Unique Identification

I do not believe that we need the Unique Identification anymore. See, that generation of our Dads and Moms- not very creative. I know at least 20 Sanjays and another 20 Rajivs, and this when I am not a very social person. Back in the day I am told, couples were not as enthusiastic about becoming parents as they seem to be today. There were no "Dummy's Copy of Parenting" or the "Idiot's Guide to Raising a Child". A child was born through the natural stuff that happens when two people get married (or when they have the privacy of a confined space to themselves) and so you dealt with them as they came along. Nobody every stopped to wonder what they would want their child to be like. The only thing that mothers were concerned about was the their offsprings should not appear before Daddy with a running nose. There were no cameras to capture the first time you baby farted or other joyous accomplishments. In fact, being pregnant was almost an embarrassment because like in many other communities, Punjabi couples too will go the extra mile to show to everybody that they are only mildly interested in each-other's existence and in this situation, a swollen belly does throw the proverbial bucket of water on the efforts by proving to everybody that there is a helluva lot more going on. In fact, such was the taboo associated with the word "pregnancy" that they never ever used it. And by THEY I meant the whole damn community. Recently, I was lounging about, flicking channels and progressively sliding lower on my bed, as we are prone to doing in the usual course of lounging about when Mom and Buaji walked into the room with the purposeful yet secretive gait of people who have news to share. They sat on the other side of the bed and cared not that I was watching Community on TV, erupting appreciative grunts at their excellent humour in my half-asleep state. Little did they know that in my seemingly comatose state, I was listening intently to what was unfolding around me. Soon enough buaji leaned closer to my mother and said, "उस्स दी good news है". My mother began to smile and said a few phrases to the tune of "very pleased to hear" et al. The women however were rudely interrupted when I butted in with a "क्या है?". My mother looked at my annoyingly and said "क्या, क्या है?" So I asked her what the good news were and let me tell you, the folks in the Harry Potter books would have said Voldemort a dozen times in the amount that the blessed ladies took to say "pregnant". Of course I burst out laughing and of course I howled and laughed and then some more for days at an end. My mother calmed me down enough to tell me that she had still progressed with time; when her mother and peers used an even funnier phrase to communicate the news of pregnancy. Let us assume that a lovely lady, Ms. A is pregnant. So my grandmother, if she had to tell about this to her friends, she would say "A सान्नू मिठाई खिलाने वाली है". Now what would a poor bloke who genuinely wanted to खिलाओ मिठाई to somebody do? Anyhue, I digress. Back to our topic of parents not caring what they name their children. So this entire generation of Sunil's and Ajay's and Shiv's and Anil's grew up that naturally created a lot of confusion everywhere. Now, however times are a' changing. The young get married and then spend a lot of time and energy in planning a child. Once the child is conceived,the time that is takes to grow in the womb, is spent by its often-annoyingly excited parents in searching for the most remarkable, the most unique and the most wonderful name there ever was. Then they come up with stuff that nobody has ever heard before, from some quack website that claims the names have a mythological connection in an exotic country but in all probability means "a horse's ass" in Turkish. If you think this trend probably started in Hollywood, where exist celeb-kids called Kal-El, Sage Moonblood and Fifi Trixibelle, you are wrong. Before any of them started this fad, I owned a turtle who was not-christened Shit. The fact that my turtle is dead should give you an idea of how long ago this had happened. I have recently had the pleasure of meeting kids who are called Noelle (it weirdly twists my mouth when I try to call out to the baby), Nela and Agastas (you cannot say this name casually, it must always be with some force and that's tiring). Clearly, nobody else is naming their kid these names EVER again, unless they pull a Agastas Jr. in which case the unique identity is still preserved because it is the same bloodline. So you see, with bizzare names such as these, we don't really need any other unique identification systems. I got several such names in my mind too. I think if I ever have a baby, I will call it Sunil or Sita. depending on the gender because nobody from my generation and ahead will ever return to these names again.

अगर दादी और नानी होती...

We finished the श्राद recently, which is essentially a time to remember the dear, departed ones and cook their favourite food because we like to believe that the spirits of our loved ones come down once a year and we want to welcome them in the only way पंजाबीs know: cook food! In practice, the "favourite food" has become rather generic: पूडी, आलू, खीर and राइता but let us face it, who would not like all of these?

At the end of श्राद, we have a small ritual where we light 15 दियाs (little lamps made of mud) and put them at various places in the house. The idea is that once the days of श्राद end, the souls of our loved ones will return to their abode and the दियाs are placed outside the doors, along the walls and the last one (or maybe the first one) on a tap to light the way for the soul to leave. The tap is probably so they can have a drink of water before they depart.



I don't know what I think of the custom. I like the idea that there is a time when we remember our loved ones. I have been thinking about both my grandmothers frequently, this past weeks and I wonder if maybe there is some truth in the tradition and maybe our loved ones do return briefly to be with us. But then again, maybe it is purely psychological.

On that day of the दियाs-ritual, I remembered दादी with a surprisingly strong intensity. After sunrise that day, we started the ritual. Now I am filling the दियाs with mustard oil, and now I am bringing out the cotton lights. The cotton lights are also soaked in mustard oil and placed in the दियाs, to be lit later. Ever since दादी passed away a few years back, we have buying cotton lights from the market but I remember her clearly: sitting on her chair before the TV in the evenings, on her bed at nights, on the चारपाई outside to be under the sun during the winters and at any of the other numerous spots she had all over the house during other times of the day. And all the time, she would be rolling cotton into these lights or into little balls with protruding ends, also to be used for the same purpose. She had a teeny-tiny steel कटोरी, in which she put some water and some milk and dipped her fingers into the कटोरी to roll the cotton into either shape. She used plenty of the cotton lights herself during her daily पूजाs and always ensured that the stock of these lights was always maintained in the houses of all her children.

I missed her when I saw the pack of machine-made cotton lights, some fifty in number and I did not like them one bit. I liked the packet of little ball-shaped variants of the cotton lights even less, since their protruding ends had been painted red and they seemed artificial and a poor replacement of the ones that दादी made. I suddenly wanted दादी's cotton lights and I suddenly wanted to see her familiar face and form in her faded सलवार-कमीज़ sitting in one of her old spots, a चुन्नी covering her head. I wanted to hear her ranting against one of the पंडित at the दरगाह and just for one more time, I wanted to see her dial my father's number and put him in place for not calling her that day.

The next day, we were sitting around and talking about frying मलाई for dinner (it tastes excellent with रोटी, and I highly recommend), which in my house is not a rare discussion. In fact it happens every other day. Interestingly, while all of us absolutely love eating fried मलाई, nobody wants to be the one asking for it because then s/he will be at the receiving end of many a jibes from ungrateful family members who after hogging unhealthy amounts of the stuff, will say things like "बहुत स्वाद आ रहा है आजकल!" and "तू तो dieting करने वाली थी?"

In fact, चाचा is known to hog large amounts of मलाई with many परांठाs every time my Dad is in town because as the most feared man in all Kakkar-dom, my father's demands for food are never turned down and so his little brother uses the opportunity to relish the otherwise out-of-reach goodies. We now know that during dinners with Dad, when he suddenly starts prodding his brother and asking if he wants another परांठा and asks it repeatedly and in this urgent manner, it is him (चाचा) who actually wants another the परांठा. Sure enough, when he has prodded Dad enough and extracted a "yes" from my old man (no admirable feat, Dad is always game for another helping of anything lardy), he will turn to us and say with an attempt at indifference that fools nobody, "भईया और मेरे लिए एक एक परांठा और". Poor bloke, to resort to such conniving for a परांठा!

But on the day after the दिया-ritual, during our मलाई-conversation, I remembered a single scene and very vaguely, at that. I clearly remembered a little kitchen though I could not recall the house that it must have been a part of. I remembered my नानी in that kitchen, frying मलाई for me. I remembered a window that looked out into a busy street of Kathmandu, Nepal where नानी lived then, but the window and the bustling street could very well just be something that my romantic mind added to the memory for the sake of details. But I distinctly remember the white मलाई bubbling happily on the stove as it fried and then turning the faintest shades of red/pink as नानी added some red chilly powder to it.

I don't know what is it about this particular memory; that little flash of नानी that reminds me of her every time. I was very young then should not have any recollection of it. Later when she moved to Rishikesh, I have spent more time with her but nothing stands out so starkly as that one image in the kitchen in Kathamndu does.

I think the one thing I miss most about my नानी and my दादी was their blind, unquestioning and unwavering love. At all times. No matter what you did or did not do. No matter what you had grown up from or what you were growing up to be.

I also wonder at their similarly unquestioning and unwavering beliefs in customs and though I know I do not agree with most of them, I do envy their pure and simple trust in things told to them. Critics to this sentiment will argue that the women did not think for themselves or that they blindly followed rituals but I also know that while it may be not the most worldly thing to do, this belief that they had was a product of their lifelong habit of never seeing bad in people. They truly believed like none of us ever can, and for that purity of hearts too, I miss them.

While my siblings and I will not carry forward most of the rituals that our ancestors have followed so religiously, I hope that we will take up some of the seemingly trivial things that our loved ones did, just so that we can connect with them every now and then. For my part, I will make the cotton lights that we will use for the almost-here दिवाली like दादी did. I will also stack them like दादी did, in the homes of all her children. I hope that Rads will make लोबिया का परांठा on Diwali and that Ramu will sit down with a गनियार का लड्डू soaked in a glass of cold milk- something that beats the फिरंगी version of cookies-in-milk, hands down. I hope that Sonu makes the हट्टी drawings for the दिवाली पूजा and that Monu, who is getting married soon, will light up this house and her new house with as many दियाs as she can.