A slow influx began up the narrow winding road a few days before, an almost unnoticeable trickle, unless one kept a continuous watch. Slowly they arrived one by one, some carrying their goods in a basket balanced on their heads, some pushing their carts laden with delicious snacks, sweets, vividly hued handicrafts or bright trinkets. One evening as I stood outside in the lane looking for a rickshaw, a row of sweet meat sellers trundled their way heavily uphill with carts covered with big plastic bags full of bright orange sweet sev, pethas and other popular delights. These vendors of various goods were not the only ones, for hand worked merry go rounds with colourful dragon or elephant faces, various kinds of swings, and even a Ferris wheel had somehow wound their way through the constricted twisting road, that led to the village.
Unknown to the recently arrived settlers of the new apartment complexes around, something was afoot. There was a growing excitement in the village of Wadgaon Sheri, less than a kilometer away. As the day awaited for a year grew closer, the village took on a festive look. Not just the residents of Wadgaon Sheri but even those of other areas close by; Shastri Nagar, Yerwada and even outlying areas waited for the day of the jatra to honour the deity of the village.
I first heard about it from my maid. Eager to go to the Jatra, she asked to be let off early on Saturday and I agreed. I held my peace through that day but come Sunday curiosity got the better of me, and nothing would do but visiting the Jatra myself along with my close companion, the camera. It was to be a simple visit, I would take an auto rickshaw from the gate, look around, find a few photo opportunities and then get back home in the same rick. I did not plan on being away for more than thirty minutes. So we plan but reality is always different.
I felt their excitement right from the gate itself, as groups of people joyfully walked to the mela they left me with an impression of a medley of bright clothes, laughter, chatter, fragrances from flowers worn in the hair, floating on the cool February breeze, among others, as I waited for a rickshaw. The excitement continued as the rick made its way through the colourful stalls on either side. We stopped close to the rides. I had barely looked through my lens at the Ferris wheel etched against a cerulean sky, when a neatly dressed band of boys encircled me, insisting I take their picture. A voice piped up asking “Yahan shooting ho rahi hai kya?” Looking at the limitations of my Lumix I could only sigh and reply that “Nahin, is camera sey to nahin,”
The group was persistent about their pictures being taken and I happily obliged them, feeling for a moment not a bystander but one of the crowd, this was part of the fun I had come here to find. I was thinking of ordinary pictures but the boys certainly surprised and amused me by striking creative poses. Smiling to myself I could only conclude that they had been watching more than a few Bollywood thrillers.
I stepped on to the road and started drinking in the variegated sight. There wasn’t much traffic, as most of the people preferred keeping out of the way of the mela going crowds. An occasional motor bike passed by honking loudly. Laughter and chatter and some music were the loudest sounds. Strangely there were no street cries, the hawkers knowing that the people would come to them by themselves, sat around and waited. They sat on the dusty pavements, often only protected by the dust by bits of sack or some other cloth. Some sat, surrounded by litter, plastic bags and strewn newspapers - discarded by fair goers after their satisfying treat. There were others luckier, who had found cleaner spots.
There were stalls selling colourful plastic toys, others selling hats in pretty pastel shades, some selling vividly hued artificial flowers and some trinkets. Even the clothes were a riot of colours. Sarees, salwar kameezes and frocks in yellow, orange, green, red, and blue all added to the gaiety of the atmosphere. What really caught me though was the total enjoyment and joie de vivre here. The children were excited and interested in everything, the rides, the plastic toys, the ice golas and other goodies on sale, and everyone was enjoying everything with a fervour I do not often witness. Their sparkling eyes and lively faces certainly infused me with an equal exuberance. I watched as some kids caressed a ride almost reverentially. Others passed by slurping their ice golas with unmitigated enjoyment that made my mouth water as well. A girl longingly touched a plastic doll, delight shining in her eyes when her mother bought it for her. When, I wondered had I seen such delight in my own children’s eyes at a new acquisition? These children were also part of the urban milieu but economic limitations kept them from having too many possessions. The malls, multiplexes and fast food restaurants their more affluent but jaded counterparts frequented, were foreign to them. Yet they proved beyond doubt my theory that the more we give our children the more we take away from them the most important thing, the ability to enjoy what they have.
Shaking my head against this depressing reverie I once again joined into the fun and started taking pictures of everything as the crowds milled around me, both of us coming in each other’s way. Often deleting a few pics as suddenly an unexpected hand, face, or shadow obliterated my carefully thought out compositions. One of the things that puzzled me was that the offerings here were often to be found on the pavements and markets of Pune, where the vendors would wait for long periods for customers, yet here they had suddenly donned an undeniable magnetism that the buyers found irresistible.
Another mystery was that more than one person approached me and asked me to take their picture, or that of their wife and children. Though I was using a digital camera, not a single person asked to see the picture on the LCD screen. Why would they want a complete stranger to have their picture when they would never see it, is a question that continues to baffle me. In a time of growing internet crime and wariness against cameras among the urban populace, this behaviour endeared them to me even further. I had only traveled a kilometer at the most but it seemed I had stepped at least a decade back in time, when everything was much simpler, smiles were real, so was pleasure, people were genuine and children most of all were not bored, world weary and jaded.
As I was reflecting on all this, a young man came up to me and offered to show me the real mela. He pointed to some tents where a few ladies sat and children played. There was a genuine earnestness about him that made me follow him quite gladly, curious at what he was going to show me. We had to bend down to go through the barrier of a ride to where the fair folk lived. The girls and boys working with the fair immediately surrounded us, these were quite grubby and dressed in ragged clothes unlike the neat villagers, but this was in no way an impediment to their pleasure. Some of the excited boys climbed on the high swings of a ride and posed for a picture, while their mothers began shouting loudly at them to come down before they got hurt. A little girl, whose father owned that ride posed with one of the swings. What can I say? Just that despite her threadbare dress, the sun shone through her bright, sweet smile.
Then it was time to meet Pannalal, the wonder donkey. Nothing would satisfy the crowd but that I entered the raggedy tent where the show was held each evening and took pictures of Pannalal. To enter the enclosure the donkey was kept in, I had to pass by his legs and risk the swift kick that Pannalal usually meted out to strangers who came too close. Happily for me though, the smart donkey that he was, Pannalal sensed that this was his five minutes of fame, and held his peace. So I took pictures of Pannalal and the boy who worked with him, all the while wondering what was I doing here, taking pictures of a donkey, yet it all made sense. So what did Pannalal do that made him so popular? Well, they told me, he knew things; could tell colours, dates of birth, foretell the future, when given a choice he always chose the right thing. Impressive! That donkey knew more than I ever did. From Pannalal we moved to the puppeteer Hiralal or the ‘Man in the Lion’s mask’. Of course I had to take a picture of the face behind the mask as well. After that they introduced me to Pannalal’s owner, a Rajasthani lady who covered her head with her saree pallu for the picture.
Curiosity was aroused, the mela was held here for just two days, so who were these people, where did they come from and how did they earn a regular livelihood? Ramdas, the person who had originally offered to take me around told me that they lived in Pune itself, but they took their rides and shows from Jatra to Jatra in the outlying villages. There was always a Jatra or Urs held somewhere and these afforded them plenty of opportunities to earn a decent living all year long. They lived in proper homes, though during the Jatra they would manage with makeshift tents. He took me to a couple of these tents to get a glimpse of their life behind the colour and gaiety. The tent was a rather worn out, grimy one that had seen many such fetes in its extensive lifetime. There were two metal beds within one, without mattresses and some vessels and boxes. A woman sat on one and smiled obligingly as I took her picture with her daughter. A teenage girl got a wood fire going and placed a medium sized vessel on it with water for boiling, when queried if she was making tea she told me that it was their evening meal. I wondered what she would be adding to the water later, perhaps rice. It was a hard way to live and yet these people had accepted it as their way of life and carried on with a happy heart and a ready smile.
The sun was going down, the light was beginning to fade, it was time to head home. At the fair though, the bright lights were coming on, the crowds were growing, soon the rides would begin their exciting whirls, and in my imagination I could already hear the children’s shouts of joy. In their tents Pannalal and Hiralal would perform their respective shows to assemblies of thrilled villagers. I was glad to have been part of all this, as I returned home I knew I was carrying these sights and experiences away in more than the camera. These people with their exuberance and innocence had touched me. I would remember them and hoped that maybe some would remember me too.
Friday, February 16, 2007
From Dreams to Bitter Realities to a Pleasant Day
Therefore Mumbai, being the city I loved, was the first choice, but the attractions of Mumbai had begun to fade over the years. The time to go from point A to point B had trebled in the last ten years. The traffic was impossible, the humidity killing, and the roads disgusting. Moreover all one could get for a small fortune was a small, cramped apartment.
Settling there seemed to be an unappetizing prospect. Pune was never on the horizon and never considered. It was only while making one of my half hearted searches for property in Mumbai on the net that I found a site that also had listings for apartments in Pune, the descriptions were interesting, and allured I began a year long odyssey on the net for a place to live.
The more I read, the more desirable the prospect looked. This ‘Queen of the Deccan’, sitting pretty among the Sahyadris, was an enticement to eyes that had longed to look at mountains and greenery. Sobriquets like ‘Oxford of the East’ increased its appeal, after all education was the prime reason for moving. The many apartment complexes on sites like punerealestate.com, offered every convenience we were used to, and much more. The tree lined avenues, 40% of the land under green cover, proximity to places like Panchgani, Khandala, even the Konkan, added to the charm. Mumbai was a short distance away, and the expressway a dream to travel upon. We would not be ensconced right in the lap of the family, yet would be close enough to spend week ends with them. Its centralized location made Pune seem like the perfect spot from which paths spread out to innumerable exciting destinations. Visions of adventures and discoveries began dancing before my eyes. I felt God was guiding me.
Finally I settled on one apartment complex, after scrutinizing almost a dozen, day after day. When we reached Bombay that summer of 2003, early one morning my girls and I took a taxi and drove down to Pune, without informing a soul. The complex did not disappoint for it was all that it promised to be on the net. The buildings and landscaped gardens were aesthetically designed, but it was the sugarcane fields on both sides, the teeming birdlife, the baya nests hanging from trees, and lastly the kingfisher on a power line that really clinched the deal. The areas closest to us were a sleepy, upper middle class suburb on one side with pretty houses and prettier gardens and a village with all its idiosyncrasies on the other. The purchase and the legal formalities went off without a hitch. We learnt that the builder I had chosen had a reputation not only for honesty but also for professionalism. It truly seemed like we had been guided.
The next three years were spent dreaming about all the exciting things we were going to do. I began to imagine traveling down many of the mountain roads, exploring each cranny and cliff, walking in wildflower meadows and bathing in waterfalls. Our holidays had always coincided with the monsoons and we had only seen the mountains as dream like places cloaked in cloudy mantles, under their verdant cover, with snaking silvery waterfalls. Oh those pessimistic detractors warned, but to deaf ears, their words unheard and unheeded. It seemed we had only existed till now, and would really live only once we moved.
How often it happens that we look forward to something with rose coloured glasses only expecting the good and never anticipating the bad. perhaps it is that in human nature that continues to drive us towards change and and what we might view as an improvement in our life or situation. Those among us always expecting the worst are labelled as pessimists and to be honest are rarely the ones to try to experiment or try a life out of their comfort zone. Even within their comfort zones they are miserable each moment wondering when the sky is about to make a rapid descent on their heads.
Optimism, what a wonderful way of thinking! Lets us go through each day happily, though maybe unrealistically sometimes, yet we do not anticipate trouble beforehand and therefore are able to dream and live on a cloud nine even if it exists only in our imaginations. So I lived for three years on my own soft cosy cloud, it was not pink I was viewing the world through though, but green. I could not wait to move to a land of green, fields and hills, gardens and forest. Perhaps I would have been more ready to be realistic had my husband not always introduced new doubts. The more he thought up potential problems regarding our forthcoming move, the tighter I clung to my ideal dream world. My roses were hybrid, I had bred out the thorns, there were no rough edges, there were no stormy seas.
Yet for all the problems that arose, I would advice people not to anticipate trouble before trouble comes calling, for you can never really know what form it is going to come in. Troubles have a very strange nature, they never come in the form in which we expect them, and so worrying about impending problems is a total waste of time that can be spent in so many more enjoyable ways.
Cling to the happiness life brings, relish it, enjoy it, and when you face a problem do not let it overwhelm you to an extent where it looms so big that you are unable to see the sunlight through it. Problems can be solved when taken apart and handled in small manageable bits. Most of all, life itself and all its wonderful offerings, small moments of joy, of happiness, love, companionship, pleasure in nature, etc should not be forsaken just because the mind is confronted with some difficulties. These are what living is all about, not the small or big wrinkles that may occur on the sheet of life.
Perhaps it was a bit naïve but I am glad that I did not waste the time worrying, but in pleasant anticipation and in March 2006 we finally moved to India, rose coloured glasses firmly in place and then the troubles began, ones we could not have expected.
The first were more of a series of shocks than problems. Turning left from the Highway into the Pune we were confronted with the potholes all the way till our home. We wondered what had become of the roads since we had last been here. In 2003 we had compared them favourably with Bombay roads but now we could not compare them favourably even with a bullock cart track in the remotest village in India. I will leave that here, for enough has been written on the state of the roads and I am glad that many have now improved considerably, though no doubt countless backbones have paid for their previous neglect.
Our second shock was the metamorphosis of our sleepy area, which had now turned into a throbbing glass and concrete IT hub. Any major metropolis would be proud of this blooming suburb with its state of the art complexes, malls and multiplexes. In vain I sought the quaint charm last witnessed.
Our little place too had become part of the outsourcing world. The once unending fields besides our complex now proudly sported a brand new call centre, with another on the way. We should be happy we were told, the price of our property had doubled, but the truth is; for me and for others too I am sure, that the greenery is the major inducement of moving to Pune and if that is not saved and cared for, and if development is not properly planned and controlled, this will become just another highly polluted, ugly, grey, metro.
Once over this shock we began sorting out our many problems. The major one among these was admissions.
Newspapers while extolling the education opportunities in Pune, never wrote about how hard admissions would be. Almost, in every school we visited, it was impossible to meet the principal. Often we were turned away from the gate itself by the security. This, after taking a bus at 6:30 am from Bombay to reach Pune at 10 am. There was no sympathy for the fact that we had traveled such a long way or that we were trying to resettle in our own country. I began to strongly suspect that the media was actually over hyping and selling Pune for some financial inducements other than the advertisements. Everyone who had promised to help us, either seemed to be unavailable on their phones, or else permanently out of the city. This taught me that people here tended to make promises they either had no intention of fulfilling, or then no real way of keeping. It was always better to have other options and an alternate plan of action ready.
There were some who wanted to be paid, outsiders who said that if I offered such and such amount to the school, my child would be easily granted admission, but I wondered what kind of education and ideals would be imparted to the children by an institution where the staff was corrupt. I wonder if the great Mahatma would be pleased to know that though we Indians do not remember his teachings, his picture does influence our decisions a lot when it is on the currency notes. Yes, sadly today we Indians carry Gandhiji not in our hearts but only in our pockets. I cannot really confirm that the staffs were corrupt as no one directly asked me for a bribe, how would they, when they were totally unavailable, but it was implied time and again by others.
As a word of warning to others, I have since then learnt that there are many touts who promise seats in educational institutions and desperate parents are only too happy to pay, sadly losing their money, so do beware. I though, was adamant that I would not buy a seat for either of my children. They had been brought up in a corruption free environment, and abetting bribery was not going to be in their first experience or lesson in their home country. The other alternative was an IGCSE School. This seemed ironical as I had always been an advocate of Indian education in Kuwait. Here in India though, among all the ICSE and GCSE schools I had no option left but to choose one of the newly mushrooming crop of IG schools offering a Cambridge Certificate.
The school I chose was new and they welcomed admissions. Each class was going to be limited to only twenty seats which assured personal attention from all the teachers. The counselor spent a long time with me, allaying my doubts and showing me all the certificates of recognition that the school had received, both from Cambridge and the Indian universities. In a way it was a moral victory too because though the fees were very high, I was paying them for services offered, a full cheque payment, and not under the table in a slimy, shady deal.
The next admission was for my other child who had actually done FY of college externally from another university. The said university took its own sweet time in giving the transfer certificate by which time most of the renowned colleges had already filled their quotas. I made a silly mistake here I admit. I believed people who said that her percentage was too low and she would never get admission without paying a heavy bribe. I advice everyone, never to accept anything as God’s own truth from anyone, even well wishers, but to find it out for themselves. When I finally found the courage to go directly to the colleges, I found that many of the good colleges like Garware, Modern and others were willing to take her, sadly we did not have the required transfer certificate. An external exam had been a convenient choice for us, as it gave us another year in Kuwait to get our affairs in order, but it could have been an expensive choice. Whoever tells you that external degrees are the same do not believe them, for they do not carry the same weight. Luckily, an external FY B Com result is treated the same as one from a college, while giving admissions for the next year. I was advised by a professor in a very reputable institute that I should immediately get her into regular college. It was this kind man who we had met for the first time, God bless him, who guided us to a newly opened college, where she would surely get admission. Here once again she was able to get individual attention and the lecturers were very helpful. Also the students here are much closer to their traditions and culture and so she too is able to learn much about it and about a way of living different from what she was used to. This pleases me immensely when I see how fast this same culture is disappearing from many among us.
Once the admissions were confirmed we moved to our new house one afternoon with nothing more than a mattress and a couple of pillows and a few suitcases. Most of our things had arrived from Kuwait by ship till Chennai, and from there by road to Pune. The tin trunks and even the factory packed fridge, washing machine and stove took quite a beating. The house had no furniture and was still being painted so I was unable to open anything to check the state of their contents. This was a mistake as I could not claim the insurance. As the first rains had fallen on the very evening the goods were delivered and the tin trunks had arrived damaged, this resulted in water seeping into the trunks and spoiling many of the books, clothes and other items in them. We had tried to pack them the best way we knew, using a lot of newspaper and tape yet we had been careless and perhaps even stupid. I advice anyone who is shipping their goods to crate everything, spend freely on bubble wrap and thermacol and see to it that your parcels are waterproofed. In the end the little expense and trouble will save a great deal. After I had buried my prized china; a gorgeous plate with a sea scene from Iraq, hand painted plates from Southern Africa, and some other items lovingly cherished for years, I began the salvage operation. The fridge had a leak and all its gas was lost. The filter of the washing machine was totally punched in. The stove luckily had escaped without much trauma.
I was lucky to find a person to repair the washing machine, who brought someone who was an expert refrigerator repairman. Not only was he a genius but also extremely scrupulous. He asked for about Rupees 2000/- to repair the leak and fill the gas, offering me a 1 year guarantee. Sadly there was not one but three leaks and since then he has had to repair them and has filled gas three times and has done so without asking for another paisa. The fridge has been working well now and it has been quite a few months. The washing machine too is working well and since then they have installed my stove and television all for very reasonable sums of money. I think I am very lucky to have found them especially as they come every time I imagine a disaster and charge just about 50 rupees only after I insist on paying them for their trouble.
Getting a gas connection was another problem, wherever I went they said that the company was not giving new connections for the next six months. They gave me a number, said they would be in touch and whispered under their breath that I should not hold mine. For a while we used a camp stove. Then one day I was directed to a lady in the village close by who had taken an agency for Pushpa gas. Unfortunately, I soon realised that I had a bad deal because the cylinder not only is more expensive compared to the others but also contains much less gas..
Getting curtains stitched was another problem I faced. I was directed to Camp for my many requirements, but have since then realized that a trip to the Peths is a better option. Most shops refused to stitch my curtains as I had not bought the material from them. It was a shop close to Laxmi road where the owner agreed to send his tailor, who I think has done a reasonably good job. I did have to specify though that I wanted the curtains to sweep and the design to merge without appearing uneven.
I think that the worst among my problems was not any of ones I have mentioned before but the autorickshaw wallahs here. Their rudeness and unreasonable demands made life hell in the beginning. As the complex we had chosen to live in was a little away from the main road, they refused to come there without being paid at least 30 to 40 rupees extra. Often even then it was nearly impossible to find a rick. Many times I stood out for over an hour, often in the rain but no rick would have the decency to stop. I caught on very fast that they never had 5 rupees, even if their pockets were bursting with change. The rick guys here had no scruples about pocketing the difference if you were unlucky enough not to carry change. Evenings out became impossible as the mental stress generated by the rickshaw wallahs dissipated any pleasure we might have got out of a movie or dining out. Planning simple outings or trips became a nightmare. I know there are others out there who have had similar experiences and will not think I exaggerate when I say that if I hated living in Pune in those first months, it was only because of the rickshaw guys.
There is also a maid mafia in our complex and they control the rates and the hours. If one maid works for longer hours for less money she is soon dissuaded by the others. They never give one house more than two to three hours, often running from house to house leaving half the work undone. Many also have ingenious ways of relieving the kitchens of extra rations. Our complex has many young couples, both of whom work, and have no options but to give in to the maids’ demands. This makes it really difficult for others on a lower income, who have no choice but to comply with their unreasonable demands. The maids knowing they have full control take as many days off as they like. There are others who operate differently, making the ladies of the house totally dependent on them and then asking for loans regularly, which the ladies find difficult or often impossible to refuse.
Another bad experience I have had has been with home tuitions. The agencies offering tutor services ask for complete payment in advance. This puts the parents completely in their hands. When one makes an enquiry they are promised the moon, two hours of tuitions five days a week, completion of portion and revision, and one free class, so you can try out the tutor. Of course once the money is in their hands then, so are you. The timings are erratic, the five days become four and change so often that you lose complete track, the portion is completed at the speed of light and two days before the exam the tutor says that no revision was promised.
Home tuitions offer a great service and a very necessary one as school teachers are not allowed to coach their students so a few words of advice. Get it all in writing with the signature of the owner of the agency (you have no idea how fast staff changes here) and the tutor. If they refuse, dangle the carrot of needing tuitions all year long. Do not pay the money before you have that in writing and if possible break the amounts into two or three payments which generally they will not agree but you can try. Follow your child’s progress. See what lessons are required to be done, and see to it that the tutor explains slowly and properly, and that the child follows the explanations. Do not accept the tutor’s words for it. Ask him to give homework and to correct it. Make sure that the portion is completed and so is the revision. I seriously think that some kind of law should be regulating these services so they do not defraud helpless parents and leave them high and dry before exams.
It is now been a few months since we have been here. I have managed to iron out all the wrinkles so that our existence is more or less smooth. I sorted out the rickshaw problem by taking the cell numbers of every driver with a cell, who was good enough to drop us without asking for extra money, or fighting half the way, or behaving like a martyr for taking us home. Before that I had to take one to the police station, and threaten another with dire consequences, though I had no idea what they would have been, fortunately he was unaware of my ignorance. Finally I have a list of decent, hard working men on my cell phone, who come to our building and do not put down the meter, till I am actually in the rick. As for the maid, she has been sheer luck, again a little bit of that divine help. We have lived through a few seasons here and have enjoyed each one, and the beautiful flora that blooms with it. There has been some unrest and a few incidences, since we have been here and one day was especially harrowing when my child was in school and a few people decided to stone the school’s buses. I would have preferred a cleaner, less polluted Pune, with more landscaping on the roads but overall though, it has been extremely pleasant. Learning about places, cultures, people, has been an enriching experience. We have discovered good places to shop and some pleasant gardens. Each day we learn some more and we live some more.
Settling there seemed to be an unappetizing prospect. Pune was never on the horizon and never considered. It was only while making one of my half hearted searches for property in Mumbai on the net that I found a site that also had listings for apartments in Pune, the descriptions were interesting, and allured I began a year long odyssey on the net for a place to live.
The more I read, the more desirable the prospect looked. This ‘Queen of the Deccan’, sitting pretty among the Sahyadris, was an enticement to eyes that had longed to look at mountains and greenery. Sobriquets like ‘Oxford of the East’ increased its appeal, after all education was the prime reason for moving. The many apartment complexes on sites like punerealestate.com, offered every convenience we were used to, and much more. The tree lined avenues, 40% of the land under green cover, proximity to places like Panchgani, Khandala, even the Konkan, added to the charm. Mumbai was a short distance away, and the expressway a dream to travel upon. We would not be ensconced right in the lap of the family, yet would be close enough to spend week ends with them. Its centralized location made Pune seem like the perfect spot from which paths spread out to innumerable exciting destinations. Visions of adventures and discoveries began dancing before my eyes. I felt God was guiding me.
Finally I settled on one apartment complex, after scrutinizing almost a dozen, day after day. When we reached Bombay that summer of 2003, early one morning my girls and I took a taxi and drove down to Pune, without informing a soul. The complex did not disappoint for it was all that it promised to be on the net. The buildings and landscaped gardens were aesthetically designed, but it was the sugarcane fields on both sides, the teeming birdlife, the baya nests hanging from trees, and lastly the kingfisher on a power line that really clinched the deal. The areas closest to us were a sleepy, upper middle class suburb on one side with pretty houses and prettier gardens and a village with all its idiosyncrasies on the other. The purchase and the legal formalities went off without a hitch. We learnt that the builder I had chosen had a reputation not only for honesty but also for professionalism. It truly seemed like we had been guided.
The next three years were spent dreaming about all the exciting things we were going to do. I began to imagine traveling down many of the mountain roads, exploring each cranny and cliff, walking in wildflower meadows and bathing in waterfalls. Our holidays had always coincided with the monsoons and we had only seen the mountains as dream like places cloaked in cloudy mantles, under their verdant cover, with snaking silvery waterfalls. Oh those pessimistic detractors warned, but to deaf ears, their words unheard and unheeded. It seemed we had only existed till now, and would really live only once we moved.
How often it happens that we look forward to something with rose coloured glasses only expecting the good and never anticipating the bad. perhaps it is that in human nature that continues to drive us towards change and and what we might view as an improvement in our life or situation. Those among us always expecting the worst are labelled as pessimists and to be honest are rarely the ones to try to experiment or try a life out of their comfort zone. Even within their comfort zones they are miserable each moment wondering when the sky is about to make a rapid descent on their heads.
Optimism, what a wonderful way of thinking! Lets us go through each day happily, though maybe unrealistically sometimes, yet we do not anticipate trouble beforehand and therefore are able to dream and live on a cloud nine even if it exists only in our imaginations. So I lived for three years on my own soft cosy cloud, it was not pink I was viewing the world through though, but green. I could not wait to move to a land of green, fields and hills, gardens and forest. Perhaps I would have been more ready to be realistic had my husband not always introduced new doubts. The more he thought up potential problems regarding our forthcoming move, the tighter I clung to my ideal dream world. My roses were hybrid, I had bred out the thorns, there were no rough edges, there were no stormy seas.
Yet for all the problems that arose, I would advice people not to anticipate trouble before trouble comes calling, for you can never really know what form it is going to come in. Troubles have a very strange nature, they never come in the form in which we expect them, and so worrying about impending problems is a total waste of time that can be spent in so many more enjoyable ways.
Cling to the happiness life brings, relish it, enjoy it, and when you face a problem do not let it overwhelm you to an extent where it looms so big that you are unable to see the sunlight through it. Problems can be solved when taken apart and handled in small manageable bits. Most of all, life itself and all its wonderful offerings, small moments of joy, of happiness, love, companionship, pleasure in nature, etc should not be forsaken just because the mind is confronted with some difficulties. These are what living is all about, not the small or big wrinkles that may occur on the sheet of life.
Perhaps it was a bit naïve but I am glad that I did not waste the time worrying, but in pleasant anticipation and in March 2006 we finally moved to India, rose coloured glasses firmly in place and then the troubles began, ones we could not have expected.
The first were more of a series of shocks than problems. Turning left from the Highway into the Pune we were confronted with the potholes all the way till our home. We wondered what had become of the roads since we had last been here. In 2003 we had compared them favourably with Bombay roads but now we could not compare them favourably even with a bullock cart track in the remotest village in India. I will leave that here, for enough has been written on the state of the roads and I am glad that many have now improved considerably, though no doubt countless backbones have paid for their previous neglect.
Our second shock was the metamorphosis of our sleepy area, which had now turned into a throbbing glass and concrete IT hub. Any major metropolis would be proud of this blooming suburb with its state of the art complexes, malls and multiplexes. In vain I sought the quaint charm last witnessed.
Our little place too had become part of the outsourcing world. The once unending fields besides our complex now proudly sported a brand new call centre, with another on the way. We should be happy we were told, the price of our property had doubled, but the truth is; for me and for others too I am sure, that the greenery is the major inducement of moving to Pune and if that is not saved and cared for, and if development is not properly planned and controlled, this will become just another highly polluted, ugly, grey, metro.
Once over this shock we began sorting out our many problems. The major one among these was admissions.
Newspapers while extolling the education opportunities in Pune, never wrote about how hard admissions would be. Almost, in every school we visited, it was impossible to meet the principal. Often we were turned away from the gate itself by the security. This, after taking a bus at 6:30 am from Bombay to reach Pune at 10 am. There was no sympathy for the fact that we had traveled such a long way or that we were trying to resettle in our own country. I began to strongly suspect that the media was actually over hyping and selling Pune for some financial inducements other than the advertisements. Everyone who had promised to help us, either seemed to be unavailable on their phones, or else permanently out of the city. This taught me that people here tended to make promises they either had no intention of fulfilling, or then no real way of keeping. It was always better to have other options and an alternate plan of action ready.
There were some who wanted to be paid, outsiders who said that if I offered such and such amount to the school, my child would be easily granted admission, but I wondered what kind of education and ideals would be imparted to the children by an institution where the staff was corrupt. I wonder if the great Mahatma would be pleased to know that though we Indians do not remember his teachings, his picture does influence our decisions a lot when it is on the currency notes. Yes, sadly today we Indians carry Gandhiji not in our hearts but only in our pockets. I cannot really confirm that the staffs were corrupt as no one directly asked me for a bribe, how would they, when they were totally unavailable, but it was implied time and again by others.
As a word of warning to others, I have since then learnt that there are many touts who promise seats in educational institutions and desperate parents are only too happy to pay, sadly losing their money, so do beware. I though, was adamant that I would not buy a seat for either of my children. They had been brought up in a corruption free environment, and abetting bribery was not going to be in their first experience or lesson in their home country. The other alternative was an IGCSE School. This seemed ironical as I had always been an advocate of Indian education in Kuwait. Here in India though, among all the ICSE and GCSE schools I had no option left but to choose one of the newly mushrooming crop of IG schools offering a Cambridge Certificate.
The school I chose was new and they welcomed admissions. Each class was going to be limited to only twenty seats which assured personal attention from all the teachers. The counselor spent a long time with me, allaying my doubts and showing me all the certificates of recognition that the school had received, both from Cambridge and the Indian universities. In a way it was a moral victory too because though the fees were very high, I was paying them for services offered, a full cheque payment, and not under the table in a slimy, shady deal.
The next admission was for my other child who had actually done FY of college externally from another university. The said university took its own sweet time in giving the transfer certificate by which time most of the renowned colleges had already filled their quotas. I made a silly mistake here I admit. I believed people who said that her percentage was too low and she would never get admission without paying a heavy bribe. I advice everyone, never to accept anything as God’s own truth from anyone, even well wishers, but to find it out for themselves. When I finally found the courage to go directly to the colleges, I found that many of the good colleges like Garware, Modern and others were willing to take her, sadly we did not have the required transfer certificate. An external exam had been a convenient choice for us, as it gave us another year in Kuwait to get our affairs in order, but it could have been an expensive choice. Whoever tells you that external degrees are the same do not believe them, for they do not carry the same weight. Luckily, an external FY B Com result is treated the same as one from a college, while giving admissions for the next year. I was advised by a professor in a very reputable institute that I should immediately get her into regular college. It was this kind man who we had met for the first time, God bless him, who guided us to a newly opened college, where she would surely get admission. Here once again she was able to get individual attention and the lecturers were very helpful. Also the students here are much closer to their traditions and culture and so she too is able to learn much about it and about a way of living different from what she was used to. This pleases me immensely when I see how fast this same culture is disappearing from many among us.
Once the admissions were confirmed we moved to our new house one afternoon with nothing more than a mattress and a couple of pillows and a few suitcases. Most of our things had arrived from Kuwait by ship till Chennai, and from there by road to Pune. The tin trunks and even the factory packed fridge, washing machine and stove took quite a beating. The house had no furniture and was still being painted so I was unable to open anything to check the state of their contents. This was a mistake as I could not claim the insurance. As the first rains had fallen on the very evening the goods were delivered and the tin trunks had arrived damaged, this resulted in water seeping into the trunks and spoiling many of the books, clothes and other items in them. We had tried to pack them the best way we knew, using a lot of newspaper and tape yet we had been careless and perhaps even stupid. I advice anyone who is shipping their goods to crate everything, spend freely on bubble wrap and thermacol and see to it that your parcels are waterproofed. In the end the little expense and trouble will save a great deal. After I had buried my prized china; a gorgeous plate with a sea scene from Iraq, hand painted plates from Southern Africa, and some other items lovingly cherished for years, I began the salvage operation. The fridge had a leak and all its gas was lost. The filter of the washing machine was totally punched in. The stove luckily had escaped without much trauma.
I was lucky to find a person to repair the washing machine, who brought someone who was an expert refrigerator repairman. Not only was he a genius but also extremely scrupulous. He asked for about Rupees 2000/- to repair the leak and fill the gas, offering me a 1 year guarantee. Sadly there was not one but three leaks and since then he has had to repair them and has filled gas three times and has done so without asking for another paisa. The fridge has been working well now and it has been quite a few months. The washing machine too is working well and since then they have installed my stove and television all for very reasonable sums of money. I think I am very lucky to have found them especially as they come every time I imagine a disaster and charge just about 50 rupees only after I insist on paying them for their trouble.
Getting a gas connection was another problem, wherever I went they said that the company was not giving new connections for the next six months. They gave me a number, said they would be in touch and whispered under their breath that I should not hold mine. For a while we used a camp stove. Then one day I was directed to a lady in the village close by who had taken an agency for Pushpa gas. Unfortunately, I soon realised that I had a bad deal because the cylinder not only is more expensive compared to the others but also contains much less gas..
Getting curtains stitched was another problem I faced. I was directed to Camp for my many requirements, but have since then realized that a trip to the Peths is a better option. Most shops refused to stitch my curtains as I had not bought the material from them. It was a shop close to Laxmi road where the owner agreed to send his tailor, who I think has done a reasonably good job. I did have to specify though that I wanted the curtains to sweep and the design to merge without appearing uneven.
I think that the worst among my problems was not any of ones I have mentioned before but the autorickshaw wallahs here. Their rudeness and unreasonable demands made life hell in the beginning. As the complex we had chosen to live in was a little away from the main road, they refused to come there without being paid at least 30 to 40 rupees extra. Often even then it was nearly impossible to find a rick. Many times I stood out for over an hour, often in the rain but no rick would have the decency to stop. I caught on very fast that they never had 5 rupees, even if their pockets were bursting with change. The rick guys here had no scruples about pocketing the difference if you were unlucky enough not to carry change. Evenings out became impossible as the mental stress generated by the rickshaw wallahs dissipated any pleasure we might have got out of a movie or dining out. Planning simple outings or trips became a nightmare. I know there are others out there who have had similar experiences and will not think I exaggerate when I say that if I hated living in Pune in those first months, it was only because of the rickshaw guys.
There is also a maid mafia in our complex and they control the rates and the hours. If one maid works for longer hours for less money she is soon dissuaded by the others. They never give one house more than two to three hours, often running from house to house leaving half the work undone. Many also have ingenious ways of relieving the kitchens of extra rations. Our complex has many young couples, both of whom work, and have no options but to give in to the maids’ demands. This makes it really difficult for others on a lower income, who have no choice but to comply with their unreasonable demands. The maids knowing they have full control take as many days off as they like. There are others who operate differently, making the ladies of the house totally dependent on them and then asking for loans regularly, which the ladies find difficult or often impossible to refuse.
Another bad experience I have had has been with home tuitions. The agencies offering tutor services ask for complete payment in advance. This puts the parents completely in their hands. When one makes an enquiry they are promised the moon, two hours of tuitions five days a week, completion of portion and revision, and one free class, so you can try out the tutor. Of course once the money is in their hands then, so are you. The timings are erratic, the five days become four and change so often that you lose complete track, the portion is completed at the speed of light and two days before the exam the tutor says that no revision was promised.
Home tuitions offer a great service and a very necessary one as school teachers are not allowed to coach their students so a few words of advice. Get it all in writing with the signature of the owner of the agency (you have no idea how fast staff changes here) and the tutor. If they refuse, dangle the carrot of needing tuitions all year long. Do not pay the money before you have that in writing and if possible break the amounts into two or three payments which generally they will not agree but you can try. Follow your child’s progress. See what lessons are required to be done, and see to it that the tutor explains slowly and properly, and that the child follows the explanations. Do not accept the tutor’s words for it. Ask him to give homework and to correct it. Make sure that the portion is completed and so is the revision. I seriously think that some kind of law should be regulating these services so they do not defraud helpless parents and leave them high and dry before exams.
It is now been a few months since we have been here. I have managed to iron out all the wrinkles so that our existence is more or less smooth. I sorted out the rickshaw problem by taking the cell numbers of every driver with a cell, who was good enough to drop us without asking for extra money, or fighting half the way, or behaving like a martyr for taking us home. Before that I had to take one to the police station, and threaten another with dire consequences, though I had no idea what they would have been, fortunately he was unaware of my ignorance. Finally I have a list of decent, hard working men on my cell phone, who come to our building and do not put down the meter, till I am actually in the rick. As for the maid, she has been sheer luck, again a little bit of that divine help. We have lived through a few seasons here and have enjoyed each one, and the beautiful flora that blooms with it. There has been some unrest and a few incidences, since we have been here and one day was especially harrowing when my child was in school and a few people decided to stone the school’s buses. I would have preferred a cleaner, less polluted Pune, with more landscaping on the roads but overall though, it has been extremely pleasant. Learning about places, cultures, people, has been an enriching experience. We have discovered good places to shop and some pleasant gardens. Each day we learn some more and we live some more.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
A Strange Childhood
We had always discussed buying a home and settling in India as a far off possibility, never seriously. It was hard for us to envisage living apart and impossible for my husband to think of working anywhere but in Kuwait. He had always worked there right from the start, he knew the market well and everyone knew him equally well. It would be impossible to build those kind of contacts in a new place.
But the fact, that our eldest daughter would be finishing her schooling soon and would need to pursure her further education in our home country, could not be ignored. So at some point I began half hearted, perfunctory searches on the internet for a suitable flat in Mumbai.
Mumbai was the place where my family lived and it had always been dear to me. As a child I grew up with a maiden aunt about 170 km from Mumbai. I would always be happy to come back to Mumbai, to my father's house and to the family. It was a lonely existence where we lived, away in the quietness of the country. Mumbai though, was vibrant, and so was our family home there. It was always filled with people from all over the world, as my father loved to entertain and had many friends everywhere.
Besides that, at that time both the seaport and international airport were in Mumbai, and any relatives or friends who were travelling abroad and who resided in other towns, would invariably stay with us, for the duration that it took to get their documents in order. So it was that we would almost always arrive from the country to an exciting house, filled with interesting people. All our photographs of our childhood have been taken at the airport, either receiving someone, or seeing someone off. In those days, travel was not as common as it is now, and it was traditional for all the relatives and friends to go to the airport to see off or recive the passenger, as well as to take a flower garland very like a Hawaiian lei, for them. So it was that we would drive off, often in the early hours of the morning, to the airport to see off friends and relatives.
My siblings also lived in Mumbai. We owned quite a large, five storey apartment block, half of which was rented out to tenants, and different flats in the other half were occupied by us and our aunts, uncles and cousins. The flat which my family occupied was actually three large flats in one so there was always a lot of space ofr everyone and everything... even my fathe's perfume and incense laboratory.. Dad made perfumes and incense sticks and the whole place smelt deliciously of jasmine, rose, keora, vetiver, amber, Indian jasmine, night jasmine, etc etc etc... Growing up with such a plethora of intoxicating fragrances, it is impossible for me to bear cheap perfume now.
As the flat was huge all of us cousins used to gather on its terrace and play a variety of games and this again was something I missed growing up alone in my solitary castle, for solitary castle it was, a huge run down mansion like house, completely empty except for us three, who occupied the second floor and one very very old Parsi couple who lived in a dusty unkempt place on the first floor.. They though seemed like ghosts, as they never went out nor did anyone ever come to visit them.
So it was almost enough excitement for a little girl, but that was not all for through the holidays my father would take us to exhibitions, fairs, the circus and to the movies. He loved movies and made sure that he took us to all the good children's movies that came. I inherited his love for sharing good movies and do it with my children now, sharing the many wonderful movies I had first seen in the theatre with my father: the list is endless, Those magnificent men in their flying machines, Chitty chitty bang bang, Singling nuns, Sound of music, Mary Poppins, My fair lady, Hatari, Born free, African Safari, etc being some I remember....I was most gratified when my daughters loved Benhur as much as my father and I had done.
But the fact, that our eldest daughter would be finishing her schooling soon and would need to pursure her further education in our home country, could not be ignored. So at some point I began half hearted, perfunctory searches on the internet for a suitable flat in Mumbai.
Mumbai was the place where my family lived and it had always been dear to me. As a child I grew up with a maiden aunt about 170 km from Mumbai. I would always be happy to come back to Mumbai, to my father's house and to the family. It was a lonely existence where we lived, away in the quietness of the country. Mumbai though, was vibrant, and so was our family home there. It was always filled with people from all over the world, as my father loved to entertain and had many friends everywhere.
Besides that, at that time both the seaport and international airport were in Mumbai, and any relatives or friends who were travelling abroad and who resided in other towns, would invariably stay with us, for the duration that it took to get their documents in order. So it was that we would almost always arrive from the country to an exciting house, filled with interesting people. All our photographs of our childhood have been taken at the airport, either receiving someone, or seeing someone off. In those days, travel was not as common as it is now, and it was traditional for all the relatives and friends to go to the airport to see off or recive the passenger, as well as to take a flower garland very like a Hawaiian lei, for them. So it was that we would drive off, often in the early hours of the morning, to the airport to see off friends and relatives.
My siblings also lived in Mumbai. We owned quite a large, five storey apartment block, half of which was rented out to tenants, and different flats in the other half were occupied by us and our aunts, uncles and cousins. The flat which my family occupied was actually three large flats in one so there was always a lot of space ofr everyone and everything... even my fathe's perfume and incense laboratory.. Dad made perfumes and incense sticks and the whole place smelt deliciously of jasmine, rose, keora, vetiver, amber, Indian jasmine, night jasmine, etc etc etc... Growing up with such a plethora of intoxicating fragrances, it is impossible for me to bear cheap perfume now.
As the flat was huge all of us cousins used to gather on its terrace and play a variety of games and this again was something I missed growing up alone in my solitary castle, for solitary castle it was, a huge run down mansion like house, completely empty except for us three, who occupied the second floor and one very very old Parsi couple who lived in a dusty unkempt place on the first floor.. They though seemed like ghosts, as they never went out nor did anyone ever come to visit them.
So it was almost enough excitement for a little girl, but that was not all for through the holidays my father would take us to exhibitions, fairs, the circus and to the movies. He loved movies and made sure that he took us to all the good children's movies that came. I inherited his love for sharing good movies and do it with my children now, sharing the many wonderful movies I had first seen in the theatre with my father: the list is endless, Those magnificent men in their flying machines, Chitty chitty bang bang, Singling nuns, Sound of music, Mary Poppins, My fair lady, Hatari, Born free, African Safari, etc being some I remember....I was most gratified when my daughters loved Benhur as much as my father and I had done.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
What Happened Before
We are Indians and we lived in Kuwait for almost two decades. My husband lived there much longer. We had settled into a life of comfortable complacency till it was upset, first by the Iraqi invasion on 2nd Aug 1990 and later by the American attack of Iraq on 21st March 2003.
After Iraq occupied Kuwait in 1990, we had moved back to India for a year, but it was difficult starting something here, as the system was so different. My husband was so used to working in Kuwait, that he could not wait for the war to end, so we could go back.. and go back we did. Go back despite the burning oil wells, the mined beaches, the thick black smoke everywhere and the large scale destruction. In those early days of course it was the very destruction that meant money and companies came in from everywhere to cash in on this. Cleaning and rebuilding was the mantra in those days. Frenetic activity made sure that things were back to normal as soon as possible.
My husband worked as an engineer in an American company and was involved in many important projects, so life began once again and once again complacency set in, except when once in a while we would be jolted out of it, by Saddam's continuing threats. He hung over us and our new found peace and prosperity, like the legendary sword of Damocles. Every few months, a new threat of being bombed by weapons of mass destruction loomed. Imagining dying with one's family in a chemical attack, is a very nasty thing, especially when one has has seen pictures of the Halabja poison gas attack between 15 March–19 March 1988. The fear of death is a death in itself, and living with it day in and day out is like dying every single day, and so it would happen for a few days and then everything would be calm and normal and we would breathe easy again, till the next time. In such an environment it is but natural that the economy kept rocking and only the best survived.
It was a hard time, yet few people really wanted Iraq to be attacked when America finally took that decision. That year was a crucial year for my daughter. She was giving her 10th standard exam through the CBSE board New Delhi, and that is a very crucial exam for Indian school kids. It was natural to think that if America attacked Iraq, using its bases in Kuwait, then Iraq would retaliate by using Kuwait for target practice and it was not an unfounded fear. So months before the actual attack, a climate of fear set in. Helicopters would hover over the entire country and practise sirens went off throughout the day. I had a maid servant in those days from the Andhra Pradesh district of Cuddapah, and she poor, ignorant woman, was so frightened for her life, not knowing what was happening, that she would sit down and wail each time a chopper passed over head or a siren sounded.
So it was that in such a climate we went through life, a day at a time, trying to be as normal as possible. Soon plane loads of people, of all nationalities began leaving Kuwait, in fear. I do not know about the other airlines but the Indian planes arrived empty and passengers had to pay over double the fare for a one way ticket. The Indian airlines were good at evacuating, as they had had ample practice in 1990, when Air india evacuated over 111,000 people from Amman to Mumbai - a distance of 4,117 km, by operating 488 flights in association with Indian Airlines, during August 13 - October 11, 1990, lasting a total of 59 days. This feat is entered in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest evacuation by a civil airliner. Though at the time we were expected to pay for it, later this was waived by the government.
As the planes landed in Mumbai this time around, my parents watched on TV in horror, as wave upon wave of traumatised passengers, disembarked. The CBSE board made arrangements for the students of the 10th and 12 to give their exams in India. Teachers from British and American schools left en masse. But many Indians did not leave and we were among them. The decision to stay had been a conscious decision on my part. First of all I did not see why we should get the chance to run for our lives, when my husband for economic reasons, would have to continue staying back. The second, equally important reason was that I did not want my girls to grow up as people who ran at the smallest sign of trouble. We had left once before. but then I had a two year old, whereas now they were grown up and I wanted us to stay as a family and face what was coming with faith in God and courage.
So while people taped up their windows and prepared rooms in the basements, cleaning out supermarket shelves in a mad rush to hoard food, we went on as usual. I remember getting some silver duct tape which is still lying around somewhere in our home in Kuwait, unused. My daughters continued going to school and preparing for their different exams. The teachers of the various Indian schools (there are at least twelve in Kuwait) too stayed back to give moral support to their students.
Then it happened suddenly, without warning, on 21st March 2003, America attacked Iraq. The expected retaliatory attack came almost immediately. The first time, most people thought it was just another routine excercise, to soon learn that it was not and we had been attacked. But the attacks were mild and I must say the sirens were more frightening then the attacks.
Through all this, my elder daughter and all her class mates and other Indian girls of her school year, attended school, went for extra tutorials and studied day and night for their CBSE exams. There were attacks even during the exams though the missiles never came close. But the continuous sirens were enough to unnerve the best. At this trying time the teachers stood behind their students all the way and not enough can be said about their courage and that of their families. It was not for remuneration that they did this, for their pay was very meagre compared to teachers of western schools.
As the tanks rolled into Iraq, sandstorms like we had never seen before, arose and engulfed Kuwait in thick, choking, red coloured sand. On the news one could see that the soldiers in the desert were suffering the same fate. If it was so bad in the city that it entered through the closed windows, one could only imagine how much worse it must have been in the open desert. We watched TV day and night trying to make sense of the death and destruction going on just a short distance away. It was expremely traumatic and made me feel like bursting into tears for the slightest reason. It was at this time I wrote a poem on the death of an American soldier called 'I Remember, I Remember' and a short story on the senseless death due to bombing, of a small Iraqi boy, not yet three, called Ahmed. People were people and they were dying senselessly, unnecessarily. Dying so close to me and in the pain, there was neither friend nor foe, just the great sense of loss. These young people, these promises of the future, lay trampled in that merciless sand and it was heartbreaking and still is.
The planes looked for the missile launchers in the desert but could not destroy all. One evening we had been to the sea-side after the sandstorms had abated. March/April are pleasant in Kuwait normally, as it is spring time and this was the first time we had seen such sandstorms in this season of balmy breezes and wildflower carpets. That evening there were many people on the beaches and life looked almost normal. That night though, a missile hit one of the sea-side malls, 'Souq Sharq' and the first real destruction of any kind took place. Though it was not much, it still made people afraid and after that we rarely saw anyone else on the beaches.
One day there was no bread in the house, so we went to the supermarket and the bakery. There was a long queue at the bakery, people were buying enough bread to feed entire neighbourhoods. Later all that bread was finally wasted, unconsumed. At the bakery at that time, there was a television crew recording the madness, even a fight broke out between some of the people. We headed home after picking up some groceries as well. When we came close to the traffic lights near our building suddenly the sirens began and a policaman frantically asked us to stop and pointed upwards. We were so scared at his gestures that we ran out of the car looking upwards, thinking that he saw a missile coming in.
It was only later that we realised that he just wanted us to gather on an incline away from the road. Much later, when we realised that the direction he was pointing to was the south, and Iraq and its missiles lay towards the north, we really felt rather foolish and laughed at ourselves. But even now when we pass that particular traffic signal a slight shudder passes through me, though we sometimes mention it and laugh.
It was during these days that my father called to ask when we were coming. The entire family used to watch the returnees on TV, as well as the news that Kuwait was being hit and worry about us. I told him we would be there as soon as all the missile launchers that were attacking us were destroyed. It was not then but a couple of months later that we finally visited the family during the summer holidays.
After Iraq occupied Kuwait in 1990, we had moved back to India for a year, but it was difficult starting something here, as the system was so different. My husband was so used to working in Kuwait, that he could not wait for the war to end, so we could go back.. and go back we did. Go back despite the burning oil wells, the mined beaches, the thick black smoke everywhere and the large scale destruction. In those early days of course it was the very destruction that meant money and companies came in from everywhere to cash in on this. Cleaning and rebuilding was the mantra in those days. Frenetic activity made sure that things were back to normal as soon as possible.
My husband worked as an engineer in an American company and was involved in many important projects, so life began once again and once again complacency set in, except when once in a while we would be jolted out of it, by Saddam's continuing threats. He hung over us and our new found peace and prosperity, like the legendary sword of Damocles. Every few months, a new threat of being bombed by weapons of mass destruction loomed. Imagining dying with one's family in a chemical attack, is a very nasty thing, especially when one has has seen pictures of the Halabja poison gas attack between 15 March–19 March 1988. The fear of death is a death in itself, and living with it day in and day out is like dying every single day, and so it would happen for a few days and then everything would be calm and normal and we would breathe easy again, till the next time. In such an environment it is but natural that the economy kept rocking and only the best survived.
It was a hard time, yet few people really wanted Iraq to be attacked when America finally took that decision. That year was a crucial year for my daughter. She was giving her 10th standard exam through the CBSE board New Delhi, and that is a very crucial exam for Indian school kids. It was natural to think that if America attacked Iraq, using its bases in Kuwait, then Iraq would retaliate by using Kuwait for target practice and it was not an unfounded fear. So months before the actual attack, a climate of fear set in. Helicopters would hover over the entire country and practise sirens went off throughout the day. I had a maid servant in those days from the Andhra Pradesh district of Cuddapah, and she poor, ignorant woman, was so frightened for her life, not knowing what was happening, that she would sit down and wail each time a chopper passed over head or a siren sounded.
So it was that in such a climate we went through life, a day at a time, trying to be as normal as possible. Soon plane loads of people, of all nationalities began leaving Kuwait, in fear. I do not know about the other airlines but the Indian planes arrived empty and passengers had to pay over double the fare for a one way ticket. The Indian airlines were good at evacuating, as they had had ample practice in 1990, when Air india evacuated over 111,000 people from Amman to Mumbai - a distance of 4,117 km, by operating 488 flights in association with Indian Airlines, during August 13 - October 11, 1990, lasting a total of 59 days. This feat is entered in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest evacuation by a civil airliner. Though at the time we were expected to pay for it, later this was waived by the government.
As the planes landed in Mumbai this time around, my parents watched on TV in horror, as wave upon wave of traumatised passengers, disembarked. The CBSE board made arrangements for the students of the 10th and 12 to give their exams in India. Teachers from British and American schools left en masse. But many Indians did not leave and we were among them. The decision to stay had been a conscious decision on my part. First of all I did not see why we should get the chance to run for our lives, when my husband for economic reasons, would have to continue staying back. The second, equally important reason was that I did not want my girls to grow up as people who ran at the smallest sign of trouble. We had left once before. but then I had a two year old, whereas now they were grown up and I wanted us to stay as a family and face what was coming with faith in God and courage.
So while people taped up their windows and prepared rooms in the basements, cleaning out supermarket shelves in a mad rush to hoard food, we went on as usual. I remember getting some silver duct tape which is still lying around somewhere in our home in Kuwait, unused. My daughters continued going to school and preparing for their different exams. The teachers of the various Indian schools (there are at least twelve in Kuwait) too stayed back to give moral support to their students.
Then it happened suddenly, without warning, on 21st March 2003, America attacked Iraq. The expected retaliatory attack came almost immediately. The first time, most people thought it was just another routine excercise, to soon learn that it was not and we had been attacked. But the attacks were mild and I must say the sirens were more frightening then the attacks.
Through all this, my elder daughter and all her class mates and other Indian girls of her school year, attended school, went for extra tutorials and studied day and night for their CBSE exams. There were attacks even during the exams though the missiles never came close. But the continuous sirens were enough to unnerve the best. At this trying time the teachers stood behind their students all the way and not enough can be said about their courage and that of their families. It was not for remuneration that they did this, for their pay was very meagre compared to teachers of western schools.
As the tanks rolled into Iraq, sandstorms like we had never seen before, arose and engulfed Kuwait in thick, choking, red coloured sand. On the news one could see that the soldiers in the desert were suffering the same fate. If it was so bad in the city that it entered through the closed windows, one could only imagine how much worse it must have been in the open desert. We watched TV day and night trying to make sense of the death and destruction going on just a short distance away. It was expremely traumatic and made me feel like bursting into tears for the slightest reason. It was at this time I wrote a poem on the death of an American soldier called 'I Remember, I Remember' and a short story on the senseless death due to bombing, of a small Iraqi boy, not yet three, called Ahmed. People were people and they were dying senselessly, unnecessarily. Dying so close to me and in the pain, there was neither friend nor foe, just the great sense of loss. These young people, these promises of the future, lay trampled in that merciless sand and it was heartbreaking and still is.
The planes looked for the missile launchers in the desert but could not destroy all. One evening we had been to the sea-side after the sandstorms had abated. March/April are pleasant in Kuwait normally, as it is spring time and this was the first time we had seen such sandstorms in this season of balmy breezes and wildflower carpets. That evening there were many people on the beaches and life looked almost normal. That night though, a missile hit one of the sea-side malls, 'Souq Sharq' and the first real destruction of any kind took place. Though it was not much, it still made people afraid and after that we rarely saw anyone else on the beaches.
One day there was no bread in the house, so we went to the supermarket and the bakery. There was a long queue at the bakery, people were buying enough bread to feed entire neighbourhoods. Later all that bread was finally wasted, unconsumed. At the bakery at that time, there was a television crew recording the madness, even a fight broke out between some of the people. We headed home after picking up some groceries as well. When we came close to the traffic lights near our building suddenly the sirens began and a policaman frantically asked us to stop and pointed upwards. We were so scared at his gestures that we ran out of the car looking upwards, thinking that he saw a missile coming in.
It was only later that we realised that he just wanted us to gather on an incline away from the road. Much later, when we realised that the direction he was pointing to was the south, and Iraq and its missiles lay towards the north, we really felt rather foolish and laughed at ourselves. But even now when we pass that particular traffic signal a slight shudder passes through me, though we sometimes mention it and laugh.
It was during these days that my father called to ask when we were coming. The entire family used to watch the returnees on TV, as well as the news that Kuwait was being hit and worry about us. I told him we would be there as soon as all the missile launchers that were attacking us were destroyed. It was not then but a couple of months later that we finally visited the family during the summer holidays.
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