished out the strange phone from her bag. Her eyes found the TV and the headlines displayed at the bottom of the screen caught her attention. And just then, the phone rang! Not her phone, the strange phone! It actually rang!  It took Geeta two minutes before she could respond. And when she did, the voice – the male voice – on the other end said – “Hey Kabir! What’s up? Are we still on?” Geeta fumbled and then uttered a meek hello…

Geeta: This is not…Kabir!
Voice: Oh…but I dialed the right number. Who’s this?
Geeta (emboldened): Who are you?
Voice (laughingly): Is this some kind of joke? Meher, is that you? Where’s Kabir? We have this whole thing planned to the T and now this joke. Seriously! We’ve got just about 10 minutes for the big bang. Get Kabir on line.
Geeta froze at the names and the “big bang”. She didn’t know what to say or how to go on…
Voice (agitated): Hello…didn’t Rehman tell you the same too? We’ve been planning for months now. It is NOW, Meher! Snap out of it. Now get Kabir on line.
Geeta furtively looked at the TV screen. What was she thinking? Could this be true? Had she been a fool?
Voice: Hello…Meher…hello…hello…
And then the phone got disconnected.
Geeta looked at her watch. It was 5:20 already. And then she looked up at the TV, her coffee and cream bun dream forgotten, she could sense fear well up inside her. She could smell the stench. She could feel the goosebumps on her arms and her face.
The phone rang again…
Voice: Hey – am sorry. But who is this? This is Kabir’s phone and you are not Meher…Who is this?
Geeta’s eyes were glued to the BREAKING NEWS on the TV. There had been a blast in the middle of JN Market…exactly at 5:18 pm, said the streamer.
Geeta felt her world collapse. She opened her mouth but could not say anything. Her throat was dry. The voice on the phone kept saying something…the words were not making any sense. She looked at people around her. The couple in the corner was busy in each other’s eyes. The bearded man in the corner was also staring at the TV and then he looked at her. She looked away – without knowing why. Why was she feeling guilty? She stared at the phone.
Voice: Hello...hello...are you there? AM really sorry about the last time but well, you see, we had plans and this is Kabir’s number and he’s the grand master of the big bang…and I need to reach him.
Geeta: What is the big bang?
Voice: Well…umm…could you just tell me who you are and where is Kabir?
Geeta (with steel in her voice): What is the big bang? It has already happened, right? You did it, right?
Voice: Excuse me, Ma’am and am sorry for the last time but could you please tell me how you have this phone. It’s Kabir’s…and …what did you say? The big bang has already happened? But how could it? I mean…what do you know…Ma’am – hello…
Ambulances and police vans zipped past her café – on the way to JN Market… Geeta was numb and now determined to keep talking to the “voice” – to get clues.
Geeta: I’m at the Wood Café… Please come and collect this phone. I found it on the road.
Voice: Oh fish! Am so sorry…for being such a bother. Kabir is such a loser… (laughed at his joke and then seriously) I’ll be there in 15 mins, Ma’am.
And the phone disconnected…

The minutes passed by, her coffee remained untouched, Geeta kept looking at the door. Will the people show up? Did she do the right thing? Why hadn’t she called them up earlier? Why had she been such a fool, such a coward? She refused to look at the TV now though wafts of the news report about the JN Market blast kept reaching her.

In walked three men; they were young boys to be precise, must have been in college. Immediately, Geeta felt relief and fear inside her. These looked like people from good families and what if they turned violent…what was she planning to do anyway? Give them the phone back and then leave? Would they let her go? Or how about this? She would play the detective and ask them to come with her to the police station and own up to the “big blast” at the JN Market? Splendid idea! Geeta started shaking in her knees.

The men walked to her and then the “voice” said: “Ma’am, I had called. I’m Ali. Sorry for being such a bother. This here is Kabir and this is Rehman.”

Geeta looked at them and didn’t react…she couldn’t react. She looked at the TV. The boys followed her gaze feeling awkward and then suddenly, their expressions changed. They looked from the TV to her and started talking all at the same time...

Voice 1: No, no..oh no, its not what you think. That’s not us…That could never be us!!
Voice 2: Oh my God! Meher was somewhere near JN Market….
Voice 3: AGAIN!!

Anguish, fear, incredulity – all came up in the four people standing there and staring at the TV screen.
Geeta was alone in her ashamed world… she was not the person she had become… How could she have even thought that just because the phone had certain names and pictures, these young men were responsible…

Voice 1: Ma’am…I know…you thought big bang…right?! Big bang…Big bang was to be the anniversary celebrations for Kabir’s parents…it was to be a surprise…

And the voice trailed off…

Cinnamon Powder III - Ajuji

It was a cold winter evening in New Delhi and we were busy thinking what to cook for dinner. We had to give it more thought than usual because Aju and Aie (my maternal grandparents) were visiting us and they wouldn’t relish a quickly cooked up dinner. While we hummed and hawed about it in the tiny kitchen, we had left Aju and Aie in the living room. Both of them were covered from head to foot and Aju was also wearing his woolen cap. The TV was on and the news reader was talking about the falling temperatures in the city with images of the homeless on Delhi’s streets. We went into the room just to check on them if they were comfortable. Immediately, Aju freshly influenced by the images on TV and the growing coldness said – “Let’s have bread and soup. And don’t spend too much time in the kitchen in this cold.” While we thought that was unusual and he wouldn’t really relish it, I knew that Aju had thought of all of us being together in the warm room and so that we didn’t feel the guilt of not cooking up a lavish dinner added in his characteristic style, “This is English weather. So, we might as well have an English-style dinner.” That was Aju…forever concerned about the comfort of the people around him.
It was through Ajuji’s narratives of the freedom struggle that people like Gandhi and Patel seemed so believable. While I was studying for a paper on Gandhian thoughts, he was the happiest man. He would sit me down and narrate to me stories of how the youth at that time were so passionate and how they had something to live for and die for, how when Gandhi gave the call for civil disobedience, he and his friends had given up anything that was foreign and had just walked towards the voice that called out to him. While talking about the freedom struggle, Aju would narrate incidents and speeches and then would pause…for a very long time before he could say the year when India became independent. It was the Alzheimer’s that made him forget…

My earliest memories of Aju are those of his false teeth that he would playfully knock up to the front and try to scare the little ones. And then, these teeth would rest in a glass of water looking happy. Ever since I can remember, Aju was always dressed in khadi and this was from his days of fighting for the independence of this country. His was the perfect white kurta and the white dhoti, impeccable and with the typical ink stain on his kurta pocket. And then his anecdotes of how he scored 100 on 100 in Maths and used to like English literature, but was never very good with history. This last bit about not scoring high in history would come as a comment in his typical understated style when Aie would remind him of something that he had or had not done. :-)

There are a million memories and many traits that all of us have picked up by virtue of having been in his presence. I remember the walks that we would take when he was in Delhi and how he and I would walk till Safdarjung flyover and stand there and look out at the buildings in the distance. It was either constant chatter or complete silence. With Aju, one had to repeat one thing many times because he was in the grip of Alzheimer’s. This taught me to be patient and to be caring.

How can I forget the innumerable times that Aju came back from an afternoon walk looking distraught because he had placed his walking stick next to some shop to buy some yummy jamuns for us or a packet of biscuits and had forgotten it there? He would fret and think of the loving time he had spent with that loyal friend of his.

His spirit for life was amazing. Here is the best anecdote – One fine summer afternoon with the Delhi sun glaring down, my sister and I returned from school to find Aie looking up at the jackfruit tree in our garden. We asked her what it was that she was looking for…she ignored us and kept squinting up and then suddenly said out loud that “the one on the right branch was just right”. It was then that we realized that she was talking to Aju who was up on the tree trying to get down some jackfruits! At the time of this incident, Aju must have been 80 years! Need I say more…

Aju was a connoisseur of Parker ink pens, of watches and keeping time, of good food and better food, of get-togethers and family functions, of worrying about small things, of celebrating small things. It is almost a year since he’s been gone but every day, memories of his happy, peaceful presence seem to watch over us.

Ajuji, there will never be another like you…

On Fasting

Have you ever noticed how the mind and body react almost in the same manner to fasting or feasting? Both lead to extreme senses and make one wish that one had not fasted or feasted as much.
The day begins and the feeling of quiet descends on me just to escape as soon as I realize that in a fit of “purity”, I had promised myself that I would fast today. What ever made me think of such a thing? Was I not in my right mind? Well, the deed is done and I have only myself to blame. Not wanting to go back into thinking why I imposed this on myself, I tell myself that I will go on with the plan for as long as I can. It’s not that I will die if I don’t eat one day! So, let’s drink to that! Oops…ill fitting metaphor that.
I walked into the kitchen to get the breakfast and the lunch ready. And no, my resolve was not broken since I do not like the smell of food early in the morning anyway. So, I went about my way in the usual manner – humdrum way. Get the subzi out of the fridge, heat it in the microwave, get the dough, make the chapattis or no, let me make paranthas. And then, of course the tea had to be made. All that done, I headed to office and soon hunger pangs came up inside me. It was the time when we would have our usual morning cup of coffee. But I wasn’t going to fall for it. So, I stayed put and carried on with work. 11:00 am – still a long time to go for the official lunch hour. Hmm. But, how did I care for lunch today? I reminded myself of why I had decided to keep the fast and that got me going for some more time. The solitary apple in my bag called out to me and I rescued it from its mundane existence at around noon. Well, nirvana for one at least.
Call it Murphy’s Law or the Faster’s Fortune, but each time I’m trying to implement the oh-so-pure idea of fasting and likening myself to the Father of the Nation – no less, mind it! – I am besieged by talk of food alla round me. My well-meaning friends talk to me about their weekend lunch at Saravana Bhawan. The mouth waters, the nose starts to make out the aroma of steaming sambar and idlis. Poof…there goes that bubble. And then, I start craving for all possible yet impossible foodstuff – pizzas, biryani, magi, almond cake, Wenger’s tarts, blueberry cheesecake at The Big Chill…grrrr. No, I will not submit myself to such ‘material” pursuits and go on to bring my lemon tea to restore my sanity.
The eyes start to cloud and the head starts to feel heavy. All sounds are heightened and concentration goes haywire. I had once read a passage in Le Clezio’s Desert, which so beautifully described the day of fasting. He got all the feelings just right and it was a masterpiece.
But, the threshold is reached and I’m safely on the other side. I think it is sometime around 2:00 in the afternoon, when I am no longer imagining food paradise or thinking of what I can eat when and how much. It is for this phase of quiet that I fasted. This sense of accomplishment and peace of mind that almost always comes just after half the day of fasting is over is what makes the act of fasting act as a cleanser, a purifier. Fasting helps me feel fortified in a strange manner that I can do the impossible. I feel liberated if and when I prove to myself that I can undergo some pain and some trouble. It is a feeling of strength akin to the fierce rays of the sun just after a huge storm.
Is this my nirvana yet? :-)

Non-dit, Non-compris

Je ne sais ce qui se passe dans ma vie
Ma vie me étonne, m’échappe, me contrôle
Le contrôle me laisse sentir ma liberté
La liberté vient du corps à l’esprit
L’esprit de mon être m’entoure, m’arrache
L’arrachement est fort, il me jette
Jeter dans le monde, je commence encore
Le commencement me renouvelle, me renaît
La naissance est le début vire vers la fin
La fin qui vient après avoir traverse le chemin
Le chemin long et qui continue éternellement
Eternel est le voyage de se découvrir
La découverte de l’esprit, de la liberté, du contrôle
De la vie.

Commentaire - J'ai écris ce poème (?) en 2003-04. C’était quand j’étais au boulot et j’attendais un appel téléphonique. Je suis plus sur pourquoi je l’écris. Mais aujourd'hui il y a quelque chose qui m'a pousse de le mettre ici. Alors, c'est aujourd'hui que ce poème est né.

Cinnamon Powder - II: Bade Miyan

It is about 10 in the morning and it is a Sunday. My sister and I have just finished reading the horoscope section in the special Sunday supplement. Pa is outside tinkering with the car. Ma is in the kitchen trying to come up with the lunch menu. Soon enough, we hear the sound of a bicycle’s bell and we know it is Bade Miyan. My sister and I both leave the paper and step out into the back garden. We shout for Pa on our way and tell Ma too that Bade Miyan has come.

Bade Miyan is there dressed in his faded grey-blue Afghani suit with a black and white checkered chador around his shoulders. He fixes his cap a bit and smiles at us. His paan stained mouth and the missing front teeth just add to his charm. He asks after us and wants to know if we have been well. Both of us are too curious about what he has gotten us today and answer his questions hurriedly.

On his cycle, he carries a huge circular metallic container and it is there where our eyes are fixed. He’s waiting for Ma to arrive so that he can show his ware but both of us coax him to open the container and let us have a peek. Inside, there lie all types of fishes – big and small, familiar ones and strange ones. Both of us excitedly keep pointing out to each type and asking its name, just to forget the very next instant. This is Bade Miyan and his trade. He was our regular fishmonger for years. And that is a rarity in the part of Delhi that we lived in. Though we stayed near INA Market, one of the best markets in South Delhi, there was something extremely charming about having Bade Miyan come each Sunday to sell his fishes to us.

Ma has also come out now and so has Pa and while they are busy inspecting the quality (always impeccable) and the size of the fish they want, both of us are busy quizzing Bade Miyan about where he gets his fishes from, why some of them are small, why doesn’t he get us the beautiful orange ones and more. Bade Miyan would always answer us first and always with a smile, never tiring of our useless questions. He would smile and say “Gudiya, woh sunheri waali bhi laa dunga, lekin unhe sambhaal ke rakhna.” He meant the goldfish that most people keep as pets and which to us was something that we saw in films but never in Bade Miyan’s collection and so wondered why he didn’t get them. Of course, we were naïve enough to think that all kinds of fish could be found in Bade Miyan’s collection. He was our fish expert! No matter what kind of fish we bought and how much or how less for the entire week or the special lunch, Bade Miyan would always put in something extra into the basket, shyly saying “gudiya ke liye”. It was always something from his choicest ware – his best fish or the best shrimps or the best roe. Without fail, he would leave something for his gudiyas.

Summer vacations during school days were always something that all children looked forward to (and still do, I presume) and we were no different. Summer vacations meant long, lazy days filled with books and games and painting and people. Most of our summer holidays were spent either visiting Orissa or having our grandparents visit us in Delhi. We are a family that believes in good food on all occasions and the food gets even better when sharing it with people. All occasions are a reason to celebrate and out come the choicest recipes and all the masalas. Fish dishes have an important place in a family serious about their food the way we are! And this is best demonstrated by my Aju – the biggest fish fan ever! I specifically remember one particular summer Sunday when the house was almost quiet except the sound of the bell that Aju was ringing to wake up the good Gods during his daily puja. And suddenly, the path of the sound changed from the puja room to the backyard garden. My sister and I looked up from our Famous Fives and exchanged quizzical glances wondering what Aju was doing in the backyard garden with the puja bell still ringing! We ran out. And there was Aju still holding and actually ringing the puja bell while asking Bade Miyan if he had gotten any hilsi (cod fish but not really) or chungudi (prawns or shrimps) that day. We burst out laughing. Such was (is) Aju’s love for fish that he actually walked out of his puja oblivious to all things spiritual and walked mesmerized by the sound, smell, and anticipation of buying some good fish. While Bade Miyan merrily talked away to him and showed him the best hilsi, again completely oblivious of the ringing bell.

One day Bade Miyan’s smile made his eyes sparkle more than ever and as soon as my sister and I jumped out into the garden, he showed us a plastic bag with one small, black-grey fish in it – swimming and alive! It was to be our first (and last) pet! Both of us were extremely excited. We rushed in to tell Ma what Bade Miyan had got us. And soon it was a flurry of activities; Bade Miyan helped us release the fish from its temporary plastic home into a tub of water and advised us on what we could feed it. He reassured us that soon it would grow bigger. We became more scared of that than get reassured. And from then on, it would be a constant supervision of the fish. We reported that the fish looked sleepy, or wanted more food, or that the water should be changed and even contemplated giving it some ice-cold water. We reported that it had been swimming in the same direction for 3 hours and then reported that it had taken a U-turn. Bade Miyan’s gift still remains the only pet I have ever had and has given me very good memories.

Bade Miyan would come regularly but there were days when he came but his smile was missing and when his eyes looked darker. Those were the days when he worried and fretted about what his sons would become and if his grandchildren would be taken care of. His biggest worry was if anyone would continue in this smelly and difficult fish business after him. He was a man who was passionate and proud of his work but the times were a-changing and none of his sons wanted to continue in the fish trade. They were ashamed of it and wanted to instead diversify to working as mechanics or at tailor shops. All this pained Bade Miyan and he would lament to Pa and Ma that “ab bacchhe to bade ho gaye hain, jo unhe pasand hai wahi karenge lekin is kaam mein jo sukun hai woh kahin aur kahan milega unhe”. Bade Miyan’s worries were not without reason; he was a simple man who considered the fish as almost sacred and gave it the respect that one gives to the thing that lets you live your life. This was the only trade he knew and this was the only trade that he could teach his children, which would guarantee them prosperity. I think he was also scared that if the fishes were to leave his house, it would be inauspicious. However, life did change and none of his children took up the trade. Soon, Bade Miyan became too old and too ill to come on each Sunday. And soon, these days turned into years when Bade Miyan did not come. We worried about him and his family and worried more on days when there was news of communal riots in some parts of the cities. Though these incidents were few and far between, each such incident threatened us with the possibility of Bade Miyan getting hurt. We never got any news about him since he was a wanderer and we could go to no one to ask about him. Soon enough Sundays became mundane and the lazy warmth of childhood gave way to the impatient youth. Life went on.

After many years, a man came on a moped and stopped at the gate of our backyard garden. He blew the horn of the moped and called out for Dr. Sahab, my father. It was Bade Miyan’s grandson who had come to sell fish...

"Dealing with it!"

It is kind of sad when people drift away or apart. And such a phase happens with all at various times of their life. Circumstances change and people change with them. For what is the worth of a person if he or she is not adapting to the changing circumstance or situation?

As we go in life, we meet people who seem to color your world in those bright brilliant fairy-tale colors...but unfortunately, all of this comes with a timer. Sooner or later, the lights go out, the color fades, the music stops and a new circumstance comes into being. And then, once again, the warrior puts on fresh paint and gears up for the new things that will come on his or her way and how it will be dealt with.

"Dealt with"...hmm....it seems like a strange word to use for something that should ideally be lived. We say we are dealing with things, with work, with home, with life! Why are we dealing with it and do we realize that when we are dealing with it, those moments are actually being lived? That is what life is about and that was made clear a long time back by many philosophers - life has to be lived and it is never smooth. So, then why do the dark clouds always seem to hover around? Why not accept it and move on?

All these are of course words. Simple words. When it comes to feeling sad or low or hurt or unwanted or disliked, these words don't do anything. They simply sit there waiting for you to get back in the mood when you can see them and understand them. All by yourself.

Cinnamon Powder - I

I had been thinking of writing a series on people whom I have had the chance to meet and interact with and who have left an impression on me. These are stories of everyday life but I am reminded of these people from time to time. And since they keep coming back to me, I thought of sharing their stories and mine too.

The reason I wanted to call this series ‘Cinnamon Powder’ was because having shared some moments of my life with these people has added that extra flavor à la adding a sprinkling of cinnamon powder to a dish and thus, adding that extra hint of magical flavor. I hope it finds an echo in you.

Khan Market waale Sardarji

I was introduced to the world of cars by one of my uncles and this was furthered by my father. Uncle B stayed with us for a very long time and had a definite influence on me and my sister’s choice of books, music, and cars. He would bring home car magazines and we would spend hours leafing through the glossy pages looking at pictures of Mercedes, Alfa Romeos, BMWs, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis. Looking at them and weaving dreams around them…

I had never known a time when my family didn’t have a car and have very fond memories of the first car I ever knew – the Ambassador. Well, having said that, we would take the car for its maintenance or repairs to a particular mechanic in the Khan Market area. I know that the name conjures up images of beautiful, well-lit shops selling the best of best in that markedly understated sophisticated sense and how could it possibly have a car repair shop there!! Well, I allude to a place opposite Khan Market, a piece of land owned by Khushwant Singh’s family, I believe. This car repair shop was in the alleys behind a charitable hospital run by the gurudwara trust.

In this grime filled, blackened alley with its various sounds of spanners and welding instruments was a small garage turned into a small shack by Sardarji. We would always find Sardarji there and he would ask after the health of my grandfather, my Uncle B, his family and we would do the same. Dad would ask about his family and his sons. After this was done, he would ask Dad to start the car and leave it on for some time, while he heard the engine of the dear old Amby purr. Within less than five minutes of listening to this sound, he would say what was wrong with the car and why it was giving us trouble. That was all!! And he was always right about the problem. He was like a doctor who feels the patient’s pulse and can guess on what is bothering the patient. Sardarji was exactly like that – he would listen to the sound of the engine and then tell us what the problem was with Amby. Then, he would ask for some tools to be brought forth by some of the young assistants who always milled around him or else would step into his shack where we would be sitting. In that shack, he had an ancient faded green refrigerator which he used as an almirah for his tools. J. From there, he would take the appropriate tools and get on with working on the car. There were times when the bottom of the car needed to be examined or repaired. I remember even at the age of 60 or more, Sardarji would do this task himself. I was always amazed with his knowledge and his dexterity. I would watch spell bound as he would pull at something, tighten something, add some oil somewhere, and then wipe his hands on a rag and then ask Dad to start the car. The look on his face when the engine would roar to life was that of immense satisfaction and pleasure. Now comes my favorite part. :-)

After the work was done, it would be time to savor the tea that Sardarji would offer to all the people present there at that time. Sardarji would make this tea himself and it remains one of the best teas I’ve ever had. This tea making process was an elaborate procedure, which started by giving money to one of the youngsters there to get milk – full cream milk. Then, he would light his stove in the very same shack which housed odds and ends, car parts, the green refrigerator, another refrigerator for cold water, a table fan, some papers, and chairs fashioned out of old car seats. All the things in this shack were in the same shade of grey – covered with the grease and grime of auto parts. The stove would be lit and a huge degchi would be placed on it. Sardarji would then cut open the packets of full cream milk and pour them into the degchi. Yes – it was tea made with full cream milk and no water! He would then cover the degchi and let the milk boil. From a shelf, he would pull out a small newspaper pudiya and would then place this on top of the degchi. Then, using a stone, he would proceed to crush the contents of this pudiya – chhoti elaichi, laung, kali mirch (just a few), and maybe some other spices. Once, this was done, he would put in the crushed spice powder into the boiling milk, add lots of sugar, and add lots of chai patti, which was a mixture of leaf tea and tea granules. While he was doing this, a small crowd of little children would gather around him. People who worked in other similar auto parts shops in the same alley would also come over. Everyone would gather around the small shack. The conversation would include the weather, the political situation in the country, and of course cars. In that area, there were times when one could spot a vintage car or two that had come there for Sardarji’s expert treatment. Sardarji would himself pour out the tea into glasses for all the people present there. No matter how many people were there, they would all get tea.

The taste of the tea would be sweetened further by the love of this old, mild mechanic. The evening would become mellow; the heat of the May sun would begin to diminish, the sound of prayers would drift in from a nearby gurudwara, and the aroma of the sweet tea would fill the air, and the conversations would become a slow humming of sounds.