Duet of One

  My father was an independent man—intelligent, self-contained, and dignified. Age bent him, but it did not diminish him. Even as his body weakened, his mind remained alert, quietly amused by the world. Toward the end, his complaints sounded ordinary enough: cough, loose motions, breathlessness, low blood pressure, swollen legs. Nothing that suggested an ending. When the ambulance was called, he dressed carefully, as he always did—full-length trousers, belt, tucked-in shirt, shoes. He looked as if he were going somewhere important. Carried down from his second-floor home with no lift, he was placed into the ambulance. As we drove through the streets of Mulund, sirens blaring and traffic parting, we exchanged amused glances. “What drama,” I said. He smiled and asked if people were moving aside to let us pass. In the hospital, they took him to the ICU. Machines replaced conversation. Procedures followed procedures. On the second night, ICU psychosis set in—restless, frightening, stri...

E ven the sunlight seemed to know. Winter-pale morning rays streamed into my old home, touching walls  and floor that no longer answered back. The place is barren now. Most of his possessions are gone; only a few pieces of furniture survived the determined brooms we called “cleaning up.” This is not how the sunlight remembers it. Once, the house was a home—cluttered, full of the bespoke settings Dad wanted. Even the birds have stopped visiting. They know too. I sat on his sofa, numb with memory. My hands lingered on the door handles he must have touched a thousand times. I looked down at the street to see what his eyes might have seen each morning. “It’s time,” my brother says. A quiet curtain call. I take one last look at the room, pull the door shut, and slide my hand along the banister for the final time. Heavy steps. A few photos of an eerily silent home. And a heart carrying everything we could not leave behind.

  Back in the 1960s, summer truly began when my father braved the night at the Victoria Terminus railway station, sitting through long, sleepless queues to secure precious third-class tickets for our journey to Coimbatore. He always returned the following morning looking like a weary but victorious warrior, the hard-won tickets clutched in his tired hands.   The journey, spread over two long nights, was an adventure from start to finish. Our little family—my mother, brother, and I—crammed all our possessions into a large metal trunk, a heavy hold-all - a sturdy canvas bag stuffed with bedspreads and inflatable pillows.   As the train pulled out of Victoria Terminus behind a powerful electric engine, I would press my face to the window, mesmerized by the rhythm of the wheels and the rush of warm air. The electric motor hummed steadily, pulling us up the steep ghats to Pune, the hills rolling past in a blur of green and brown. Beyond Pune, the train changed c...

Walking into a dream It came on  many nights like a scene from a Kafka novel. There was the vision of a cement grill above a doorway. It seemed to hold back a dark spirit. wanting to be liberated . IWas there a talisman there?  I dare not look there for who knows what lurked in the kitchen and beyond The dreamer always froze with fear and awoke. It was the ancestral home of my father in Edayar street, Coimbatore.  The other desire was  latent but deeply embedded in the sub consciousness and made its presence felt during my waking moments I wanted to walk the street of the East Lokamanya Street in RS Puram , the home of my mother. The old walls,painted yellow the green windows with four doors were clearly visible. The musty smelling attic where coconuts were stored and a large hall with a valve radio, of the 1960s, playing Tamil film songs from  Radio Ceylon. The pink bougainvillea in the front compound and the Kolam drawn by my grandmother just ou...

I taught these kids for two years: They were in the 7th grade when I began work at the Municipal School in Kanjur Marg, Mumbai. .It was the month of July, 2013. I was the Teach For India Fellow come to teach them.  Thus far they had seen only twenty-something Bhaiyyas and Didis. This one was a grey haired bozo of fifty five. I did a grand corporate style presentation on Malala  on my first day in class. They lapped it up. I was proud of what I did. that day. The days that followed brought home the challenges. It was no easy task getting 42 kids to work with me . Many missteps and heart burns followed. And then I regained my foothold. I taught Social Studies and English Language Arts. I learnt too. I remember that I was asked to take charge of a dark dungeon that was a "changing room " for the housekeeping staff. A clothesline was strung diagonally across with an assortment of trousers , shirts and towels hanging on it.  There were no benches. So the kids  squatte...

The Avantika Express took us to Ujjain where we met up with a couple of other Kabir Smittens Another hour on a passenger train brought us to Maksi , a small quaint station that is nearest to the little village of Lunyakhedi. Prahalad Tipanya, the Padmashree awardee and popular Malwa folk singer lives with his large family in this village. He lives and breathes Kabir songs and poetry. Prahaladji is one of the many forms through which Kabir connects and communicates with the world of today. During the five day workshop, we immersed ourselves in the vibrant and elevating music created by these humble folk singers who keep the kabir 'raas -dhara' flowing. We drank of it with both hands. The sounds of the tambura, the manjira, the dholak , the harmonium and the violin accompanied the singers. Prahaladji and Kaluram Bamaniya sang for us. It was like having Kabir all to oneself when you sat immersed in the music that overflowed and engulfed everyone around... Linda Hess was...