Crystal

(Five - Tano)

When R reached the house after a long drive say, for 40 min, he honked and waited in front of a large iron gate wrapped in tin sheet which almost hid the house from sight. I wondered about the action inside with such covertness…illicit brew or drug deal or a treasure trove? The compound wall was very high reminding me of ‘Central Prison’ but on top of it was an adornment of sturdy bougainvillea flaunting purple and pink flower bunches. We waited patiently and I said. "This is becoming like a pattern. Should I try 'Open Sesame!'?" I heard the gingling of keys unlocking the door from inside and there stood a young African in faded jeans and bright red tee shirt with the words, “There is no hurry in Africa” written across. His thick, spring curly hair and bright smile were very welcoming and cheerful. 

The house was a white structure surrounded by plants in different shades of green contrasting with other striking colours giving the place a look of an enchanted garden. I jumped out as R parked the car in front of the house and a pleasant lemon smell wafted from the tree where the lock of the gate hit the tree. A big lemon tree with tender fruits greeted us spreading its dark leaves above my head. There were more trees and a coconut palm on my side. Bright multicoloured foliage and flowers bordered the building which I wanted to explore later. Like soldiers, by the side of the door steps were bushes of bird of paradise with orange flowers swaying in the hot breeze. 

R opened the metal barred door of the house and a wooden door behind it to let us in. Children ran inside bewildered. I stepped into the hallway which had a big framed picture with ‘Om’ in the center and bright purple to black psychedelic circles around it causing a hypnotic effect.  I sharply felt a power in the painting which gave me a true sense of relief. The heavy curtains in the living room were dark gray with large pink flowers having brush strokes of white on them resembling a painting. The coffee table was plain hard wood and couches in leather and I instantly liked the house. I was the ruler of my own house for the first time as I was always a side kick in a joint family so far. Now I have my kids, my husband and a house to manage. I thought that was the ultimate luxury not realizing the responsibilities and pains that come with it.

The young man brought our bags inside. “This is Museen,” R introduced him. He walked towards me and said, “Jambo Mama!” with a strong, confident hand shake accompanied by bending his knees. I have never had a firm hand shake like it before.  I was confused and stood undecided.

"Say Jambo,” prompted R. “That’s the greeting”. 

‘Jam-bo’! I voiced the word in my mouth for the first time that I was going to utter a thousand times again in different locations and situations.

I looked at Museen. He was a boyish looking, not quite tall, friendly fellow with pearly white teeth smiling at me. At that moment I did not know that I would hate him or he was going to make me cry my heart out.

 

(Four -Nne)

As we wheeled out of the airport I was expecting wilderness in its raw state to engulf me. But, pardon me; it was a tropical city with typically hot and humid weather nourishing large stretch of greenery and crunchy grass of February.

My eyes were ready to take in as much of Dar es Salaam on my first ride. In school, as a kid I have danced a so called African dance to the song ‘Gingan guli guli wacha, Gingango’…dressed in shreds of grass and leaves. What a shame! People all around were in bright colourful clothes. They were delightfully dressed in shirts, tees, shorts and pants doing their chores. “It’s not as bad as I thought”.

My husband instantly knew he had this immense task of making me like the place or else he would be doomed with constant outbursts of dissatisfaction and whine, ruining his peace. He had mailed a bunch of affirmative, coaxing letters to make me quit my job and make this uncertain trip.

“Let me stop at my office to check on work. It is just 10 minutes from here,” said my husband.

“No hurry!” Heavy sun was hitting the roof.

We stopped in front of his work place and waited for the gate to swing open. No movement…not even a stir! Manu was making faces through the window at the young man sitting in the bed of the pickup truck as he was also returning them. R peeped out of the open window and asked him, “Where is our askari?” He did a savage swing and rushing to the gate, took a stone and banged the gate yelling Musee! Musee!

“What is askari?” I was ready for my first Swahili lesson.

“Soldier. He is calling the watchman.” I expected a Mike Tyson to emerge from the building. After a while, a skinny old man opened the gate and waved to us. “He should never stand in the way of a strong gust of wind. If this is your soldier, you are in big trouble.”

“There is a night watchman too,”R snickered. We reached the front porch of the building and he parked right in front of the door overlooking an unkempt garden. He took us inside and introduced to the secretary, a chubby Tanzanian lady and the accounts manager, an Indian who turned out to be a little villain in our story. I smoothed my hair with my fingers and tried to look pleasant and greeted them. I was shown the work shop behind it where strong African men were working on noisy large machines.

“How did you get this place?”

“There was a paper factory here, winding up and moving to Kenya so I talked with them and my boss in Kenya made arrangements to rent it. Even our house belongs to them, a package deal. Worked perfectly! Okay, stick around for some time I will finish my work and we can go.” Soon we left the factory and were on our way home almost 40 min drive from there.

 The car passed through the city centre with colourful glass buildings towering high, neat office structures, hotels, hospitals cinemas and architectural old government offices. Loads of men and women dressed in beautifully tailored suits and skirts rushed on their jobs. Wow, impressed!

Then we drove through a slender bridge with waves of Indian Ocean clapping on one side and a silent inlet of water, a small creek on the other. Later I learned it was called Salander Bridge where the local police man nicknamed ‘anti-Asian’ by our friend, fines Indian drivers on petty  traffic violations just because he hated them.  R drove to Namanga and on the way stopped to buy bread at a kiosk. The shop front was completely enclosed in grills and the shop keeper had a small grilled window to exchange goods for money. He looked like a prisoner and I got a vivid picture of the effective inaction of the security system. Finally we reached home and I was wildly guessing what was in store.

(Three - Tatu)



Formalities completed, I walked out of the door and saw him approaching us. I dropped everything and rushed into his wide spread arms - in a romantic course of events this could have been the scene but I had to slow down, because he disapproves all my public display of affection. My heavy bundle of joy was still resting on my hip, so I shoved Manu into his happy arms. He scooped our girl and there stood a proud father, blush hidden within his beard. He kissed the kids, but the boy eyed him with suspicion and refused to look at him. After one brief glance, he swayed towards me and twined his arm strongly around my neck.

I had to do the most ungraceful introduction, “Chakarae, ithu achan anada”. (Sweetie, it’s your dad!)
The little one croaked, Alla, ithu oru allannu! (No, he is a stranger!), still leaning towards me. Shocked for a second, my husband tried to suppress his laugh.
I reasoned out, “Ahem, it’s your beard!’
‘Ha! I never thought…’
‘Remember...the poor thing was one year old when you left!’ Manu was still trying to grab my hair. I moved away to breath the warm air amidst father's guffaw and son's shriek.

Then, I pushed the baggage cart into the bright, humid, African morning. It was quite reassuring. I smoothed my hair to look remotely decent.

A young man from R’s office hauled the large suitcases to the back and jumped into the bed of that Datsun, single cabin pickup truck, I looked at it with wide eyed enthusiasm. All four of us squeezed together in the front…like a picture perfect, happy family. It could have been movie perfect if we sang a reunion song! Manu sitting on my lap was steeling glances at his father with considerable doubt.

As R started the engines, I wore a seat belt for the first time. Then looking behind I clarified, ‘Is that guy allowed to ride in the back?’
No problem, he has to guard the luggage…when we stop at signal lights, somebody can rob them!
What! So...I am in a country, where daylight robbery is just a casual warning! Oh, lucky me!

(Two - Mbili)

At the arrival lounge a long line snaking for visa greeted us coldly. With a sleeping child and an aching shoulder I wanted to badly give up…but wait! I pleaded Depi for a favour. She refused, “No, I don’t want to sit down”.
“Hmm, icecream when we go out!” …oopsy, she is not a big cream fan.
“Manu is such a bother.”
“Look, he is the best when asleep. Tonight I will tell you a ghost story (cooked up).” She fell for that! So I made her sit down and propped the baby against her and she tried to wake him. Manu’s sleep being rudely interrupted he uttered a gibberish curse and continued sleeping. I headed towards the end of the line.
That is when there was a gentle tap on my shoulder from behind and I thought it was my sleep deprived hallucination.
An African guy moved in front of me and asked, Are you Mrs R?
“Ah, why?”
“R told me to assist you, complete these.” He handed me a bunch of papers. Suspicion and a lots of other unclear things working in my mind, I filled all the particulars, handed him the fees and my passport. He disappeared into the cabin of the officers ahead of the line and soon there was no trace of him. ‘What if the guy is a con man? My passport is gone and I might be deported without even a single glance at my husband.’ My eyes shuttled between the kids and the cabin. Finally after what seemed like an hour minus my nails, he emerged with my visa.
“Umm, do you work here?”
“Yes, please proceed to the baggage claim.”
Then I looked for my children in the corner. Ah…where are they? I saw my son running away and Depi trying to catch him and I ran behind them and seized Manu. As we were running like 3 blind mice the African stood there…I am sure, smiling. At the carousel he helped me grab the baggage and loaded the cart. I thanked him, feeling silly for being skeptical. I know angels come in different forms but never guessed it could be tall, dark and gigantic! Seeing him hesitate a moment, I handed him some dollar bills.
We reached the customs clearance, pushing the wobbly cart (3 humungous suitcases- almost packed a kitchen in there except the granite grinder…it is, of course, for another day). While they stamped my passport my son was pulling my hair vigorously. I saw my reflection on the panel and got scared at myself. For a distraction, I searched beyond the glass door that stood separating us from the outside for a glimpse of my darling husband. The man near the counter asked, “Do you have anything to declare?”’
I spotted him…”Yes! that’s my husband!
He looked at me and my disheveled hair which was in my son’s grip and whatever he thought, gestured me to move on without checking the bags. It was the good old days when ‘terrorism’ was not very popular and airport trusted hapless mothers. I hurried, eager to jump into the unexpected!

African drum beats echo in my head!
Set vibrations through my body!
Stretches of dusty earth and clear blue sky,
Wrap me in serenity.
Jacaranda flowers pave the streets,
Coloring my inner canvas in purple hues…

First Flight!  
(One - Moja)

                                                      

 My first flight was to reunite with my husband in Tanzania. The pursuit of happiness and a career, landed him in Dar-es salaam, which means ‘harbour of peace’. Oh yeah, I secretly believe, being a family man for a few years, he had enough reasons to flee.

After testing the waters for a year he gave me the start signal. I was reluctant. It was our old house-help who pushed me like a mother bird to take the flight. She quipped, “If you assume the guise of a dog, you must bark!”. I did not quite understand the analogy but guessed it to be words of great wisdom and decided to bark. So without any strings attached I prepared to fly solo. Oh no, I have to rephrase the previous line…with 2 kids and a heck lot of baggage I hurled myself into the hands of destiny.

The airplane descended slowly and touched the runway at Julius Nyerere International Airport in Dar and came to a normal halt because the fun loving gods were constantly interrupted by my prayers.

My joy burst amidst all other cocktail of feelings: uncertainty, relief and fear; confusion, anxiety, and more fear; dreams, hopes and surely a truck load of fear. I should be ashamed of myself! Well, I have always had my personal demons to tackle!

It was a lovely morning and the stratus sprayed, infinite blue sky stood as a silent picture beyond the egg shaped windows of the aircraft. I boldly kicked my fears into that sky.

I am going to meet him after one year. Collecting my bag in a swish, I pasted a fake smile trying to be brave. People in the aisle were restlessly fidgeting as if stung by fire ants. I tried to inch through the narrow space with Depi, my daughter clinging to me and son, Manu sleeping on one shoulder and a huge bag of kid essentials on the other shoulder. Rope walking should be easier!

Some ‘big foot’ behind me stepped on my flowing shawl. ‘Sorry!’
With a hard tug my forward movement was arrested and reversed. The other end of the shawl which did not yield was tucked under my son. Instantly, holding a seat in front of me, I tried to balance. I, very superstitiously, thought that my life in Tanzania was going to be an intricate act of balancing.

 

The mood is terrible. So it has been for a while. Eventually, I decided to write some pieces on my misadventures (if I dare call it even that!) in east Africa. Being jobless now, and sitting at home with a vacant mind makes me cranky, therefore, I am blindly shooting thoughts into empty space (…husband got another job transfer and I had to move yet another time…).  

I am under the delusion of what Socrates said, "An unexamined life is not worth living". Probably, he was suggesting a complete medical check up! Hmmm, so where was I going with this? Oh yes, I'm recollecting sweet pleasures and not so pleasant memories that made me age rather ungracefully. Digging near the old stone age sites in Africa...every pebble I pick...will be another piece of...what else...rock!

Yes, I am back with a bang! Have been taking it slow and one moment at a time!

Recently my daughter casually remarked, "I used to wonder when I was a little kid that you were GREAT and could do big things like….I don't know…"
"…maybe buying a big balloon!" I filled in. She turned on the  TV but my mind reeled back to that particular event.
  

My mother was excited," Come quickly!
I was in the kitchen fetching a glass of water to push down the 'iddli' being gagged into my daughter's mouth while she was in a hypnotic stupor of the TV.
"Come soon, she is saying it again...whenever this advertisement comes she says it." I waited anxiously for evidence that my 2 year old was a genius. What mother wouldn't! The jingle was proclaiming that the whole world was dreaming about their silk centre.
My mother was cajoling with animated facial expressions, "Kunjumol, say again, 'Pattu pavada' 
I grabbed the little one jumping on the couch away from the food and held her closer so my mother could force feed her..."Amma, she is teeny. She can't say such big words!"
"But she said it just now!"
"Like, …Pattu pavada venam!" (…want a silk skirt!)
"Not that much...she said 'padada".
Ah ha! Wonderful! …she even says 'mamak'! What does that mean...?

My mother was clearly annoyed and proceeded to feed the child. "You don't have to believe me! When Suja came home she touched her skirt, wrapped it around and said the same. I know what she means and what she wants. After you leave I am the one left to see the child suffering."

Probably, the whole episode was a conspiracy by my mother to have such a fancy costume for the kid which I would ridicule and object. I was all against a petite pavada and I was sure they don't sell miniscule skirts for toddlers. But I played along, 'Tomorrow we will go shopping to put an end to all sufferings”. I wonder why the white stroke does not drop baby girls with a tag: 'High Maintenance!'

Next morning we had some visitors and when they left it was almost 4.00 pm so my mom asked, "Aren't you going today?"
"No it's tomorrow night". I was working away from home.
"No, the shopping… take her with you and go to the same shop”.
“Amma, do you have any plans for the evening?”
“What!”
“Never mind!” I got ready to fulfill the mundane task of shopping with my daughter. Combined with ulterior motives of replenishing my stock of Kancheevarams, I withdrew some cash and decided to teach her the abc of shopping.

On the bus someone gave me a seat. I put my little girl on my lap; she looked at me and smiled. She rarely gets such opportunity to spend quality time with me. I ran my hand through her unruly thick hair and felt immensely happy. Since I was a little girl, I have always wanted to have a baby girl. When I was pregnant, everyone thought it would be a boy (…just like that!). But I made a secret pact with the creator to give me a girl with curly hair and pretty eyes. After 10 hours of discontinuous labour when I held my wish in my hands I thought my heart would burst. She was almost perfect. Girls are so special, like reliving the forgotten days of one's own childhood from a better angle…like looking behind a misty veil and releasing sighs why I didn’t get to live like this. My heart was all glad within at that moment and I lightly kissed her hand as she was looking out at the fast moving scenes.

We reached Raja Street and got off the bus. The shops were bustling like the tip of a fire cracker with loads of shoppers. In that specific silk shop, an old guy with beetle stained teeth stopped my entry and said in a husky whisper that they were closing the shop after hearing rumours of an approaching communal riot. He added it would be good for me to go home soon. In those days, our city was on a religious upheaval and susceptible to sudden tremors. My mission aborted, I rushed out without a second thought.

The turn of events started when my daughter pointed at a huge balloons sold by a hawker outside the shop. She was sleepy and tired already and started in gibberish...babba..babba...babba….. I tried to distract her. We have to go home…there is a problem, I explained calmly… like she could understand! Her wailing became intense. I had no plans of buying it because it was larger than life and I still had some normal sense left. The general hustle and bustle added with a pinch of panic became a commotion. People looked clueless but hurried in all directions. Her bawling grew louder. People stared at me as if I was the epicentre of all the problems. To wrap up, I had to yield, so without haggling or bargaining I bought the humongous red balloon that could easily transport us home if filled with hot air.

Then, I approached a middle aged auto rickshaw driver who quickly took us homeward through the less crowded streets. With visible signs of fright and anxiety his eyes scanned the streets. When we were almost near the over bridge, he drove under the bridge, a short cut to reach our street. It was growing dark and right in front of the auto ran a young man and 2 men chasing him. The auto hesitated for a moment and I looked out and saw them pin the young man to the wall and drive a knife through his chest. Instantly I covered my little girl’s eyes to save her from being scarred for life. I saw the two men repeatedly stabbing him as the driver steered clear, took a steep turn and sped. We were soon flying home. My entire body sweating and heart numb, I sat like a zombie.

Next day, the newspaper headlines declared that a community youth leader was stabbed under the bridge. I left to my work place the same night and could not follow the story to find out if the killers were punished. Our city was overcast by escalating atrocities and more communal violence followed. Even today, I cannot go under a bridge or ride an auto rickshaw without a shudder. 
Eventually, my mother custom made a skirt with a silk border. I wonder why she didn't do that earlier and spare me the agony. But experiences matter!

I long to...

be a rock in the spray for that never ending ecstasy




wink back at the peeking sun




get a fresh coat of red feathers!

 


travel the mountain road to infinity...




burst out for a day, unknown unseen... 




and just be a curious child again!