Rashmi's Space

“Hello,” said the voice on the phone. “My name is Roald Dahl. I know you never expected a call from me, as famous as I am, but I’ve been given your name as someone who can help me with my next book…” That was how it all started. With that one dream. Of course, I knew it even before I had opened my eyes, that it was a dream. I mean, who in their right mind would say I know you never expected a call from me, as famous as I am… ?! Not to mention the fact that Dahl has been dead for the past twenty-eight years. But that didn’t matter. Not at that time. Because that dream gave me clarity. That dream propelled me into action after ages of inactivity. Well, I say ages, but it was merely months, really. Months spent going in and out of courtrooms. Months spent climbing up and down that horrid staircase of the family court building. Horrible, awful months. Excruciating months, when I preferred oblivion, and possibly even contemplated death. Months when I didn’t want to exis...

We are in a huge hall. Spacious, airy, with large open windows. The hall is divided into two parts. One part is meant for the spectators, who are mostly parents. The other part has four large anti-skid mats placed at a distance from each other. At the head of each mat, a little away, is a table with two chairs facing the mat. Towards one end of the hall is a stage which is set with a table and a few chairs. Certificates and large trays holding medals are placed to one side of this stage on a smaller table. At the back, hangs a large banner with the name of a Karate school, welcoming one and all to the District Level Karate Tournament. As spectators settle down, children gather at the other end of the hall, answer the roll call and settle down in the different batches they have been segregated into. Some of them are very young, with barely all the milk teeth in place. Some others are older. But their faces are similarly angelic to the younger ones, yet. And then there are ...

Note: This is the second and concluding part of the story. Do check out the story so far in  Part 1  so you are up to date :)  I hear a tentative knock on the door. And then a question, softly: “Baba, are you asleep?” “No. Come in,” I call out and my daughter walks in. It is late in the night. Dinner is long over. And my daughter has come to see me. My daughter, who is the most like me of my three children – the only one I had wanted to be there when I returned home today with the auto driver, but was not there because she was visiting a friend in a different city. My daughter, who is my only true source of happiness. My daughter – the only one who loves me for who I am, and not for the locked box I keep in the safe in my closet. My daughter, who lives with us because she has never married. She has vitiligo, you see. Sometimes I feel, I have failed her there. Because even though she has always been beautiful to me, even with the white patches ...

Note: This is the beginning of the story.  Do check out Part 2 for the conclusion.  It is all a blur. The roads, the trees, the shops that pass by, they are all familiar, and yet, unfamiliar to me. The bright lights that zoom past, are they streetlamps? Or lights from the shops? The buildings that pass, the bus stops dotting this tree-lined avenue, the playground in the distance where boys must be playing football in the fading light – it is all a blur. There must be people walking on the pavement, some waiting at the bus stops, some crossing the road – but to me, they are all a blur too. I sit in an auto rickshaw and it zooms away, very fast, making me dizzy. I sit here, clutching the slim iron rod that separates the driver’s seat from the passengers’, and hope that the driver takes me home safely, in one piece. I know he intends to. That is where we are going, in fact – home. But the thing is, see, I had thought it was very close, just around the corner; turns ...

The train stops. She looks around. It is a big station, large and open, nothing like the big city railway stations that she has seen. This station is surrounded by lush greenery as far as the eye can see. There is a chill in the air. And a sense of belonging. She breathes it in, deeply.  She walks towards the end of the platform to the foot-overbridge that will take her out of the station. A few taxis and auto rickshaws are lined up near the exit, and she hires one at random. The driver helps her stow her one bag near her feet, while she sits to one side of the wide seat, as if she is sharing space with someone. Because she is used to taking up only so much space – always in a corner, trying not to make her presence felt. Now as she thinks this, she moves a little towards the centre of the seat, as if to affirm to herself that she is now travelling all by herself, for the first time in her life. You wouldn’t really know it now, to look at her, but she is scared out of h...

"... na kahin chanda, na kahin taare... jyot ke pyaase mere, nain bechaare... tarapat, tasasat, umar gawayi... poocho na kaise maine rain bitayi..." An old melody. The twilight hour. Strong, bold notes. An older voice. On his evening walk, he passes the gazebo in the park marked Senior Citizens Area, he cannot help but stop a moment and listen as the elderly man finishes his rendition of the timeless Mohd. Rafi melody. As soon as he is finished, there is a smattering of applause and smiles and nostalgia all around. He finds a smile spreading across his face automatically. He knows this song. He has heard it on Vividh Bharati several times as a child, when his own father, who now would be close to the singer's age, would put on the radio in the mornings and late in the nights. The old man doesn't sound like a trained singer, more like an enthusiast; but his wonderfully clear voice rings out in the failing light making the evening mesmerising, ma...

When people ask me what I do, I tell them I am a blogger, a writer. The immediate next question, of course, is “what do you write?” And I say I write on positive parenting, among other things. So they say, oh great, a lot of people are writing about parenting these days, it makes for interesting reading. And I say, but I don’t just write about parenting, I write about positive parenting. There is a difference. (Which reminds me of an advert from my childhood: ____ hot and sweet tomato chilli sauce, its different!) Cheesy, I know, but it is true. There is a difference. All parenting is not positive parenting. But all positive parenting is definitely good parenting. Parenting There was a time when “parenting” was not a term most parents bothered about. Take a look at

मिस्टर सानेंनी हळू डोळे उघडले. खिडकीतून उन्हं येत होती. खाडकन जागे झाले. दुपार झाली कि काय! घड्याळ बघितल, हुश्श, आठच वाजतायेत! पण पुढच्याच क्षणी लक्षात आलं, आठ वाजले तरी किचन मधून काही आवाज येत नाहीयेत. आज तर गुरुवार, वर्किंग डे, एव्हाना किचन मधून आवाजच नव्हे तर तर-तर्हेचे वासही यायला हवेत. डबा तयार झाला असला पाहिजे, चहा तयार झाला आला पाहिजे. पण आज कसलीच हालचाल दिसत नाही! शेजारी पहिल तर मिसेस सानेही शेजारी नाहीत. काय भानगड आहे बुआ आज?   चष्मा चढवून मिस्टर साने बेडरूम मधून बाहेर आले. मिसेस सानेंचा घरात कुठेच पत्ता नव्हता! गेली कुठे  ही? मिस्टर सानेंनी सुनबाईंना विचारायच ठरवलं. पण श्वेता त्यांना कुठे दिसेना. इतक्यात, "गुडमॉर्निंग  बाबा!" म्हणत श्वेता जांभई देत बाहेर आली आणि त्यांच्या उत्तराची वाट न पाहता, तडक  "गुडमॉर्निंग आई" म्हणत किचन मध्ये गेली. मिस्टर साने तिला काही सांगणार इतक्यात,  "अहो बाबा, आई कुठेयत?" म्हणत पुन्हा बाहेर आली. एव्हाना तिची झोप पूर्णपणे उडाली होती. "माहित नाही बुआ, मला वाटलं तुला काही बोलली असेल..."   त्यांन...