Writers experiencing loss and unbearable grief.

I am haunted by a hundred questions. Is it too early to write this? Is it too late?

Should I write about it at all? Should I share with my readers something that is so

private and personal ? The triumphant return of my old girl to a place of eternal

peace and serenity in the midst of the silence of green pastures; broken only by the

sound of running brooks?

I know only one thing with certainty. I must write or I will die!

Are you listening to me, my loved one?

In your passing on, God gave me two precious gifts. The gift of “never

living in denial” and the gift “of always remembering all that is good and beautiful

in other people”

Hey. come to think of it, you must have asked the Lord to transfer your gift to me.

You knew I would need it. You had that great ability to anticipate the needs of

others and to do something about it.

I walk through the rooms of this beautiful house like a tenant. Everything we have,

we owned jointly. Today you own the house by your absence. How we fought over

every purchase we made. The Rajastani dowry chest that became a bar, the carved

ivory figure of Jesus on the cross that you loved so much, the “dwarpas,” wooden

sentinels of temples that became our lamp stands. I touch them in passing and

each time the memory makes me “whole”, knowing always, that the beauty of our

home was never ever in its contents but your magical, caring, effervescent and

truly spiritual presence.

I remember a line I wrote for you in my newspaper column on our 50th Wedding

Anniversary. It was a description of seeing you standing in a motley group of young

Goans at the Saligao Ball.

”She stood there in her yellow dress, a wild flower growing astonishingly in a field

of cacti, bramble bush and wilted shrubs”

You had grace and presence which always stood out as, I remember, it did on

India’s Republic day function in the year 1961.

We were standing at the entrance of the Indian Embassy in Paris welcoming our

guests. Our Ambassador Nawab Ali Yavar Jung and ten of us, wives included, who

served as diplomats. You, my dear, stood out for more reasons than one. Not only

for the grace with which you spoke fluent French but also because you were the

only one dressed in an elegantly draped sari. The other wives were all non Indians.

The guests literally swooned over you.

I remember our first date. Blue Air Force uniform with gold stripes on my sleeve I

rode up on my motor bike to the YWCA where you were studying to be an

Executive Secretary.

We went to Leopold Café. We have had many explosive situations in our lives but

that was years and years before 26/11. In 1956 Leopold Cafe provided privacy for

young lovers. Not targets for terrorists.

It had those little cabins with half swinging doors like bikinis hiding the essential. If

you recall, we only talked and joked and laughed and every time you laughed the

waiter came rushing in with a dirty towel on his shoulder as if in response to the

ringing of some distant temple bell. Such was your magic.

Alas, when the bill for “falooda” and “khara” biscuits arrived I found I was short of

money. We stopped laughing and you quietly paid the bill as you have done during

most of our married life.

On our way back home my jaded motor-cycle stopped dead thrice and you had to

push it to get it going. When it stopped a fourth time you turned round and said”

Is this what I am going to do all my life?” “Yes” I replied “will you marry me?”

You jumped in the air like a ballet dancer and started to scream. The crowd

gathered on the pavement soon realized what was happening and cheerfully pushed

the bike right up to the door of your house and waved us a fond farewell.

If today I live “fully alive” reborn on beautiful memories of you, it is because all

those whose lives you touched, hundreds of them who overflowed on to the roads

at your funeral service, remember you with joy.

Let me tell you about something unexpected that happened the other day. A kindly

Bishop came to visit me. Anjali our daughter who had come down from London for

a whole month was still around.

“I was a contemporary of your mother” he said to Anjali. “She was the most

beautiful girl who came to the Mahim Gymkhana. We Mahim boys competed for her

attention and were very upset when we heard that she was getting married to

much older guy from Dharwad”.

“Dad was 27 and Mama was 20”, Anjali said authoritatively”

“Would you really mind if I saw the Wedding album?” the Bishop said sounding like

a helpful yet curious Income Tax officer on a verification visit.

For the next half an hour he was still looking at the pictures his face full of joy on

discovering that the lovely girl from his gang had married a dashing young officer in

a blue and gold uniform of the Indian Air Force, never mind his “unda-gunda” accent.

“What a nice gold crown Mama is wearing” said Anjali. I was about to open my

foolish mouth and tell her it was made of cardboard, but better counsel prevailed.

I realized that as usual you would have liked to keep your simplicity and austerity

to yourself.

People whom I do not even know wrote how you traveled with them from Chembur

to Victoria Terminus. Some one wrote that you had gifted her a German sewing

machine and two French copper-base pans which she is still using in the USA.

Colleagues from your office wrote that if you happened not to turn up for work,

there was no noise of laughter in the office.

As I read slowly, one by one, the eulogies piled up on my desk, I realize how many

people of all walks of life loved you dearly.

Did I do you justice, old girl? In my proverbial inadequacy, did I care for you enough ?

God help me. It is far too late to ask.

Invariably they start with “Chaos reigns…..”

Chaos reigns in the on-line admissions to college.

Only a year ago, students had, despite all its defects, a pretty stable system in which students were free to apply to colleges of their choice, submit themselves to cut-off percentages and reservations of different types depending on the colleges and get quick responses on which college they would get admission. Either their first choice, second choice or whatever.

The important thing is that they all knew where they would be admitted and the colleges started their classes on the due date.

My son got admission to St Xaviers in the first list. My daughter who wanted to study French for her BA did not get admission to the same college because French was not taught at the SSC level at her boarding school in Panchgani.

I was, at that time, post retirement, Associate Director of Xavier’s Institute of Management and a word from me would have resulted in a waiver of the requirement which, ironically, I had obtained for a friend’s daughter the previous year in similar circumstances.

My daughter Anjali went to Elphintsone College, did extremely well in French and went on to obtain French citizenship.
But she never forgave for not putting in a word to get admission to a college of her choice. In this piece I ask for her forgiveness. She is an open and understanding person. She will understand.

Today the academic year will never start. Thousands have no college to go to. Hundreds of colleges are woefully short of students. The mess is complete. It takes one Education Minister to paralyse an entire system and not be accountable for the chaos. He will be back next year having learnt no lessons.

Chaos reigns in dealing with the swine-flu pandemic. It took four solid weeks for the Health Minister and his Ministry to react to the information that we had our first swine-flu patient. And when they did all hell broke loose. First t Minister had to apologize for insensitive remarks about the death of our first casualty. Then our irresponsible media ensured that their ability to generate panic had not diminished since the 26/11 terrorism coverage.

In the midst of a life threatening situation we had to witness with shame our business community fleecing our panic stricken citizens either by the well known hoarding technique with the result that face masks were either not available or sold at astronomical prices.

At Government run hospitals doctors handling swine-flu cases were not supplied with masks and the crucial Tami-flu drug was in short supply or not available due to distribution goof ups or was being stolen by loaders of our national airline.

I write this on the day we our celebrating the 62nd anniversary of India’s independence.

The Road that I live on since 1993 is a noisy road. When I bought the flats the road was so quiet that I could not believe my luck. Only later did I realize that there was no traffic on the road because the road was closed at one end for several weeks for repairs.

Today on Independence Day people living on the Road have assembled in large numbers to hoist the national colours. In the compound of the building in which we live.

The Road Association, ALM 102 (Advanced Locality Management) works very hard to keep our area green, clean, secure and safe.

If the road is in top class condition with the whole long road being paved with paver blocks and the footpaths also done similarly. All from the funds of our elected representatives.

We have a wonderful relationship with our Corporator, MLA, our MP and the Municipal Corporation and the Police.

The Flag hoisting is the highlight of our activities bringing diverse people together to confirm our secularism and our pride in being Indian.

Chaos did not reign. But it “rained”. A show drizzle preventing the lighting of the traditional lamp and delaying the hearty breakfast we share on such occasions.

Chaos did not reign because citizens understand good management of their organisations the value of cooperative interventions in civic, social and political life. Because citizens rise above a level the governments seem to find impossible to do.