Sunday Mutton Curry

Sunday  was mutton curry day for us when we were young.
It was a ritual of sorts.
Kamla , the help, would chop onions and grind garlic and ginger in rhytmic motions as she squatted  and sweated over the stone pestle and mortar.
The potatoes were peeled and sitting on the sink ledge, some bits of skin still clinging bravely on.


Mother would call out to my father to hurry up.
Father would amble out of the shower, hair neatly combed back, the plastic shopping bag in hand and car keys in the other.

He would walk past the garden and the chicken coop , shouting out gentle instructions to the gardener , before we heard the familiar start up rumble of the Amby.

Around one in the afternoon, the screaming pressure cooker and the accompanying stream of aroma would announce that afternoon lunch would be shortly ready.

That was a ritual that not only we, but most of the families we knew followed.

It was not the mutton that made it special.
It was the family meal.
Unlike other days, father was there at home for lunch.
There was no rush, we could savour every bite and more importantly, conversation.
Mother would be relaxed and happy.
We would be playing.
The radio would be belting out our favourite songs.

That's the difference between consumption and purchase.
The more ritualistic our consumption is, the more special the occasion becomes.

Brands that have capitalised uopn this  have had a much stronger bonding with consumers.
Like the mutton curry, these brands remain in our hearts  longer.

So little to crib about

I was cribbing about deadlines and work and late hours
I was irritated. Crabbity.
Even sulky.

Until someone asked me whether what I was going through
Was as bad as a man hanging onto the edge of a cliff, counting his last seconds and hoping for help
Or as sad as that little child who had lost both parents and longed for a loving hug
As tiring as the rickshaw puller straining at the wheels for that extra five rupees
As horrible as someone who had just lost his job
Was it even close to what the mother of the brave soldier was going through, as she remembered her little boy playing with his toy guns


I cringed
And saw how lucky I was

To have just a bad day at work to crib about.

A Suitcase full of.....

There are times when I  remember ....
The favourite discoloured old tshirt I would wear at home
The flip camera my team had gifted me
The antique ashtray I had carefully carried back all the way from Bradford
My books
My pots and pans
My favourite  ladle
My daughter's old pram I never threw away
The old suitcase I had got as part of my wedding trousseau


After all, how much can one pack in a suitcase

And then I look at what I did manage to pack
Stacks of happiness
Packets full of hope
Boxes of inspiration
Labels that screamed Freedom

And then I realise that I did manage to pack what mattered most to me.
What matters most for everyone.
Almost everyone.

What Daddy Missed

My father passed away in 1984.

In those days, we had an Ambassador- a second hand one.
You didn't get car loans to buy a new car.
Anyways, even if you did, you could choose between a Fiat and an Amby.


My father was always budgeting and planning monthly expenses.
He never knew what a credit card was.
Everything had to be within what he earned.


He had no opportunity to travel by air.
Never been inside an airport even.
Vacations for us meant AC train and company guest houses.
And we felt quite privileged.

Daddy  was a cricket addict and was glued to his transistor during the test matches.
He never saw a match on a television.
We knew televisions only from Archie comics.
And English movies.

Daddy never had a passport.
Never left the shores of this country.
Never knew what a Pepsi Can was.
Never owned a cellphone.
Had no idea of what the computer was.
The only web he knew was cobwebs.

But we still had a good life.
We were connected to the world through radio and newspapers.
We called our grandparents much more.
Daddy went home every vacation.
We socialised every day.
We played, we swam, we picniced, we baked.

Sometimes I feel sad that Daddy never saw the life we are leading now.
Sometimes I feel, maybe he looks at us and feels sad.....

Attitude. Cool. Buzzy. Masti.

These are some of the words hanging at the tip of most tongues and pens.
Most of us like to describe ourselves or people we talk about as cool and hip.

Makes me wonder. What exactly is cool?

Is it about being 'with it'?
About talking in text lingo?
Or sporting contemporary fashion?

Can a social worker be cool?
For that matter, a successful entrepreneur?

Social Networking sites have also successfully whipped and whetted our appetites to be cool.
Whether it is our updates, or pictures, or links.

Being a smart thinker can also be cool.
Achieving success at work can be very cool as well.

Age old values of love, expect, sharing, caring will always be cool.

We are only restricting ourselves by limiting the definition of cool to music, apparel, accessories, behaviour.

Being cool is about being confident.
Of who we are and what we are about.

Cool is a state of mind. Not just a state of being.
And we are all cool in our own special ways.

Perform, Not Present

Collecting my thoughts for an open house tomorrow.
On  how to be a good presenter.

Maybe worthwhile sharing it on my blog with everyone.
Would welcome your comments.

Being  brought up on a rigorous schedule of classical and folk dance, I often draw parallels between a performance and a presentation.
Both are to an audience.
Both make a point interestingly and  entertainingly.
Both have to justify the time the audience is investing.
Both are on stage, visible or invisible.

Some pointers which have always helped me present.

1. Rehearse. Many times over.
2. It's a Performance.
3. Passion Shows.
4. Energy is Infectious.
5. Connect with the Audience
6. Be a storyteller
7. The Power of Voice
8. Focus on the key point being made but make it come alive in many ways
9. Watch TED  and good orators like President Obama
10. Be  Yourself. It's your  show.

It's an art to  hold the attention of an audience.
It's important to understand who we are facing.
It's  good to take on questions confidently, and not be defensive.

Finally, humour always works.
So does creativity.

Making a presentation come alive with slides or charts can make that vital difference.

When Dettol was White

I grew up thinking Dettol was white.
And shampoos needed to be mixed in half a mug of water before usage
And skirts had to be unhemmed as you grew taller
And text books were hand me downs
And Cadbury's was a thrice a year treat.

No we were not poor
Yes my parents doted on me

But this was what the great Indian middle class was about in those days.
Working men had huge liabilities.
Mostly single income households, most men were responsible to getting their sisters and brothers  educated and married.
Money orders to parents every month was a must, they were not on pension plans.

My mother was an expert at making things last.
Whether it was our skirts, or textbooks, or every bit of a vegetable being used up deliciously.
Or changing the straps of the hawai chappals till they could be used nomore.


We were conditioned never to ask for expensive things
We were content with what we were given
If we weren't, there was no choice anyways.

We lived by value. Where Lalitaji ruled the roost with her "samajdari"

Later on in life, I realised that Dettol was not white.
My father would dilute the  Dettol in an empty bottle as he used it after his shaves regularly.
And that we could shampoo straight off the bottle.

Today, things are far better for all of us.
Our liabilities have reduced. Money orders have been replaced by annual gifts to parents.
Incomes have increased. Wives have started earning or becoming efficient home managers.

In all of this, I wonder  whether the value equation has also  changed dimension.
What does good value mean today?
It is obviously not just price and utility specific.
There is a big intangible dimension attached to every purchase, every brand.

What is this new conversation?

Why we should Twitter and FB at work

Yes, it's a waste of time and productivity to Twit and FB during work.
Or, is it?

Here's some good reasons why  it may actually increase all our efficiences.

1. Our work hours are NOT 9 to 5. We work for far longer, so there can't be "after work surfing hours".

2. Twitter is one of the  most effective ways of  staying connected to the world news and events- in real time.

3.  These sites give us insights into how the world communicates and for those of us in the business of communication, it is invaluable information

4. FB gives us that much needed coffee break of saying a hi to friends when our minds are clouded and tired

5. FB also enhances our creativity- we take great pains and put in much thought into crafting our FB updates.

6. We can use all such sites to do quick researches and get feedback in seconds. For eg: what do we think of the word "stress"

7. We get good understanding of that strange animal "youth" ( if we have "youth" friends that is)

8. Twitter is a great site for knowledge sharing and I have read some of the best marketing blogs and artciles thru Twitter

9. Finally, for our kinda work with long hours, Twitter and FB helps us stay awake and alert and happy,  as we wait for that final artwork to roll.

That's about all I could come up with- as I write this during my lunch break at work.

My 100th Post today

Ok this is it.
My 100th post.
Started off in August last year. Wrote like crazy all of October, November. Basked in glory in December.
Swamped with work in February and  March.

This blog is for all my readers, my friends and colleagues who have praised and critiqued.
Thank you.

Here are some  invaluable learnings  in these seven months on What's Good Writing.

1. Write from the heart

2. Write for yourself, not others

3. Don't think too much about what to write. If there's an intent, the topics  emerge.


4. Accept feedback graciously. Every feedback builds.

5. Simple words and phrases help

6. Have a point of view

7. Be Bold

8. Be yourself.

When the writings are a reflection of what we strongly believe in, words flow unabashed.
And reach out to the readers in their own unique way.

Thanks everyone. Will start off on my 101th piece this weekend.

Pickled in the Past

It's been a long gap.
Thought I would complete my 100th blog much earlier but still on the 97th.
Caught in the warp of work and fever and child and everything else. And passion as usual took a backseat.

Was clearing up some old pickle bottles this morning when I stopped for a moment to look at the vegetables  wrinkled up and masked with oil and spices and vinegar. These bottles had been a delightful accompaniment to many a simple meal and had tickled the palate with the tangy masala twist.

Realised that some people have also pickled themselves in the past.
Past glories, old ways of life, philosophies which they believed were right .
The preservatives of their thoughts keep them going.
And they appear at mealtimes to sit at the edge of the plate and tickle and tinge.
After all, it is far easier to be bottled up.

And then there are the others who change.
And accept. And evolve. And share. And liberate.
Their thoughts and actions.
They add colour to lives.
Become the main course in every conversation- steering the taste, the talk, the smiles and the satisfaction.

As I clunked the old pickle bottles out, I felt good that I am surrounded by people who like pickles. But does everything to avoid being pickled in the past.

Wishing everyone a happy holi.

My blog in Campaign India today

A beautiful poem for all the beautiful women in my life

"The beauty of a woman
isn't in the clothes she wears,
The figure that she carries,
or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman
must be seen from in her eyes;
Because that's the doorway to her heart,
the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman
isn't in a facial mole;
But true beauty in a woman,
is reflected by her soul.

It's the caring that she cares to give,
the passion that she shows;
And the beauty of a woman
with passing years only grows."

For Those Who Came In Late

Morning read of HT over my cuppa... and a familiar face of a forgotten friend pops out of a  weekend story.
It's the Phantom. Ghost who walks.

Took me down memory lane when we were young and comics were the biggest source of entertainment.

My collection consisted of Amar Chitra Kathas, Phantom, a couple of Mandrakes, some war comics ( dunno why I liked them though) and Tarzan.

Comics would make an entry when I stood first in class, on my birthday and when my uncles and aunts used to visit us. I would run  through the pages like an express train and then go back and read and reread. Would carefully script out- This comic belongs to Babita Baruah. And the date.

Because comics were borrowed and lent with ease. And sometimes never returned.

Mum would take a bunch of old comics and have them bound up into a thick volume. These were my prized possessions and I would write in big and bold," Please do not borrow". Seems a little selfish now- but those were the days.

What I earned for were the more expensive Archies,  Little Archies and of course, Tintins.  Managed to coax Mum into buying me an Archie digest once a bluemoon. Never owned a Tintin. But read all of them at Rikhi uncle's place. He was an avid Tintin fan.

What made comics tick?

The stories.
The colours.
The art.
They fuelled imagination, made us lead make believe lives when we played, transported us to a different world of rakshasas, heroes, man in the wild.

Phantom was my hero. I followed every strip I could lay my hands on.
Was sad when he married Diana. Celebrated the birth of the twins- Kit and Heloise.
I marvelled at all Phantoms being called Kit.

And wondered and wondered what Phantom looks like.
For as the old Jungle saying goes- "He who sees the Phantom's face, dies a horrible death".

These were the childhood and adolescent years.
When comics helped us lead the life of fun, adventure, friendship and camaraderie.

Today comics have lost their exalted place to newer means of reading, entertainment.
But to me and maybe a whole lot of people out there, comics will always have a special place in our bookshelves. And hearts.

On Pit Stop Efficiencies and Winning the Race

There was a time when  pit stop efficiency ruled my life.
Everything done on time, with perfection.
No room for mistakes. No fall back.
The smallest of errors can lead to losing that vital race.

Did I deliver? Yes I did.
Was I happy? Yes I was.

Happiness  can be subjective and relative.

Today, I have realised that some things have changed for the better.
Efficiencies and perfection  are still key. Both at work and at home.

But I have let go of the pit stop prowess.
So what if I spend a couple of minutes more over that coffee in the morning.
So what if I my daughter spills her water colour on my kurta just as I am about to leave for work
So what if a trip is cancelled
So what if a day  hasn't gone off as anticipated

I did not dial up or down the pit stop prowess.
I just changed my race.


Sometimes it is  just the wrong race that steers us off the path of smiles and laughter.

Reclaiming Those Smiles

Seventeen years  are not just dates, minutes and seconds to be struck off a calender.

They are moments to live, friends to make and cherish, work that makes you grow , passion that makes you flourish.

Once gone, they are lost forever in the mist of time.

While we make copious lists of things and possessions to be reclaimed legally, is there a way of claiming back those lost moments.

There is none.

Makes me realise  even more than before how important it is to stop by and smell those roses, take that walk together, write that letter I have promised to write, go for  that holiday with the parents, have babies, entertain. Find time for our passion,  enjoy our work and profession, smile when we enter office everyday.

For no petition can ever restore time. And what's lost with it. We can only hope to make the best of what we have left.

This and many more thoughts cloud my mind as I look out of a foggy window into nothingness.

A Personal Word to your Valentine

Valentine's Day.
Roses. Teddies. Chocolates. Bracelets. Dates.

This is the usual ritual  which   most of us, me included ( once upon a time ) follow.
And enjoy. And feel good.
And why not? It's all available in stores. Or at a drop of a hat. Or a tap of a key.
The world has changed. We all have.

But then again- isn't love all about how we feel?
Isn't it the strongest of all emotions?
Isn't V-Day that oneday when we have the permission to express our innermost deepermost feelings?

Yet we share roses with a tag written "with love" by a half literate florist's shaky hand.
A card written by a commercial writer in one corner of the world.
A teddy packed in China. Or wherever.


Are we compromising on the art of writing?
Or on the  power of words?

When was it when we wrote a long letter to our loved ones?
When was the last time we bought and wrote a personal message on a card.

For those of us in marketing and communications, the one word we keep repeating all the time is "personalization".
We keep pushing for brands to be more personalized, more human.

Isn't it time we brought in some personalization  into our lives as well?

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

Sarees and Saraswati Puja and more....

Today is Saraswati Puja.
Realised it only afer reading the FB status of my dear friend, Joyi.

Took me  many years back to a beautiful wintry day in Cotton College , Guwahati, Assam.
The day would start with  me fumbling and rumbling around Ma's "Godrej" ( which stood for all steel almirahs incidentally), pulling out saree after saree, mekhela after mekhela.
In those golden days, I was , well, not so "healthy looking", so Ma's blouses had to be quickly had altered around the arms by Ma- she hated anyone wearing loose blouses.

Finally, after a  gruelling hour of decision making and almost driving Ma up the wall, I would take the final call.

Next hour was a flurry of shower, lipsticking, mad scurry for a matching bindi and earrings, slipping on my highest heels so that I looked tall, Ma pinning up the aachal of the saree or mekhela chadar.

And then,  coated with compliments from Ma and the neighbouring aunties, I would walk down the four floors of our flat and catch the bus to Cotton College.

Oh what a  canvas ... a riot of colours.... everyone dressed in their almost  bridal best, the gates lined with pillars of banana plants and woven with auspicious mango leaves,  blarring  music from loudspeakers propped up on makeshift bamboo pillars.

And the beautifully decorated pandals with the Goddess  idol, pujari chanting the mantras.

After all the compliments from friends and the appreciating looks and stares from the "boys", we would go pandal hopping around the campus.

Each hostel would vie with each other for the best puja pandal and celebration - the students would have stayed up all night decorating,  putting up lights, dancing in the small vans while ushering the Goddess into the pandal from the idol makers.

Professors and students mingled as one.

The neighbouring girl's college would be the hive of attention, with gorgeous girls and their gorgeous wear.

Lunch would be "khichri and labra bhaji" in one of the pandals and maybe in more than one of the pandals.

Love and romance dotted the air, with  romantic couples sitting close together, sharing a meal in Feeds or Hotel Prag or Sunflower.....

Droves of girlfriends would go for a stroll down Panbazar and Fancy Bazar.

It would be late evening when I reached home.

Ma would also be back from work around the same time- so usually  our puja at home was a quick lighting of the diya in our regular  puja corner in the kitchen and Ma, my sister and me chanting ," Saraswati Saraswati, Konthe gulapi......"

There would be vegetarian dinner that night- either puri sabzi or khichri and potato fries.

As we retired for the night, I would revisit the day, the pujas, the sarees..... and wished that such days would continue in our lives.
Days that brought all our friends together
Celebrations we all revelled in
Prayers which created an atmosphere so positive that there were no foes or illwill that day

That is what religious celebrations are about.
Nothing could match up  to  the spirit of friendship and camaraderie all of us felt on this auspicious day.

Bob Parson's 16 Rules for Success

Was staring blankly at my softboard when this caught my eye.

One of the random "inspiring"  things I put up  at times...

These are the rules:

1. Get and stay out of your comfort zone
2. Never Give up
3. When you're ready to quit, you're closer than you think
4. With regard to whatever worries you,not only accept the worst thing that could happen, but make it a point to quantify what the worst thing can be
5. Focus on what you want to have happen
6. Take things a day at a time
7. Always be moving forward
8. Be quick to decide
9. Measure everything of significance
10. Anything that is not managed well will deteriorate
11. Pay attention to your comeptition, but pay more attention to what you are doingt
12. Never let anybody push you around
13. Never expect life to be fair
14. Solve your own problems
15. Don't take yourself too seriously
16. There's always a reason to smile

It's good  at times to pin up or frame or just strew around things that inspire.
Or jog good memories.
Or just lighten a day or a moment.
Makes work connect with life.

A thank you... twenty six years later....

1984. Early April. It was Elocution Day at Carmel School.
My mother was up since 5 in the morning. Making me rehearse and rehearse.

The rehearsals had started a month back.
With Ma requesting Sister Concelia to "help me" with my elocution.
Sister Concelia asked me to choose a poem I liked best. I chose "Lord Ullin's Daughter".

Every morning, I would land up in Sister Concelia's room at 645 am , where she would teach me how to modulate my voice, how to pack in emotions, how to look at the judges in the eye, how to pronounce "oowoter" ( water!)- she said it sounded much better if we stressed on the "oo".

Oneday she asked me why I had chosen such a tragic poem. I told her I liked it because Lord Ullin's daughter defied her father and everyone else to do what her heart told her to.

So that was how the month rolled by. Rehearsals at school, rehearsals at home, with Ma adding her inputs on how I should  stand up straight and not get nervous.

Finally the D-Day. Ma was a teacher in Carmel School , so was one of the selected teachers to welcome the judges. Sister Gertrude Rose gave her warm welcome speech and also sang a welcome song on her spanish guitar.

Then, the contest. I stood back stage and heard students recite and was convinced that everyone was better than me.

Heard my name announced. Said a silent prayer, clenched my slightly quaking hands and walked out.

Saw him sitting at the judges table. He was one of the judges. I  saw him only once in a while when he was back from college in Mumbai. He obviously never went beyond a nod or a hello- he was more Ma's friend, so to say. Liked talking to Ma, liked her cooking and her infectious laugh. But everytime he came over to our house, I would stare at him from behind the wooden pillars. Hoping he would say a word , or at least give me a smile.
 I was too shy to venture out from my pillar.

I must have slipped into my usual reverie for a split second. Heard Sister Gertrude Rose saying " Babita, please begin."
"Lord Ullin's Daughter. By Thomas Campbell".

.............``Come back! come back!'' he cried in grief
``Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!--O my daughter!........


I was the father, the daughter, the highland chief.... I could feel them as I recited, I could see the raging waters, I  trembled at the fear in her voice, and exulted in her love for the Highland Chief as she chose the stormy waters over her father's rage.....

Thanked the judges... looked at him once more.... and walked back into the wings.

Shared the nervous wait with the other contestants as the judges whispered and debated.

Stood straight on stage as Sister announced the winners.....
The voices around me blurred and dimmed till I was once again in another world, though I could see what was happening... Ma and Sister Concelia jumping up from their seats, clapping and looking at me, my friends cheering....and the voices became loud again, dragging me to the present.

I looked at him again. Why didn't he give me a smile at least? So what if he was so handsome and grown up and I was a shaky, gawky, thin, dark twelve year old? He was almost like a prince in my dreams.....

But only in my dreams.... noone knew... noone ever would....

I walked out of the auditorium, clutching my trophy....
Saw Ma  and him together. They were talking about me!
" She was really very good" I heard him say.

I slipped up to them, my breathing nearly stopping... finally he would be congratulating me....
Once again, I went unnoticed... as Ma and he talked about his college and holidays and visits and the contest..... and once again I slipped behind a pillar, this time the school stoned  pillar....

And realised that sometimes dreams  bring one closer to  people than reality...
Dreams made me happy..... and made me feel like a princess.....

Twenty Six years later, I am a princess. In my mind.
I believed in my dreams and dreams do come true.


It's time to say thank you for that trophy for Lord Ullin's  Daughter.

One Sunday , a long time ago...

The  long wail of the siren blasts across the early morning air , waking up the inhabitants of the oil town. Including me.

It is Sunday today.

The steady creak of the wooden planks , aged with time and footsteps,  announce Ma's footsteps to the kitchen, where she would be making " bed tea" for us.

We never have it in bed, but she insists on calling it bed-tea.

The creaks sound heavier. It is my father, getting ready for work.

Well, it's a holiday but my father always make his regular rounds to the refinery on a Sunday. Much to Ma's irritation at times. Ma would rather go  to the nearby Tingri Sunday Market for vegetables, and the occasional poultry.

I can hear Ma calling out to my father for his tea, my father walking up to my bedside, can feel his lips on my forehead as he kisses me goodbye.

For some strange reason, I still keep my eyes firmly shut. It's Sunday after all.
And I like dreaming anyways. Dreaming about fantasy lands and travel and magic and miracles. I always have magical powers in my dreams.

The domestic sounds increase in intensity. My father  revving up  our old family Amby, the sound of the car backing up and driving off, Kamla the maid making beds, the rustle of the jalpai plant outside my room....


Breakfast is the usual puri and potato curry, with omelettes. Ma  asks Kamla to keep father's portion aside , warming up on  the iron stove.
The iron stove is one of the many remnants and reminicenses of the British watermarked oiltown of Digboi. A dot in the north eastern tip of Assam. My home.

I can see Ma absentmindedly playing with her food on the table and ask her what's up.

"Just thinking of all the question papers I have to set today for the second terms," she replies. Ma is a language teacher in Carmel School. She teaches my class too. Class VIII.

I know when to stay out of Ma's way when she  uses her firm voice. So I take my Enid Blyton , walk down the wooden stairway to the garden and sit under the old deodar tree. It's my favourite spot.
Where I can be unseen but can hear Ma calling out to me. Or hear my father drive up the driveway. Or my sister running around with Bimal, Kamla's son.

Time stands still. And flies at the same time, sometimes. The heat of the afternoon sun overhead tells me it's lunchtime. And Ma would be making her special mutton curry with potatoes.

The thought of it makes me hungry. I peer out towards the house, trying to catch a glimpse of Ma. Or the car. No sign of  either.

Ma must be busy making Kamla clean the house. Sunday is also  a thorough dusting, polishing day for Kamla.


The sudden call from Ma shakes me out of my usual reverie. And something in her voice tells me it's not a call for lunch.

"Your father is very late. And he hasn't called as well.  I have been trying his phone number since the last two hours. Go and try Sharma uncle's number."

I wonder why Ma sounds so worried. Father is late at times. Well never this late, I must admit. Sundays are just a one hour visit.

I spend the next one hour making calls to every number in the refinery, asking for my father. Noone has seen him.


Ma  is trying to concentrate on her papers, but I can see her worry.
Her sharp voice, calling out to Kamla or my sister, is tinged with a shaky nervousness.

Finally she can wait no more. She looks at me, hoping I nod a yes as I  furiously dial another number. All I can manage as  I look at her is a shake of head.

Ma quickly changes her saree, grabs her bag and walks  down the driveway, me in her wake.

"I am going to  the Singh's garage. Your father had mentioned that the car is giving trouble- think he is there. You stay near the phone, in case he calls."

I nod. Dumb. Not knowing what to say. I want to go with her. It's a long walk down the winding road down the hillock and a longer walk to the nearest rickshaw stand near the railway station. Everyone drove their own cars in the oiltown.

As I turn back to go inside, I feel Ma's hand on my shoulder. She gives me a quick kiss and says," Don't worry. Father is fine."

I nod again. I seem to have lost the art of conversation today.

Time crawls now. Every second is an eternity. No phonecall. I can hear the phone in his office cabin ring almost angrily, trying to tell me that there is noone around. I still keep trying. Keep whirring the numbers- 3369.


I hear a rickshaw bell and run outside. Ma pays the rickshaw wallah and looks at me, with hope." Is father back?"

I was about to ask her the same question. We look at each other in silence.

For the first time, Ma dials the numbers she knows she has to. For help. Silent tears flow freely down her face.

I stare at her. Stare at my sister, bawling away in Kamla's lap.


It is late evening. Our house is teeming with people.
Uncles. Aunties. The Police Inspector. The Oiltown Security officer. My maternal uncle from  the neighbouring township, Duliajan.

Phone ringing incessantly.
Ma talking loudly, recounting  how father had left normally for his morning visit. For the  hundredth time.

Small circles being formed on our verandah, as the senior uncles, the senior officers discuss the best ways to  search.

More phonecalls. Kamla serving tea on trays. With biscuits that remain untouched.

I am lost in the sea of people. I don't want anyone to see me.

I slip out into the darkness. To my comfort seat under the deodar tree. My fear of snakes and rats quelled temporarily by a greater fear. One that is biting me, clawing me in a tight grip.
I wish I could  slip into my usual dreams. Where magic and miracles rule and I have magical powers. Today the dreams seem to evade me. And I am a powerless little girl


I look at the last car finally driving out. Hear Ma calling me out. Her voice now laced with fear.


As I walk back into the house, the home where I grew up, surrounded by father's love and ma's care, I know that things would never be the same again.


This was Sunday. September 9th, 1984.
The day we lost our father. He never came back.

And with that day, our lives changed forever.