Balancing Kinship

Although this may be said more vocally about finances and money, the fact that relations are the most unstable of all the possessions that one may ever be attached to can hardly be denied. Most of one's relations are established at birth just as some other vitals like religion, gender, nationality etc are as helplessly determined. In addition to these predetermined specifics in one's life there are more associations that come along through societal responsibilities like marriage and work/profession, and also as simply as friendships forged over a period of time.

Of the relations so developed, the extension of family through marriage becomes as important and permanent as the relations by birth or what are more popularly known as blood relations. And perhaps these are more complicated too as in they often become defining factors in shaping the bonding between blood relatives. They tend to determine the strenghtening and blossoming(or the withering away) of a family and thus determine the happiness (or the conflict) that could make or break an entire clan.

Therefore it is very important to choose these associations intelligently. But in a world full of imperfections,passion and selfishness this is easier said than done. One is so painfully amazed to see crowded family courts full of once-upon-a-time loved ones facing one another with bitterness. And more painful is the fact that they are but a small portion of the vast majority of blood relatives locked in varying degrees of hateful rivalry.

A fair amount of friction cannot be ruled out though, if individuals have to interact and live in harmony. Ironical as it may sound, the fact that no two individuals are same, and difference in opinion is considered a healthy sign of co-existence cannot be ignored. Tact, transperancy and understanding assume great importance in building and cementing long-lasting togetherness specially in multi-dimensional relations.

How can understanding develop? And how much of tact should be brought into use? How much should one "give" in order to be able take something in a "give-and-take" venture? These are questions that do not have a tailor-made answer. Nor is there a ready-reckoner on relations that can provide helpful formulas forever. But some broadly defined rules can be kept in mind.

The following may be guidelines of sorts:

1) Always place yourself in the position of the other in case of a conflict to "understand" the other's point of view.

2) Never try to seek perfection.

3) Do not "give" anything in charity to someone who does not require it. And never "give" in expectation of something in return.

4) Always have work areas well defined.

5) Have good fences and respect other's space and privacy.

And the most important thing to remember is that for a relationship to be enjoyable one must understand and be understood by the other. This is where transparency comes in. In most circumstances misunderstandings start with petty things and soon ego takes over reason. Ego is often confused with self respect.....but while self respect makes a man worthy, ego spells doom...self respect is a source of dignified existance, ego undoutedly causes devastation, not just for the egotist but by extension to associated relationships as well.

Balancing anything is difficult. And balancing kinship is perhaps the most difficult of all balancing acts. But relationships are the most precious treasure of a human being because good relations bring more contentment than all the material wealth in the world. Hence investment in relations must be as selfless an effort as is humanly possible.
And if earnest attempts are made, even in an imperfect selfish world it is not impossible to have workably fulfilling relationships. The most important ingrediant that goes into the making of delicious kinships is a fair quantity of sincereity dressed with the most exhilarating herbs namely tact, love and humaneness.

My chance meeting with First Love

I was finally there. At her door.

It was more a sort of gateway. An iron grille through which I could see shimmering green plants in earthen pots neatly lined up, reaching the first door in the lobby. I let my eyes drench themselves luxuriously in that refreshing green nectar.

Then I looked for the door bell.
Oh! There were three of them. Each systematically numbered to correspond to the flat it was meant for. I pressed the appropriate one and waited.

I was so thankful to have eluded the unexpected morning drizzle, but my hair as I imagined was in bad shape. Unsettled and unkempt more due to the polluted blows of the congesting traffic than by the pleasant breeze. So without much ado, took out the hair brush that I carry and ran it through my hair superficially.
I was stuffing the brush back in my handbag when a bunch of keys clinked sweetly and I saw a woman opening the lock.

Was this the woman I had been trying to locate for the last one year in the vast multitude of Bombay ?
And now that she was in front of me, I felt a little nervous.

But my feminine instincts were well in place, alert and sturdy, and had already got busy assessing the woman who had by now opened the door 
From the careless length of her dress to the well etched-out wrinkles on her face, from the pale curtains lazily swaying with the mild breeze to the gleaming six-foot clock standing all by itself majestically near the wall, the mind wanted to take in every detail as I walked in behind her

She told me to be comfortable, but herself looked a bundle of nerves. Her manner openly suggestive that I should hurry up with the purpose of my visit.
Strangely I did not feel the compulsion to obey her.
On the contrary attributing that uneasiness to advancing years I allowed her time to relax and compose !!

An inch or two shorter than me, she looked stout in her loose blue A-line dress that reached well below her knees. Hair chopped very short were extremely scanty. In fact I could see her scalp !!!
A well-fitted pair of glasses encased her eyes as if ironically shielding her vision and limiting her horizons.

The furniture in the spacious, well-ventilated living room was simple. While walls were adorned with tasteful contemporary paintings in neat wooden frames the dining table was an antique. Everything in the room seemed to connect the past with the present. The giant Grandfather Clock was in perfect working condition, showing the right time, chiming flawlessly. Just like the inmates of the house, in their twilight years, but fairly healthy and courageously braving age-related hazards.

"That's me" She said, quietly, without exhibiting much emotion, as I placed the computer printout of a black and white photograph before her.
She kept gazing at the picture. There she was ... a young girl with deep large eyes, and thick black hair. Innocence and simplicity adorning her like precious jewels. Draped in a light chiffon sari, she looked graceful and attractive.

I waited for her to say more.
But till now for my ten lines, she had spoken one. My already weak conversational skill was fast depleting. Sitting at the edge of the chair, as I decided that it was time for me to leave, I heard her voice.

"How is he?" She asked.
"He" was the cord, the bond that had brought her and me face to face. "He" had sent me a half century old address and equally antiquated photographs, with a desire to know her whereabouts and welfare.
"He is fine" I replied.
"Married?"
"Yes!" ( Did she by any chance expect him to be unmarried??? )
"He's a grandfather now!" I said volunteering more information than asked for hoping she would share my happiness and excitement, and open up a bit. But nothing changed on her face. Without any expression she popped up another question:
"Is he happy?"
Now I was taken aback.
Honestly I never expected him to be unhappy. As far as I knew he had married the woman of his choice. His children were doing well. He was a contented grandfather.

I stared at her closely. She was patiently waiting for my answer.
I have no specific reason for this, but to me she looked like someone who had been left to wait for eternity.

But she was too dignified to be pitied. My reply was quick.
"Oh! Yes ... Of Course..." I said hurriedly trying to sound convincing.
She looked at me. And this time I could hear her silence. Though very fleetingly. Unable to give any meaning to it.
There definitely was something about her telling me that she knew him more than I could ever claim.

Now she took the other picture. That was of the gentleman and his wife. They were a couple who really seemed to have been matched by God Himself.
She looked at the picture and said,
"She's beautiful!"
I smiled. She paused.
Some minutes went by. Then came another query.
"How many children do they have?"
I gave her all the details I had about them.

Oh! My God ... !!!!!!!
Not another pause, I thought. Her contemplative pauses were making the air around me heavy.

Gathering herself painfully due to a hurting back, she got up and brought out some fine chocolates from the refrigerator.
She offered them to me with politeness, saying:
"You've come to my house for the first time, you must have something sweet."
Was this some kind of a serene celebration?
An expression of happiness at having heard from a dear old friend ...

She said she was happy to know about him and his family and that I should thank him that he still remembered her.
Suddenly I found myself wondering how would I react if at seventy a long lost friend came calling on me similarly.
The thought of it was exhilarating.
But one look at her dampened my spirits.
Could the past freeze so permanently that no amount of warmth from the present ever revive it ?

Trying to bridge the void that among other things, history too had created between her and him, I informed her how at seventy-five plus this friendly and sociable gentleman kept in touch with everyone through internet.
She looked disinterested.
She had no idea how a computer worked.
Her son and daughter were too busy to help her keep in touch with her friends.

Silence returned.

I had done my best to break the ice.
It would have been a pleasure getting two friends back in touch.
But she wanted to live in a world where she was now comfortable. She would not give the bygones the comfort of a revisit.

As I got up to leave she gave me a tight hug. That was about as far as she would go with an emotional outburst.

The next moment she was back to her usual expressionless, smile-less suffocating self ...
and I was glad that the meeting was getting over .......

She walked to the door with me and just before I stepped out she held my hand and said:
"I have a nice husband, but he is very strict. You see, I don't want to spoil my family life. I have been married for more than forty-five years now. My husband was curious to know who this man out of the blue was? Why was he inquiring about me after so many years?"
Her eyes looked at me as if trying to trust me.
Did I see a longing in there ... ?

I was stupefied into silence. But she was speaking with curt clarity.
"Don't give him my address or telephone number ... I don't want to ... you know what I mean ... you can understand no ... ???????"
At one moment she sounded firm and the very next she seemed to be pleading ...

I was stunned.
NO.
I did not understand her then.
I still don't.

Is the institution of marriage so fragile that even at seventy five plus ... with a golden marriage anniversary behind you ... a woman cannot meet / get in touch on phone or email with an old friend who was once upon a time dear to her , for the fear that her marriage of fifty years would break down ...

I don't understand this at all

The Touch Of The Tiger

My Mamujaan's vibrant legendary love affair with Hockey has been unmitigated for as far back as I can remember.
Mummy had these clear instructions: "Whenever there is a hockey tournament in Bombay, you must make it a point to go and encourage the boys."!!!

Of course it was always not possible, but Mummy did sincerely try and went to witness matches whenever she could.

And we had not the remotest idea that this one, where I had gone along too, was going to become a memorable one.

From the beginning it was different.
First and foremost this was a friendly match between IA(Indian Airlines) and PIA (Pakistan International Airlines).
Although it was a friendly match, the interest aroused among fans was no less. We had no idea till we reached the venue.

With Hockey being forever like the illegitimate halfsister of Cricket, the fans of the game are familiar with an empty stadium.
But this match was being played at the prestigious Bombay Gymkhana. The place was overflowing with spectators by the time we reached. Not an inch of seating space left, Mummy and I stood looking around the place to find a spot from where we could get a clear view of the ground.

Someone suggested we go on the upper floor.
"Up-above-the-world-so-high" also people had crammed in to watch the game. Mummy and I were lucky to find a place from where the view was good. Feasting our eyes on the clear velvety green field we almost forgot the sweaty jostling and climbing of minutes before.

The announcer in the commentators box had already started describing the weather and colours as the players filed out neatly on the ground.

The game got off to an engrossing start and we seemed pretty well-settled in our positions.
Standing hardly mattered to me. Wonder if Mummy had other thoughts, her focus though was evidently on the game.
But I was looking idhar-udhar also :-)
How could one ignore all that sophisticated gorgeousness :-)

And there sitting just a few feet away among some beautiful women and children was the elegant Nawab Of Pataudi.
Mansoor Ali Khan.

Having read and heard about them, his eyes caught my attention. They are still alive in my memory. I had not understood then, but do so well now. That unmistakable friendliness in them was so true and real although one of the eyes was not real!!!
Those large dreamy eyes were calm and peaceful, and as they looked at us, an expression then strange to me, fleetingly crossed his quiet face.

He got up from his comfortable seating space and walked gracefully towards us.

The legendary Nawab whose pictures with his ravishing Begum and the fairy tales that surrounded their life was my only introduction to him, was right beside us and actually speaking to Mummy.

He was telling my mother to go and sit in his place. As she walked equally gracefully to take her place, he took his.
Near me (where Mummy had stood)!!!

His autograph on a piece of blue envelope as were used in the good old days to send what was known as "airmail", is still stuck in one of my olllllddd diaries.

For the last one and a half day I'm searching that diary in my old books ... and hoping my only touch with The Tiger is not lost.

The strength within

The month of Ramzan was in its third week. It was sehri time. Quarter past four I think when the landline phone at the corner table started ringing. It was unusual. Fear made me to hurriedly pick up the receiver. On the other side was my brother. I held my breath.
He was calling from a hospital near our homes.
A very close family friend, almost a family member to us, had been taken there just a little while back. My brother tried to assure me that it would all be fine, and there seems to be no apparent reason to worry. I wanted to believe him. But back to the dining table to eat before the time for sehri ended, my mouth felt parched. I could barely chew the morsel I had put in.

As I entered the hospital lounge just after the Fajir namaz, I saw my brother along with our friend's family. That consisted of his wife and his daughter. It was revealed that he had to undergo an angiography as early as possible.

The two homely females looking evidently exhausted with fatigue, were taking turns in going up and down from the ICU, to the doctor's chamber, to the hospital pharamcy. I wonder how much our presence helped soothe their worried minds and perturbed nerves. But I think those hours were numb and vacant when time stood motionless for them. All that mattered was they had to do the job on hand.

By evening the doctors had performed angioplasty on our friend and declared him "as-of-now-out-of-danger". But the risk remained. Bypass surgery or multiple angioplasty was an absolute must declared the doctors.

And in the days that followed I was amazed at the transformation my friend's 20-something Plain Jane daughter underwent. Her tear-smothered face turned tough like a rock. Eyes red with crying turned red with resolve. She suddenly became a fortress that carefully sheltered her parents and took all the harsh blows on herself.
She had astonished me with her courage and resilience.

A remark that I had heard from one of their relatives not very long ago hit my mind. He had said that this daughter was the cause for worry to the family. She was so ordinary looking and unpolished in manners that at twenty plus she was still unmarried.
"Isn't that a cause for concern?"
I had ignored his idiotic comment then. But now as I saw this same girl move about with confidence and sensitivity I found myself battling with my mind as to why the feminine gender has to time and again stand trials at the altar of societal dogmas.

With a friend for company this tall straightforward girl, her resolute eyes looking for solutions, went about meeting doctors who could educate her on the case and people who had undergone bypasses in the past to understand what her father would be in for.
She then discussed the facilities available at various hospitals, visiting and checking out the facts herself.
The next step was perhaps the most important... and the most difficult one too.
To select an appropriate surgeon.

And all these details she worked out intelligently, diligently and with great composure. At home her mother looked after our friend, and outside the house this girl and her friend co-ordinated the course of action with a huge measure of maturity and fortitude.

I once again am forced to wonder why girls are looked upon only as marriage material. Why do they have to "settle" (read married) in life by a certain age? Are these norms not true for boys? And why settling down has to be with marriage only?
No denying the fact that marriage is important. But then it is important for both...the boys and the girls.
How much more will the girls have to do to prove their worth in their homes and outside?

Aim at The Stars

They were five of them sharing a flat on the top floor of a four storey building in one of the upmarket areas of Bombay. They called it The Guest House. Perhaps because none of them intended to stay there forever. Friends and family visiting Bombay would be most welcome, not only because then there would be a few more hands to help specially at breakfast time, but also because they all loved to have people from "home".
Young men belonging to respectable families from Uttar Pradesh. Quite an assorted lot, their educational qualifications varying from graduation in Arts to Engineering.

They had just found the fun independence could bring. A job in hand and a roof over their heads in a city like Bombay, they knew their journey in life had begun well. Shared hobbies included drinking infinite cups of tea on a rainy Sunday at the restaurant across the road, chatting with the waiter, getting updated on all the local gossip.
They would also loaf around the beach at Girgaum Chowpatty if there was not much to do in the evening. After dinner the most preferred acitivity was a walk down the Marine Drive Promenade.
Life was good.

All but one of the five apparently had logical (and thus predictable) approach to future. They treasured the security of a stable job, understood the meaning of saving-for-a-rainy-day and were aware of the limits life posed before them.

Agreed they were all dreamers.
The one who was different was a dreamer too. The difference was that to the rest of the world around him, his dream seemed far-fetched.
An unachievable fantasy.
His dream was big indeed. Nobody except The Dreamer himself was sure how, if he ever would, realise it.
He had no fixed job, no fixed working hours. In fact he always seemed to be around. Like a joker in a pack of playing cards he was most often the one who would help out friends in chasing a tight schedule.
He did odd jobs at five-star hotels and film studios. Never discussed the kind of work he did.
He knew no one really bothered.
For all who knew him, he was a little more than being completely worthless.
His friends, the responsible citizens of a developing Nation thought he was but an irresponsible day-deamer wanting to go to Germany.
Why Germany...? They would demand.
The dreamer kept the answer to himself.

Jokes were cracked at his expense. The cruelest would come from the girl-friend of the senior most occupant of The Guest House.
"When are you flying out to Germany?" She would ask sacastically pressing her lipsticked lips and fluttering her eyelashes stylishly, adding a few piercing words mocking his dreams.
Amid the roaring laughter that would emerge no one would notice the glitter in his eyes or the strange smile that he tried to conceal as he moved to a lonely corner doing nothing.

After the release of "Devdas", one evening the legendary Suchitra Sen was shopping at a showroom opposite The Guest House. Fluttering hearts gatherd in a crowd outside the posh shopping Center to catch her glimpse. But our dreamer had the guts to go inside cutting across all barriers, stand beside her, and say : "Paro...?!!"
It is said that she looked back at him, perplexed for a while, then she smiled and said,
"I like your style!!!"

One fine day The Dreamer declared that he was going to attend the Filmfare Awards Nite. Where was his invite the friends asked jokingly. He was quiet and thoughtful. Preparing for the grand evening, he polished shoes, ironed clothes, searched for the right colour in ties that would go with his suit. Paying no heed to the fun being poked at him, he went about diligently through the day working on his looks and appearance.
A little after lunch he disappeared.
His four home-mates wondered what a cock-and-bull story he would try to pull on his return.
But he returned with a broad grin on his face and in his hands an authentic proof of his attendance at the gala.

Some more months passed. Life for the residents at The Guest House was bringing some happy changes. Now settled comfortably in their careers the next logical step forward would be marriage. Plans for a secure future which included owning a few hundred square feet of land-in-the-sky in the city of money and fame, would be discussed on Sundays.
It was a sobering revelation as independence also graduated from being fun to becoming a bundle of responsiblities.
They tried to councel The Dreamer too to come out of an imaginary Dream World and settle down. As a final effort to make him see their point they would tell him how his family back home yearned to see him happy and secure. What was he gaining from aimless flights to nowhere.
"But I do have an aim...and Germany is a real place not very far...!!!" The Dreamer would adamantly insist.
They would shrug in a frustrated huff wondering how an almost hand-to-mouth income with no wonderous eduactional backup or professional skills could take him to the land of his dreams, while The Dreamer wondered why his dream seemed so unattainable.
What was so extraordinary about settling down in Germany?
And what was so unusual about he wanting to achieve his dream on his own strength.

Then one day he disappeared.
Days, weeks and months passed.
A couple of years passed.
The "family" at The Guest House moved on too.
With the passage of time they spread and scattered over the city, getting busy with the daily grind, but sharing joys and concerns and remaining in touch.
They did miss that one wonderful friend and companion.

One morning phones in four homes started ringing as if in a chain reaction.
The Dreamer had surfaced.
Like the sun on the horizon.
He was actually in Germany!!!
His business had now started giving him some profits.
And so the next logical step was on his mind...
Logical...??????
Did he say "Marriage"...???
Yes...Yes...Of course!!!
Finally.
Dream was to marry Logic. What an absolutely fanciful union this must be.
Everyone was delighted. Genuinely happy for The Dreamer.
He had earned respect and admiration for his earnestness.
He was no more the Joker in a card game.

Please Note: There is a moral in this story!
Dare to dream. Work diligently towards reaching the goal. No dream is small or ridiculous. What makes the difference is the manner in which one realises that dream.

Hence never laugh at anyone's dreams.
Never ridicule a Dreamer.
You never know while the slurpy tongues are making fun of him, his intense conviction in himself is driving him to the fulfillment of his aspiration, allowing him that envious last laugh.

She shared only Happiness

She shared happiness ... only happiness ... pure, unadulterated Happiness ... yes ... for she was Life in all its glory ... 💐💐💐

I am sure every morning the Sun entered her home as if from all directions making it the brightest spot on this Planet.

Her house was open, airy and cheerful.
And she was forever eager to absorb the tiniest of the delightful rays of Hope, and reflect it back in her smile

There never was a spec of dust anywhere. 

Never had there been a time when her things were misplaced.
No messy wardrobes. 

Never ever a chaotic moment in the kitchen.
Shining cutlery, gleaming crockery, crisp curtains, embroidered cushion covers, lavish green plants, magnificent vases ...

There was a place for everything, and everything had to to be essentially in that very place. 

That was the only way things could exist in her home.

She was "Aapa Jaan".
Although I have shared a pic of hers at the end of this article , I don't want to make her name public .

So here in this homage to her , I ll call her Apaa Jaan

With her there was that "native-place-walaa-connection". Aapa Jaan's and my parents' families belonged to Shahjahanpur in UP , and so I had often heard my parents mentioning her family in their conversations

The first time I saw her was in my sister's wedding album 

It is the pic that I ve shared at the end of this article 
In the picture my father is having a hearty laugh , so characteristic of him 😊 , while Apaa Jaan and her daughter are smiling charmingly 😊🥰💞💞💞

This was outside our Tata colony bungalow 

I was to come to know later that she never let an opportunity to smile go by without making the most of it.

Much later meeting her personally was an experience I will always remember.
Vivacious.
Pleasantly chatterbox-ish.
And domineering 😊

I was still thinking of adjectives to describe her in our first meeting when I noticed her hands. 

They lay almost still in her lap as she seemed to be sitting comfortably in her doubly cushioned chair, slightly higher than the rest of us, wearing a colourful printed cotton gown.

Honestly her manicured fingers, would have looked long and beautiful had they not been a little crooked. 

She apparently seemed oblivious of my gaze travelling further down to her feet. They were also not normal, resting rather awkwardly in the padded footwear from Fabindia.

But the smile that lit up her beautiful dusky face seemed natural and effortless. Her large blackish-brown eyes, her proud straight nose, her long black hair ...

Every little thing was under her supreme control although she was suffering from arthritis.

The little movements that she could make on her own were full of agony and stress.
But the disease was only one part of the long struggle that life had been for her. 

And yet here she was enthusiastically talking of the latest improvisation in her aam-ka-achaar and the Aloe Vera juice and gel that had worked wonders on her daughter's Mother-in-law's skin and helped add "so much" glow to her face 😊 !!!

I was completely awestruck. The more I met her the more I respected her. She was an inspiration, a bundle of positive energy, a light that filled you with happiness.

On one of my visits Aapa Jaan gifted me a small Aloe Vera plant, that has remained
with me and flourished abundantly, just like my attachment with her over the years.

An expert cook , Aapa Jaan always had the best of kababs and koftas ready to be served at the shortest notice. 

The aroma of food at her dining table was for me the best in the whole of Bombay because it used to be exactly the same as that which used to fill my grand-parents' sprawling courtyard in Shahjahanpur when the "khaansama" would be busy supervising his assistants working on clay choolahs with wood fire.

A fine and talented dressmaker, Aapa Jaan used to successfully run a designing and tailoring business to which she had given not just her sweat but her character too.

Every time I visited her I noticed a little deterioration in her health. But never in her spirit and vigour. 

One day I complimented her on her sewing skills ... She was indeed proficient , neat and quick with her stitches ... and a resourceful designer too ...

With a sparkle in her eyes and without a moment's hesitation she said :
"You should see my daughter's expertise ... she's way ahead of me ... I feel so proud of her ... 😊"

Last year when I greeted Aapa Jaan on Women's Day, she told me she was in the hospital. 

She had gone in for a knee replacement operation. It went off fine, the recovery was satisfactory , and it would be only a matter of some more time before she would resume her routine 

But in the meantime she had an unfortunate fall.

So she was in the hospital once again because the accident had fractured her femur this time

Aapa Jaan took all these downturns with a characteristic fortitude that was so inseparable from her

But could her immense will power reverse the weakening that her inside was experiencing ?

It did not take long for the effects to show on her body externally too.

A few months ago my sister and I visited her. She was lying in bed. A sheet covering her frail body. The conversation this time was mostly about her health. 

I saw for the first time her suffering taking its toll. In a moment of acute emotional anxiety she lifted the sheet. 

And what we saw is etched in my memory. There was nothing beneath the sheet except a mass of bones covered with pale lackluster skin.

It was frighteningly depressing.

That was the first time I had seen her lying down. 

And after that every time I saw her, she was lying down 

Her bed clean and neatly made. 

The house all tidy. 

Her television serials running their length. 

And her husband running about doing odd jobs for her. 

He had also mastered the art of facing hard times with a smile.

Aapa Jaan had once upon a time , gone to school with the late Madhubala's younger sister. Often we got to hear of the happy times they had spent. 

Apaa Jaan had told us that Madhur Ji herself used to visit her whenever time permitted and they would spend a cheerful time together  

And this last time that I went to her place on hearing of her death , the house was spotlessly clean , everything seemed to be in its place. 

Only the tearing silence was a misfit in the house which used to buzz with the pleasant chatter of its Lady.
She had been buried in the nearby grave yard the night before. 

A tired looking family soaked in grief met me.
We talked about her in between pauses loaded with emotion.

I remembered the pride and affection with which Aapa Jaan would describe the sewing skills of her daughter and I told her this
She looked at me with pained eyes 
And then I was speechless. 

Stunned at the irony , it's agony unbearable, as the daughter said in a quivering voice, swallowing the lump in her throat

"Kal un ka kafan main ne hi siya tha ..."

Remembering "The Millionaire Fakir" Husain

Oh! That was M F Husain in his car, as it drove past me on a 1st January some years back in Bombay's Fountain area.
I went almost running behind the car much to the amusement of my children 😃!
Just as he had alighted, I was beside him, children in tow.
He looked at us, and smiled 😊

I was speechless with excitement and I am sure he understood because he stood there calmly and waited as I searched my bag for something suitable to get his signature.

What a classic view it was.
Hutatma Chowk soaked in the quiet morning sun after what must have been a night of dazzling celebrations all around
Imagine an aerial view of this meeting.
No less than a page out of vintage literature.

I remember very well Husain Saheb was wearing an off-white kurta pajama, and a maroon muffler loosely hung around his neck, but don't quite remember his footwear, the absence of which was such a big news those days.

He spoke to the children in a very soft voice ... And then he signed his mega-million dollar name on a one rupee envelope (I did not have any other plain paper in my bag at that time!), and bidding goodbye smiled again ...
This was like a Dream ... A Dream that I had never seen ... 😘😘😘

It is hard to accept that such a composed, simple and serene person can insult religious sentiment. As far as I can understand, he never took his Muslim identity too seriously.
The backlash against Husain can be compared to the anger Muslims expressed when a Danish cartoonist "insulted" the Prophet Mohammed (Peace Be Upon Him).
Neither of the two groups can lay claim to religions they so fiercely defend and represent, because it is not religion, but dubious vested interests that encourage vandalism and violence.

So Husain driven away from his own Motherland, lived in Qatar and passed away in London, but his work continues to live in the heart of India, and not surprisingly so, because Husain had India in his heart.
He took the liberty that was apparently not supposed to be his, not only because of his Muslim name, but also because religious sentiment is, since times immemorial, a wild fire that has never been doused ...

Some relief though to hear sane voices even in times that don't necessarily support logic and reason

http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/A-national-shame-if-we-cannot-say-he-belongs-to-us-Sharmila/article16817016.ece

But all said and done India has lost a legend, which is very sad.