Making a quilt

A very good friend Charu shared the picture of a 'bookshelf' quilt that she had come across, and I immediately promised to make a similar one for her. This time, I have been watching myself while I go through the preparations, and I've realised that there is a process I follow not just for the actual quilt-making, but even for the preparation. As of today, almost a week after the decision was made, I have just pieced together enough pieces for three of the four bookshelves that the quilt will have.

The first two days were just spent looking at various similar quilts online. Then came a period when I stood in front of my fabric stash, admiring my collection, and sort of identifying the pieces that would be cut into strips.  I realised that I could make each book with a different fabric, which meant I needed just a strip of fabric from many different prints. I started taking out the fabric pieces and then the entire process slowed down considerably.  Almost every piece of cloth in that cupboard came with its history -  the circumstances under which I had come across that particular piece, which quilt it had been used in, who I had been shopping with at that time, then on to which city I had been in and so on. I needed to take out each piece, hold it, do some thinking/reminiscing and then either put it back as unsuitable or keep it aside for cutting later.  The process also included thinking of the friend for whom I was going to make the quilt, colours that I thought she may like or dislike;  this seems to be something I am deducing based on what I know of her as it's not something we have ever discussed. All the earth colours, multiple shades of red and blue have passed muster, as have many block-printed swatches. I have forced myself to add some yellow prints just to brighten up the quilt, even though it is not one of my favourite colours.

The actual piecing of a quilt is truly such a pleasurable piece of work. I have my favourite music on almost all the time. For this quilt, I have been listening to a podcast series (Desert Island Discs) that Charu gave me as it seemed only apt that I listen to her collection while working on her quilt. I do not have to make any conversation with anyone, and I am able to enjoy my thoughts - first  about Charu who is becoming such a special friend, how she came into my life when I was not young, breaking all myths about how one didn't make good fast friends as adults and only childhood/college friends stuck on through life,  then onto thoughts of her son and mine who were schoolmates, and on and on. Lots of very happy thoughts are going into the quilt, and I can only hope Charu will love it when it's done and ready, hopefully in the next few days.

I will still need to go shopping for the perfect fabric for the sash, borders and back -- but then that's another entirely different project. Right now, I should be concentrating on the fourth shelf of the bookshelf.

A most wonderful birthday in Budapest

The best part of being in a time zone ahead of almost everyone else in the family, is that I woke up to a whatsapp inbox full of birthday greetings, and a call from my mother. Since it was still only 7.30 am for me in Budapest, I had time to speak to many friends and family members before setting out for the day. Thanks to some confusion over the location of the meeting point, we missed the walking tour (thankfully a free one so didn’t lose any money over that), but then had a wonderful time walking around the city centre. The whole area was really festive thanks to the Spring Festival being celebrated all over the city, and we wandered past some wonderful shops selling locally made handicrafts – wooden puppets, ceramic dolls dressed up in local folk costumes, embroidered pot pourri bags, handmade soaps and incense holders etc.

Like kids, Ravi and I went up the Budapest eye and got a bird’s eye-view of Budapest, then spent some very interesting time at a post office while posting postcards to Charu and Shashank/Supriya. The very chatty attendant told me all about her passion for Space Astronauts and how she followed some of them on Twitter. A long walk, interspersed by walks in and out of interesting stores, brought us to Govinda – an ISKCON centre which had tasty Indian vegetarian cuisine thankfully.  We then headed back for a peaceful warm afternoon, avoiding the drizzle and the cold that threatened to freeze me.

In the evening, we set out with absolutely no plans. This surely is the best way to experience life in a strange city – we ended up seeing the glorious Matthias Cathedral, by catching a Metro across the river and a Castle Bus to go right back across the river! The first thing we did was to duck into a Starbucks as it was drizzling and freezing when we got off the bus. By the time we emerged, with warm (no one here really seems to serve anything hot) chocolate inside us, the lights were on all over.  Budapest is beautiful when the imposing monuments on both sides of the river are lit up – everything glows with a warm golden sheen. 

A walk along the river brought us past the ‘Shoes by the Danube’ – a really sobering end to a happy day, and I was glad to walk home with Ravi in silence.  

Caring with dignity and empathy

‘Very good! Now lift up the other leg to take a step forward.  Wonderful! See how much progress you have made!’. This was not I talking to a small baby but the physiotherapist encouraging my 83-year old mother, and coaxing her to take one more step..  The same woman, who once efficiently ran a crowded household, providing for her husband, growing children and demanding brothers-in-law, was having trouble walking without support.  As I watched him slowly egging her on to move forward, I wondered if he could believe me if I told him about how active my mother had been.

As a child, I had never seen my mother sleep. She always arose before us and slept well after us, and never had the habit of napping in the afternoon.  She dropped and picked us up from school on foot, managing smoothly even when, for a while, her three children were in three different schools.  In spite of the fact that our family finances were not good, she ensured that there was hot wholesome food always available, for us as well as for the innumerable guests who dropped in at all times of the day. On her feet all day, she made time to attend music and ‘shloka’ classes twice or thrice a week. She also rarely missed a play, music concert or dance performance at the auditorium that was a fifteen-minute walk away.

This same hyper-active lady now has to learn how to walk! A silent stroke has made her entire left side almost immobile very gradually. The person who used to recite the “Soundaryalahiri’ while going for 5 or 6 rounds of the ground outside our house, and attended yoga classes at the local park at the age of 75, slowly had to start using a cane, and then, when she started losing her balance and falling, was told to start using a walker.

 The hands that taught me how to wear a sari are now still while I go around her, tying her sari for her, after first helping her with her blouse. The hands that oiled and combed our hair and sent us to school in two tight plaits now wait on her lap while I comb her hair.  Only after watching her struggle with simple daily tasks have I realised how much we take our mobility and dexterity for granted. It is so tough to do something as simple as folding a sheet or unscrewing the lid of a bottle or even scratching an itch when only one hand is able to function efficiently.

I know she hates being dependent on anyone, but does not have a choice.  I see her watching me as I bustle about the house and my heart breaks when she pensively says, ‘I can’t believe I also used to rush around like you once upon a time’. I wish there were some instant remedy to this immobility that is slowing her down so much. Even while I can see her frustration, we can at least be grateful for the fact that her mental faculties are unaffected – she is bright and cheerful most of the time.  Thanks to her, I have learnt to be patient and let her do some things slowly, even if I could probably complete them in half the time. I think I have also learnt the art of helping just enough so that she is also left with some sense of independence.  I can only hope that I have been able to convey to her my pleasure in having her around, and being able, in some small way, to do for her what she did for us, selflessly and tirelessly.

This was published in the Hindu's Open Page on March 3, 2019 - https://www.thehindu.com/opinion/open-page/caring-with-dignity-and-empathy/article26419861.ece

Kaakai Chiraginile...

Decided to store the link to this amazing rendition by Bombay Jayashree, with the lyrics and meaning for quick reference.

https://mio.to/album/Bombay+Jayashri/Atma+Soul  song number 5

காக்கை சிறகினிலே 

1.காக்கைச்  சிறகினிலே நந்தலாலா-நின்றன் 
கரியநிறந் தோன்றுதையே நந்தலாலா;


2. பார்க்கு மரங்கலெல்லாம் நந்தலாலா -நின்றன் 
பச்சைநிறந் தோன்றுதையே நந்தலாலா;


3. கேட்கு மொலியிலெல்லாம் நந்தலாலா - நின்றன் 
கீத மிசைக்குதடா நந்தலாலா;


4.தீக்குள் விரலைவைத்தால் நந்தலாலா-நின்னைத் 
தீண்டுமின்பம்ந் தோன்றுதடா நந்தலாலா.

--பாரதியார

Kaakai Siraginile Lyrics In English:

1.kaakai siraginile nandhalala - nindran
kariya niram thondrudhaiye -nandhalala;

2.paarku marangalellam nandhalala - nindran
pachai niram thondrudhaiye nandhalala

3.kekum oliyil ellam nandhalala - nindran
geetham isaikudhada nandhalala;

4.theekkul viralai vaithal nandhalala - ninnaith
theendum inbam thondrudhada nandhalala

--Bharathiyar

Meaning : I see your black colour in crow's feather Nandalala (krishna)

i see the green colour in all the trees i see Nandalala

In all the sounds I hear your songs Nandalala

If i put my fingers in fire i feel the touch of you nandalala

Chanda collection for Durga Puja

We lived in the 60s and 70s in a tiny stretch of Raja Basanta Roy Road that extended from the CESC office on one side to the Bhanga Bari (the accepted name for the old house that had been converted into a slum).  Today, sitting in Bangalore, reading about the Durga Puja celebrations in Kolkata has kindled a lot of memories. One of my earliest memories associated with the Pujas is the tension that would pervade our house in the weeks before Mahalaya. 

Around 7.30 in the evening, while my siblings and I did our homework, we would hear the voices of a group of young men downstairs. As they climbed the stairs to our house, we would look at each other with trepidation. Our father would perk up and reach for a sheaf of papers he had kept ready for just such a visit.  Most of the time, the conversation would start amenably enough and very often end similarly too.

“Uncle – we have come for chanda for the Durga Puja in our para.”

“Ok – which para have you come from?”

“XXXX palli – near XXX Road”.

“Do you know how far from our house that area is? How can you ask for a subscription from me?”

“Uncle, you gave us last year too”.

“Oh really – let me check’”– and my father would start rifling through the sheaf he was holding. He had stored chanda receipts chronologically for the past many years. If he didn’t find a receipt in the group’s name, then he would send them off just by waving the sheaf at them and telling them about he could not afford chanda for new groups as he had obligations to so many groups.

If he found the receipt, then the discussion would be taken up to the next level.

“Ok, fine. Here you are – give me a receipt for 2 rupees”.

‘But Uncle, last time you gave more …..’ and the conversation would peter out as the speaker realised the proof of the amount was in the old receipt in my father’s hand.

Sometimes a more enterprising soul would start to say “But Uncle, shouldn’t you give us more this year” and then be treated to a five-minute diatribe on how salaries had not doubled while expenses had, how many more pujas he was contributing to, how no one was contributing to our navarathri celebrations etc etc. Once in a while the group would mention that they were celebrating their silver jubiliee. Promptly my father would pick up a receipt to show them how he had given them 5/- two years ago on their silver jubilee.  The young men would go away with 2/-, exhausted by the sheer force of my father’s arguments.  As Mahalaya neared, more and more groups would wend their way to our house and the conversation would follow the same set pattern. 

Most of the  time, the men left after exchanging pleasantries, but very often one upstart would make an offensive statement either about our being Madrasis in ‘their’ State or about us being stingy and that would start the yelling. My father would roar in anger and ask them to get out. The men would leave, threatening to deal with any of us who dared to step into their para in the next few days.  During this entire episode, my pre-teenage elder brother would quietly stay inside. An active participant in all the cricket matches that happened on the streets, he did not want these ‘dadas’ to know that he lived in this house.  In spite of being careful, I am sure he still felt the repercussions when he went out to play.   I know we went out fearfully for the next couple of days, sure that some young man was waiting to beat up my father for not giving him 2/-. 

Horror on the highways

The news item I watched on the child prostitution racket along the National Highway in Madhya Pradesh yesterday has left me stunned. Its not as if I did not know about this abuse of children, but I did not realise that it was still continued as an accepted system by a community. An entire community (the Banchhada) actually follows the tradition of prostitution! One of the videos the news team recorded was of a Khap Panchayat head actually saying that they would not allow prostitution to be stopped. He also went on to say (if i have remembered the phrase correctly), 'Yeh ruk gaya toh hamare aadmi logon ka kya hoga'!! I am still stunned by his casual comment.


The tiny shelters on stilts where the girls are seated on display along the highway, the mothers negotiating rates on behalf of their daughters.... this is probably what alternate reality looks like! It was all so casually done. The video of the young girl who could not have been even 12 years old quoting her different rates for 'upper body' and 'lower body' was chilling - what could have made her so completely resigned to her life? What is it that is allowing mothers to push their daughters into this life of hell.  And where are we 'caring' citizens who are ready to stand up and be counted with our protests, our banners and candle-light walks when this kind of gang rape is happening to children, every single day of their lives?

Could life be any better?

My favourite iTunes music from my phone  playing over Bluetooth from the music system while I sit on the swing in our living room with the Hindu crossword, a cup of tea and whole-wheat multigrain toast on a tray by my side, after starting the morning with a yoga session in the open grounds near our house, knowing that all loved ones are well and healthy.... could life be any better really??
I am truly blessed.