New No More

This blog was created in the winter of 2009 during the toughest and loneliest period of my life. I had just turned thirty, had a baby, moved cities. I was also dealing with immense turmoil. With no one to talk to, I had turned to my own conscience to help me through my writing. For the few months that I wrote, I had written some brutally honest pieces about my life. They were not the best pieces of writing, but they were me in my truest form. Perhaps that is why I had decided to call it Love, Life, etc: that was all that mattered back then.

The blog was revived four years later, exactly 22 months ago, when life took me back to the phase. Only this time I had no work to worry about (although that is a worry in itself) but another child and many more responsibilities. And I had once again started to crumble under the weight of self induced wounds.

The first thing I did when I decided to revive the blog was to rename it: I had suddenly found Love, Life, etc very cheesy. In the rush to share it with the world -- and one person in particular -- I called it New Beginning. I wanted a better, more mature name, but I was, as always, in a hurry. And thus New Beginning was born. Since it was supposed to be a fresh start, I also deleted most of what was on the blog barring two pieces -- one about myself and one about a woman I greatly loved and admired. How I wish I had left the others too!

Those who know me know that my one and only dream in life was to write for a paper. It had taken shape one fine morning when I saw my name -- and accompanied article on Sex Education in Lucknow Times. What a high it was to see my name in print! From then on my pieces became regular, although in a contributors coloumn, and my dream more and more vivid: everyday while driving to college I would look at the majestic white HT building on Ashok Marg and secretly promise myself to be there in a few months. I would picture myself in the field chasing stories with a fountain pen and notebook in hand. I would see myself among the bigwigs of journalism sitting around a huge table discussing politics and crime. Once in Delhi, my ambition soared and I graduated from the Ashok Marg office to the Kasturba Gandhi Marg Office -- all in my dream. 

But what is a dream that is not broken? Or a promise that is kept? 

My inability to get into IIMC took me away from writing, it also helped that I had a job in hand, in a world-class company no less -- something I hadn't even dreamt of. I promptly abandoned my dream, broke the promises made to myself to set out on the path destiny had chosen for me. For the next ten years I lived the corporate life that gave me everything which journalism could not have, including a husband. 

They say that your first love keeps haunting you throughout your life. You might find your true love or a soul mate, even a partner but you still yearn for your first love, especially if it happens to be unfulfilled. Even after finding my soul mate and partner in training, writing kept calling me, more so in times of despair. And maybe that is why I returned to it. 

The first piece I wrote after my four year hiatus, was about the ever changing face of life. The following were part fiction part life. And ones after that a mere out-pour of negativity and frustration. I still remember my only writer friend telling me, "Your writing has a lot of anger, curb it. People do not want to read angry stuff. They have enough of their own." For once I did not care. "I write for myself, not people!" I remember snapping at him. 

If you browse through the pieces written in 2013, a long list of forty-four in just four months, you will find traces of anger, frustration, negativity, turmoil, and immaturity. But then they only reflected what I was undergoing. The ones that came later, towards the beginning on 2014 are much more calm in comparison -- in a matter of four months, writing had helped me become calmer and happier. I was finally looking forward to something.

While my initial pieces -- about fifty of them -- are raw and spontaneous, the ones that came later, in the beginning of 2014, much more thought through. I still remember those months. I would toil for weeks to come up with one piece. There were days I went without lunch and nights when I only had water. I would sit at the table, typing with my ice-cold fingers on long winter nights. I would read books and blogs incessantly for inspiration and would frame and re-frame my sentences until I found them compelling enough for the reader -- even though I knew hardly anyone read them. Looking back, I think I wrote them for no one else but myself: I wanted to prove I was still capable of doing something.

The hard work slowly started to reap benefits. My first story, I had sent it tentatively, was published in Femina in Decemebr, a few more, written a little more seriously, followed soon after. I had also started helping a friend with his books, the exposure not only tested my patience and stamina but also strengthened my skill. With my new found knowledge and exposure I started to write longer, more relevant pieces. But all of this was still only on my blog.

And then one fine day, a year and a week ago, I saw my name in the papers.

While it is not easy to give up on your dream, it becomes even more difficult to walk away when you have even slightest of hope of it turning into reality. Seeing my name in the paper after fifteen long years had given me hope too and I left everything to turn it into reality.

In the last few months therefore I have thought only about writing for the paper. I have worked on the story ideas for weeks, wrote for days, and waited for months for them to be published. While I know my writing is good enough, I also have to make sure it is relevant. A paper after all is not my blog. I have along the way started writing for others too. But everywhere I am dependent on people and processes, and uncertain if -- and when -- my work will see the light of the day. I put all my heart and soul into a piece not knowing if I will ever get to see it in print. But I dream on. For only when you dream can you turn them into reality.

Meanwhile every-time I have to practice something, or pour my heart out I return to my blog for here I can be myself. And sometimes I need just that.

P.S. This happens to be my hundredth post on the blog. I had planned a lofty piece to celebrate it (after all who will if I won't), and had been working on it laboriously. But as it is with writing, it hardly goes the way you want it to. So here I am with another piece from my heart and not my mind. Hopefully the lofty piece shall see the light of the day too sooner than later.

Ghar, Masoom.

I had bought the cassette from a posh music store on Birhana Road in Kanpur on my thirteenth birthday. This was when Kanpur itself was considered posh, and Lucknow it's sleepy cousin. My uncle had thought I had bought the tape for the famous kiddie song, amused that at thirteen I was still excited about children's music. He ate his words soon after. 

For the next ten years, until I married a music aficionado who introduced me to a lot more music than I had ever heard, the tape remained my friend philosopher and guide. It taught me about love, it taught me about life: between the two albums you had everything from falling in love, to romance, to longing, and of course philosophy (how can you not have a generous dose of philosophy when you have Gulzar writing the songs?). 

It is difficult to pin-point which side was my favourite though. For on one side you had songs like Tujhse naaraaz nahi zindagi  and Do naina ek kahani -- songs that summarise life for you in less than two minutes, on the other you had Aapki aankhon mein kuch and Phir wahi raat hai, songs that are epitome of romanticism. 

Perhaps that is why, at different points in my life, I found myself attached to different songs. When I was dejected I found peace in the throaty voice of Anup Ghoshal -- it seemed as if he was singing Tujhse naaraaz nahi zindagi for me. When I was heartbroken I went back to Do naina ek kahani. How beautifully it tells the story of life: thoda sa badal, thoda sa pani, aur ek kahani -- true what is life but a long story?

When I fell in love, which happened quite often, I hummed Aajkal paaon zamin pe nahi padte mere, somethimes smiling, sometimes blushing to myself. When I longed for my love I found peace in Tere bina jiya jaye na (it is another story that I was found singing Do naina.. soon after). In the rare event that my love was realised -- I don't recall it happening more than once -- I indulged in Aapki aankhon me kuch. The song remains one of my all-time favourites and the only Lata Mangeshkar song I can sing well, even now.

The album also taught me about music and poetry. Until then I did not care much for Gulzar or R.D. Burman but from then on, most of my music had both of them in it. It taught me how to sing too: for the longest time whenever I was pestered to sing by my family (I was supposedly a fine singer), I would sing one of the songs from the album.

And then life happened. Suddenly I was uprooted from my comfort zone and planted in a strange place where there was no time for love, romance, philosophy. Life became an endless cycle of work, home, family, chores, and then children followed. Whatever little time remained for music was taken up by husband's love for Kishore Kumar and Asha Bhonsle. Like a good wife, I adapted to his music too. Ghar and Masoon were now like some long forgotten lovers -- I thought of them sometimes, but never felt the need to go back to them. 

Last week, when I found myself alone at home for two full days after a very, very long gap, I was reminded of my long lost love for the album. I promptly pulled my phone out, connected it to husband's Bose and played the album on loop. For the past two days I have been learning life's lessons afresh.

Other Woman

Monday mornings can be crazy, especially in a house with two hyperactive children and two over reactive parents cohabitate. Monday mornings can also be relieving though: after the children and husband are gone, my tired bones finally get some rest from the incessant running around of the weekend. Monday mornings also happen to be the time when I catch up on my weekend reading -- Sunday newspaper, weekend blogs, online updates. While browsing through one such update today, I came across an exceptionally beautiful picture. And it has been on my mind all day. 

The picture, which probably must've gone viral by now, shows a very suave Amitabh Bacchan, in a white kurta and a beige pashmina shawl almost walking out of the frame in the background. In the foreground, a very beautiful Rekha, with her beige silk sari, her gold jewellery, and her red lipstick intact, is smiling at someone while arranging her hair at the same time. Now, I am not a great fan of the Amitabh-Rekha pair, or of anyone else for that matter, and the pictures that deliberately try to show the two of them in one frame have never pleased me. But this picture somehow struck, and stuck.

The Amitabh-Rekha story, I am told, is the stuff of legends. By the time I grew up though much of it had faded away, and I got to hear only parts of it. Someone said he almost lived in with her in the house that he had bought for her. Someone said he would have left his wife for her but for his father -- babuji, as he would call him. I also heard that Silsila, the movie, almost ran parallel to the story of their lives. I never bothered much though. They looked good together on screen and that was that. Until now that is. 

The picture of the two of them in the same frame, and looking so good together (I am tempted to use the phrase made for each other, here), somehow reiterated a few things that have been on my mind for a few weeks now: the man-woman relationship, and the complications around it. 

Around two years ago, when I started to write, the multilayered, complicated, and sometimes even convoluted man-woman relationships, often featured on my blog, and in much detail too: I was intrigued, looking for answers. Although I never got any, I realised that I was not the only one thinking about it, there were many others like me. 

To me, the most interesting part about this drama -- one man, two or more women -- is that in the centre of every such drama is a man. It doesn't matter if he is rich or poor, if he is just an ordinary man or a celebrity, if is young or old. If it is a multi-angular relationship, it will be centered around a man, never a woman: ever heard of a woman living in with a lover while the husband manages the kids and home? And, in all such situations, there is only one villain -- the other women. The man is naive, the wife is helpless, but the other woman is a husband robbing, boyfriend-snatching bitch. 

I cannot say if it is our society, our upbringing, or our psyche that judges only the woman. The woman however vulnerable she herself might be, is blamed for the man's breaking away from his wife, deserting his children, abandoning his home. A few, if any, notice that the wife, or the husband, could equally be at fault.

Let us, for once, try to imagine the life of the other woman. The woman who bears everything for the love of a man she cannot call her own. She is ostracised by the society, sometimes, even her family. Her children, if at all she can convince the man to have any, are called bastards. Her house, however fancy it might be, is never a home, just as her man, however much he might love her, is never her husband. And yet, she, the other woman, forever longing to belong, is the one at fault.  

A Holiday, A Flight, And Some Warm, Salty Water.

The gates had been snapped shut, the noisy children had suddenly gone silent, collective clicking sound of hundreds of seat-belts reverberated in an unusually quiet cabin. The aircraft had now started to taxi and the flight attendants mechanically demonstrated safety instructions with their plastic smiles intact. As I sat in my aisle seat looking through the extraordinarily thin girl gesticulating animatedly right in front of me, I felt the first warm drop. And then another. Within a matter of seconds, a steady stream of warm, salty water was flowing down my unsuspecting face. 

A little startled, a little embarrassed, I hurriedly wiped my face off and looked around: had anyone else noticed it? Almost everybody around me, to my relief, was busy doing last-minute things with their phones. Those who weren't, were already asleep. Relived, I craned my neck to catch one last glimpse of Chennai -- the city I was leaving behind that evening.

Chennai, from above, was nothing but a large mass of bright yellow stars and looked no different from any other city at night. Disappointed, I picked up the in-flight magazine. It was while trying to focus on a food article -- with my mind constantly racing back to Chennai, and its people -- that I felt them coming back. Knowing no one was looking, this time, I let them be.

Tears had once been my only companions: with my father moving every couple of years, I hardly had the opportunity to get close to people (by the time I got comfortable with anyone, it was time to go). And so, for years, tears remained my only friends. I cried when I was happy, I cried when I was sad. I cried when I was overwhelmed, or angry, or hurt. I cried when I was alone, and, sometimes, I cried even when I was among people. Slowly and steadily though, as I grew older, I realised the futility of crying -- and the perception it created about me. As a young adult, unwilling to be seen as weak or meek, I started to distance myself from my one-time trusted companions. With a little effort and practice they soon turned into strangers: so much so that I did not shed a single tear during the biggest of tragedies -- not even when I lost my child.

In my experience, tears come to you when you are angry, or hurt, or frustrated -- not essentially when you are sad -- and mostly when you are unable to express it.

In the last few months I had been thorough a whirlwind of emotions. I had experienced joy, sorrow, ecstasy, agony, longing, fulfillment -- all in equal measure -- in a matter of weeks. When you go through so much in such a short span of time, you end up feeling nothing: the joy had failed to cheer me just as the sorrow had been unable to move me. With tasks to finish, responsibilities to fulfill, things to manage, I had, perhaps, become too numb to react. And today, when I finally had a few minutes of solitude -- and nothing to do -- all the pent up emotions seemed to be coming back.

Were these tears of joy, then? Of having met an old friend after almost a decade and realising that nothing had changed between us. Or were these tears of grief? Of witnessing my mother battle death, come out of it, and now fight it yet again even as I holidayed. These could also be tears of happiness though: I had come to Chennai for one of my closest friend's wedding. I had seen her long struggle with loneliness and now, that she had found her match in a brilliant man, I was, obviously, very happy. 

But joy, grief and happiness were not the only emotions tugging the strings of my heart that evening, there were elements of fulfilment and longing too.

Chennai, which had meant nothing to me until around a year and a half ago, was now an important part of my life. I had, in the short span of time, forged a deep bond with the city and its people. Having spent the last four days hurrying between lunches, dinners, the wedding, and much else, ticking things off my bucket list had however ensured I had lost out on experiencing the city my way. It was only after boarding the aircraft that I realised the trip, which I had been planning for over six months, was already over. While on one hand there was satisfaction of being able to do most things on my list, on the other was the regret of missing out on my quiet time with a city I so dearly love: I longed for its sights and smells even before I left its soil.

More than a month later I still do not know why I wept through the flight -- was is joy, grief, fulfillment, longing, or just plain relief that made my old friends revisit me after years. And yet, as I get ready to travel again, I secretly wish to meet them, maybe on another flight.

A Husband, A Lover, And A Woman Torn In Between.

Dear B,

You might be slightly surprised to see this letter, after all we haven't spoken in almost four years, since that muggy afternoon when I left. It is not that I have forgotten you, in fact I remember you very often -- and very fondly -- but I have not had the courage to write to you. I have been afraid that talking to you again might reignite my love for you.

Do you remember when we first met? It was a beautiful drizzly morning with a deep grey sky looming large, the breeze played with my hair, the raindrops tickled my cheeks, I had instantly fallen in love. Sometimes though I wonder if it was really love or just fixation with the new and novel. After all you were completely different from anything I had known until then. But a fixation cannot last three years, can it?

By the time I saw you again, a few months later, I was head over heels in love. In you I had found what I had always been looking for. You were good looking, you were kind, you were intelligent, and you had come in like a breath of fresh air in my stale life, what else could I ask for? I remember telling everyone about you.

They say love gives you confidence like nothing else. And with you, I experienced that. You gave me the courage to let go of my demons, you gave me the confidence to walk out of all the negativity that surrounded me, you motivated me to turn my life around completely, you helped me discover who I truly was.

In the months that followed we spent a lot of time together, most of it quietly by the large tree that peeped into my balcony. Those were hard times, mother was ill, child was young, and my self-esteem at an all-time low. And yet, I was happy and content.

But familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt. As I started to know you better, I found out things that I did not quite appreciate: your occasional indifference, your frequent mood swings, your apathy. Your inability to change, even for me, had started to make me increasingly uncomfortable. It is then, in those doubtful, lonely moments that I was reminded of D.

D had been my friend and confidante for seven years. My relationship with him, which had begun when I was a young and naive small-town girl, was akin to a stable marriage. We had our issues, but we accepted each other with our shortcomings. My enchantment with you however had created a rift and I had mercilessly left him for you. Now I had suddenly started to long for his familiar embrace.

I am not a person who believes in frivolous relationships, and so, even though I missed D dearly, I would have happily stayed on with you: so what if the passion was dying, the love was still there. But your apathy to my kids was something I could not tolerate. The most important thing for a mother is the well-being of her children, she can go any length to ensure they remain happy and healthy. It was the mother in me that forced the woman in me to step away from her lover, into the familiar company of her husband to ensure her children were safe and secure.

You did not show any sign of anguish when I told you I was going, just as you had not shown any excitement at my coming to stay with you. The afternoon I left was most unlike the afternoon I arrived. I was relieved that I was leaving. 

Back home with D life slipped into its familiar routine like nothing had changed. We lived the same way, we laughed the same way, we loved the same way. It seemed as if those three years had not even occurred. But every now and then I was reminded of you -- the way you played with my hair, the way your cold fingers woke me up every morning, the warm sunny afternoons we spent together, and, most of all, the rainy evenings. 

I know it is impossible for us to be together, but is it also impossible to meet up once in a while? After all, however much a woman might love her husband, she always preserves a soft corner in her heart for her lover. 

Wouldn't you like to see me too, B? Would you not, like old times, like to stand with me in a shady balcony for hours without saying a word? Wouldn't you want to play with my curls, or pull my cheeks? Tell me B, do you not miss me at all?

A.

The letter is dedicated to my dear Bangalore, who I miss very much. D, in this case, happens to be my home, Delhi.

Wanderlust

I have been travelling for as long as I can remember. As a little girl I travelled with my parents through the country -- from the snow covered passes of Himanchal, where we went with my four-month-old brother, to the oceans of Kanyakumari, where we travelled, a few years later, with grandparents and cousins in tow – we travelled more than anyone around us, and to the places no one else went to. As a young adult too, I travelled extensively making many routine trips between college and home, and some, not-so-routine ones to far off places. It was probably destiny then that I met my match in a man who was as eager to travel as I was, and together, we set out to chart the length and breadth of the country -- and some unknown corners of the world too.

While travelling with husband, family, and friends had its share of joy, it was the travel of another kind that had me hooked, right from the time I was fifteen.

My first journey alone was made on a particularly warm June morning in 1995. The summer vacations were still ongoing but I was required to be back in town to attend special classes arranged by the school for all students appearing in the board exams. So that my family’s vacation plans were not jeopardized, I decided to travel back to Lucknow on my own and to stay with a cousin until my parents returned. The journey, although not a very long one, became one the most memorable journeys I had ever undertaken.

Over the next few years, especially during college, I made many, many more such journeys – some in the freezing winter nights, when even the warmest jacket, and the thickest sleeping bag could not prevent my toes from getting numb and fingers from swelling up, others in the scorching summer months when the railway coach was nothing but a huge oven and coming out of it without being charred an achievement in itself. Then there was the special one made on a birthday-eve with a special friend discussing our non-existent future together. Every trip, however insignificant, had its share of stories.

There was a catch though. Despite the fact that each one of these journeys was made alone, it was never to an unknown destination: I was invariably travelling from one part of the family to another, or from one home to another. I was travelling alone, but not in the true sense of the word.

It was only recently, at the ripe old age of thirty, that I first undertook my first holiday alone. I went to an unknown town at the other end of the country all by myself. I did not know the people, I did not know the place, I did not know the language. It was, in the beginning, a tad intimidating, but, it gave me a high like never before: I felt strong, I felt powerful, I felt free. I had never felt that way before, but I wanted to feel like that over, and over again.

It was during this trip, and another subsequent one, that I noticed two things. One: the number of women travelling alone in India is abysmally low (those who do are either on a work assignment, family emergency, or, in the rare case of travelling for pleasure, in a group). Two: as a woman travelling alone, my experiences were very different from those I had while travelling with husband, family or friends – I saw the same things in a different light, and, as a lone woman traveller, not confined to air travel or luxury hotels, I was seen in a different light too.

Travelling by myself also helped me uncover elements of my personality that had remained hidden until then. I spent hours listening to the stories of my co-passengers, made friends with strangers, had conversations with taxi-drivers, auto wallahs, and shopkeepers (something, a shy, reticent woman in me had never been able to do until then). Then there was the time I spent with myself doing nothing, talking to no one, just sitting by the ocean, or gazing at the clouds (as a compulsively fidgety person, I did not know I was capable of doing that either). The discovery of the world around me ran parallel to the discovery of the unknown person inside me.

But travelling alone is not always fun, there are times it can get difficult too. In a country where any man -- from seventeen to seventy -- can letch, grope, or insult you, you have to forever be on the watchout. You need to be careful of when to let go of your guard -- and with whom -- and when to retain it. Then there is the planning. With a house to run, a family to look after, a job to attend, finding time -- and money -- to travel is not always easy.

But these are trivial matters especially when compared to the experiences, the perspective, and the knowledge that you gain while travelling alone. After all, as Pico Iyer says, "Travel is like love, mostly because it is a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity, and ready to be transformed. That is why, the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end." And who wants a love affair to ever end? Not me for sure.

Dilemma: To Write or Not To Write

It is 1:46 at night and I am wide awake. No, I have not been sleeping all day, neither have I woken up late, but, like every other day in the past ten days, I have spent hours trying to put a decent blog piece together and failed yet again.

The last time I wrote something was five weeks ago, it was about my love for Madras and Calcutta and how the two cities have come to be an important and inseparable part of my life. I was still a few weeks away from my trip to Chennai, and was excited to happy about it. 

The weeks went by sooner than I had thought and it's already ten days since my return.

I had expected this trip to give me a lot to write about. After all how often do you attend your best friend's wedding, meet a close friend after months, reunite with a schoolmate, visit your favourite city and travel through the length of the country -- all in a matter of eight days? 

And these eight days did give me a whole lot of things to write about: the thirty-hour long journey with the girls, the boys and girls I met at the hotel, the quiet afternoon with a friend, the noisy wedding, the long overdue meeting with people I had known only virtually until now, the three-day-long vacation. But there is a problem: most of these are very personal emotions, and I, somehow, have forgotten to write about how I feel. 

A year and a half ago, when I started to write, I dreamt of only two things: one, more and more people should read what I write, and connect with it, and two, my writing should be everywhere -- in the newspapers, on online forums, in magazines. In the last one year both these dreams have been fulfilled to some extent, but in the bargain I seem to have lost the art of writing for myself. Every time I pick my pen, a million questions cross my mind: Who all will read this? What are they going to think? Will my friends judge me? Will my family be discomforted by it? My pen stops midway.

And so, the strongest of emotions stay buried in my heart, keeping me up night after night even as the world sleeps. Hopefully, someday, I will sleep too. But until then, I shall keep trying to put my pen to paper, every single night.

It was only yesterday

It was only yesterday that we had held hands and promised to walk together,
It was only yesterday you had said any storm for me you will weather;

Why is it then, that I suddenly find myself all alone,
Why does a feeling of loneliness engulfs me like I have never known?

Your eyes do not meet mine any longer,
Neither do your arms make me feel any stronger;

Is it that you have found someone else?
Someone with whose warm hands your lovely, long fingers now melt?

May be it is just a fragment of my wild imagination,
Or maybe you really no longer feel the passion;

Whatever it is you just have to say,
And should it give you happiness, I will quietly walk away.
 

Stamp of Approval

This piece appeared in The Hindu dated 13th March: http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/philately-is-one-of-the-simplest-hobbies-one-could-pursuephi/article6986851.ece

I first heard about philately in school. While discussing hobbies someone had mentioned the word, and I, not even knowing what it meant, was more than impressed: it sounded intelligent! A few years later, only when I saw a large, fat album containing all sorts of colourful stamps from all across the world, did I get to know what philately meant. I remember wanting most of those stamps, especially the colourful ones from Russia and America. But that was almost twenty years ago.

In the age of e-mail, courier, faxes, and, more recently, Whatsapp, Skype and Facebook, the fascination for colourful stamps was eventually lost. Until we – my husband and I – became a part of an online community where the members send post-cards to each other through snail-mail.

While postcards were easier to find (if you look hard you can spot them in an obscure corner of a bookshop or a souvenir stall), getting stamps, especially of our choice, was arduous: the neighbourhood post office stocked only a handful of same-old-boring ones and our request for variety was either met with stiff silence or with a freezing glare.

Not to be bogged down, we took our hunt to another level. Every city or town we travelled to, we made a trip to the post office: from the forests of Gir, to the head post office at Jamshedpur, from the airport lounge of Mumbai to the bazaars of Nainital, we went to every post office that came in our way, scouring for unusual stamps. It is on such a quest that I first came across a philatelic museum, and then another.

Postal stamps in India date back to the British period. The first stamp, a white paper embossed with wafers of blue and red, was issued in 1852. The next, which came out in 1854, was a half-anna stamp with the profile of a young Queen Victoria.(The pictures of the British Queen – and Kings – continued to dominate the Indian stamps until Independence).

The first three stamps issued by an independent India in 1947, however, were that of the Ashoka Pillar, the Indian National Flag, and that of an aircraft. In the years to follow stamps were used to display, commemorate, and celebrate the country’s heritage as well as its achievements. In the last 67 years, since independence, India graduated from three types of stamps to more than three thousand of them. These are not only used for postage but also for collection and study of the postal history; most major post offices have a philatelic department – or museum – that stocks and exhibits these stamps.

I had expected the officials at the philatelic bureau to be indifferent like their counterparts in my neighbourhood Post Office, I was in for a surprise though: the first official we met, after hunting for him in the corridors of over a century old Jamshedpur GPO, returned to his desk in under five minutes (as promised), expressed surprise at seeing us (apparently he knew every philatelist in town), indulged us in a long conversation about philately (I was amazed by his knowledge and passion), and helped us pick relevant stamps.

The other officials, who we met at the GPO in Lucknow, were even more forthcoming and their philately department much larger and modern. We were greeted with a warm smile, made to sit at a large wooden desk and were offered tea. Post which, they proudly showcased their collection – a large section of books, specially printed post cards, memorabilia, and of course the stamps.

While husband got into a detailed conversation with them, I forayed into the museum – three large rooms lined with glass covered panels displaying stamps, first day covers, and cancellations in chronological order. The variety was mind boggling and subjects varied: Politics, Arts, Literature, Festivals, Monuments, People, Cities, Towns, Railways, Sports, everything seemed to have a stamp dedicated to it. The oldest stamp I spotted was atop a faded envelope and had been posted to the Kanpur Post Office on 19^th Dec 1948 from the Gandhi Nagar Post Office in Jaipur.

Appreciating the stamps was good, but what we needed more was a steady flow of them (that was why we were there in the first place). Surprisingly the officials had a solution to our never-ending woe: we could become members of the philatelic department and they would send us every new stamp that the department issues. We could also opt for brochures, first day covers, and cancellations if we wanted, and had the option of choosing the denomination of the stamps too.

The process was simple. We filled up a form, submitted a thousand rupees and got a receipt. By the time we walked out, almost two hours later, we had over three-dozen post cards, one brass letter box, a membership number, and, most importantly, a hope of receiving an unending supply of interesting stamps. But the skeptic that I am, I also had a doubt: what if the stamps never turn up? After all, the same postal department fails to deliver something as basic as a greeting card. My doubt was laid to rest, and my faith reinstated, when I received the first batch of carefully packed stamps and brochures by registered post a few weeks ago – well begun, as they say, is half done.

Over The Hills And Far Away

Having been born and brought up in the heart of North India (not to be mistaken for Delhi or Punjab), my exposure to the south of India had always been limited. As a child, all I knew was of a land called Madras, somewhere beyond the horizon and of people called Madrasis (yes, I am guilty of that crime too). Although we made a trip down south when I was about nine years old, but my memories of the trip were limited to the food – we had to eat puri aloo or dosa all ten days; clothing – I had found it strange to see young women in petticoats, which I later learnt was a half sari; and a lot of greenery, beyond that I did not remember much. My only South Indian connect back then was a Tamilian friend, and the weekly dinner of dosas in his house – and his dadi's nine-yard sari – did little to add to my knowledge, except reiterating the little I already knew.

A few years later, thanks to the geography books, I learnt that there was more to south of India than Madras but that hardly made a dent in my ignorance levels. It was only after I met my husband that I learnt a little more about the south (having grown up in a cosmopolitan township, he had many south Indian friends and acquaintances). He told me about the food – the tamarind rice and the biryani, the beef curry and the avial, the appam and the parrota; the language – the lilt of Tamil and the high rate of speech of Malyalam; the music – the soothing melodies and the hip swinging chartbusters, and the movies – complete with entertaining voice overs.

Although he was a fan of everything south Indian and had many south Indian friends back home, he had also shared how the six months he had spent in Chennai had been a complete antithesis of what he had seen all his life. The city – and the people – according to him, were not only closed to, but also strongly biased against the north Indians. There were many uncomplimentary stories of him being harassed during his six month long stint in Chennai (all this when he is not even a North Indian, but a Bengali). It was with these stories that I first set foot in the city (the trip was made more out of compulsion than out of choice). But what I saw – and experienced – changed my perception forever. 

The city in itself was a revelation, quite a contrast to my mental picture of it. I saw no sign of the polluted and congested metropolis I had thought it to be. On the contrary, I found grand colonial buildings springing up amidst wide, tree-lined avenues; sprawling campuses and impressive office buildings, huge roundabouts and imposing hotels (among them was also the one husband had worked for). Some parts of the city reminded me of Calcutta while the others of Bombay, just that the cramped lanes had been replaced by wide boulevards.

And the people: right from queue at the prepaid taxi booth, where they stood patiently and the booth assistant spoke courteously; to the driver, who greeted us with a smile, carried our luggage and helped us locate the guesthouse; to the owner of the guesthouse, an elderly man, who took us home and treated us like his personal guests since he could not get a room arranged for us (he even picked us up from a lonely dark lane when we were almost lost, and dropped us to the airport early next morning); I could see no sign of the hostility I had heard of. I had just begun to savour the city when it was time to say goodbye. But I had decided to return – and experience the real Chennai, on my own.

When I deboarded the flight that morning, two years after my first visit, I was better equipped – and less prejudiced – about the city. Getting to the guest house from the airport was a breeze – I spent the entire time talking to the driver – and the guesthouse – set up amidst lush tropical plants, low-rise bungalows and small fountains – was a picture of calm. 

I spent the better part of my two days there by roaming the streets, walking the lanes, talking to the cabbies – and the infamous auto drivers, experimenting with street food, discovering little nooks and crannies – with breathtakingly beautiful little temples and quaint houses, and doing many things that I cannot do even in my own city. In the evenings, I explored the colourful and bright markets and huge departmental stores, waded through thick traffic, walked in the rain and sat down on benches when I was tired. All this without a trace of discomfort or hint of the hostility that I had heard the stories about. The city – or a certain set of people – might have been unforgiving to my husband once, but to me Chennai had been warm and comforting.

While boarding my flight two days later, I had only one thought in my mind: to come back sooner or later, this time may be for good.

Post Script: As I finish writing this, husband is in Chennai, savouring a traditional Tamil lunch at a colleague’s house and getting ready for his onward journey into the heart of the city. True, time changes people and their perceptions. 

This Piece first appeared in The Hindu: http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/society/discovering-the-real-chennai/article6123100.ece?utm_content=buffer82cf1&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer