Tagged: Malls

Joy of giving

We had just finished paying for our ice-creams after polishing off a pizza and a couple of drinks. The ice-creams had been chosen with much deliberation and numerous tasting spoons. We decided to walk around a bit.

We spotted a twenty-something woman with four children in tow. Clad in a kurta and jeans, with a bag-pack on her shoulders, she could easily be mistaken for yet another college-going kid. But she had a responsible air about her. And those four children, three girls and one boy, were in total awe of her.

I probably wouldn’t have given her a second glance and continued yapping, slurping on ice-cream cone in hand. But he interrupted me to point her out. “She must be one of those Teach for India (TFI) folks, taking her kids out on their weekly outing,” he said. The confusion on my face revealed enough. He explained, “These teachers take their best students for an outing of sorts as a treat, also serving as an incentive for other not-so motivated kids.”

I was speechless. A trip to the mall because you studied well during the week. And here I visited the mall each time I wanted to satiate my taste buds or on a shopping whim. Heck, sometimes I wandered into a mall just for the air-conditioning and/or a change of scenery. I never felt so privileged before. Also not so rotten ever.

He took me by the hand toward that girl and those kids. He went up to her, introduced us both and struck up a conversation. She introduced her kids to us with great pride, just like a grandparent would. She spoke to them in an indulgent tone, assuaging fears over a lost dupatta.

Those kiddoes were longingly looking at some candy – those beautiful colorful little thingummies. I swallowed a tiny sob. Till today, I can never convince my mommy to let me eat those without guilt. She had indulged me once years ago, when they were still a novelty. I had carefully hoarded them to make last longer. The uncle and aunt indulged the cousin and me on another occasion, remembering to divvy our share equally.

Those kids were very well-behaved about it. No tantrums, no foot-stomping. Just a gleam in the eyes. And just ten minutes ago I was spoilt for choice for an ice-cream.

I whispered to him, “I feel so guilty with an ice-cream cone in my hand.” He just smiled. There was already a plan forming in his head. He offered to treat those imps to some candy.

The girls were overjoyed. The boy was a bit demure. A bit overwhelmed. But they said their thank yous very graciously and with poise. Another sob gulped away.

I walked away, a bit too soon some would say. He came after me, “Where’s your ice-cream? I hope you didn’t throw it away out of disgust!”

And I could only smile.

Praying, binging and feasting

For as long as I have understood the festival of Ganapati, I’ve always wanted to get one home. I don’t know for what duration. And no, I’m not particularly religious. Just the ceremony of it all intrigues me. Every year, I’ll try my luck with my mother, “Can we get one this year? I promise to do all the work.”  It’s a futile exercise. I know she’ll never say yes. Occasionally, I’m even relieved that she says no. God alone knows how I’d cope if she actually said yes one day!

I grew up praying to three Gods. Hanuman – because the father convinced me that he is very strong and will scare away all ghosts and demons. Krishna – because it was fairly easy to relate to the antics of this child-God and Ganesh – simply because I saw either a picture or an idol of his in every room at home. He is special. His idol is the first purchase for the dashboard of a new car, his picture adorns a wall in almost every room and I think he looks the cutest of them all in the Hindu pantheon.

I outgrew praying to Hanuman and Krishna. But Mumbai never let me forget Ganapati.

The initial Ganapati celebrations also got overshadowed by the paternal grandfather’s birthday celebrations. The one time in year that the grandmother prepared dal-baati-churma. I never developed a taste for the baati, simply because I was too impatient to wait until it was fried completely. I was content as long as there was churma and dal on my plate, laced with generous amounts of garlic chutney. To be fair, churma et al. was prepared on other occasions as well. But it didn’t quite evoke the same excitement then.

Sated with churma and chutney and papad, we’d go pandal hopping around the neighborhood.

I stopped visiting pandals in the later years. Not because I had stopped praying but because we now lived on an arterial road toward Marve Beach. I’d see all the big idols in the Malad-Goregaon area from the comfort of my window-sill, replete with band, baaja and tamasha. It was a delectable feast for the eyes and the ears. We just had to be careful to avoid the visarjan rush on the last day. We either escaped to town for a film/play or took refuge in a nearby mall. The only day in the year when I hated where home was located.

This year, in a new place, in a new locality, the festival, although just two days away, feels remote. While there is the comfort of having escaped the noise, it is accompanied by a sense of emptiness. Babaji’s birthday celebrations in his absence feel hollow and the eyes already miss the towering elephant God’s last journey on the roads of Mumbai. It will be a subdued ten days.