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There I Am (main hoon na) *Parineeta Khar |
Sometime back, eyeing my kitchen walls laden with grime and soot, an idea struck me. I climbed up onto the cooking range, a color chalk between my fingers and wrote in bold letters, “life is made up of stories, not cells”. This line had touched some chord in my heart. The catchy phrase, I thought, would dilute the sordidness of the dirty walls. My molecular biologist husband climbed up to erase the word “life” and substituted it with the word “wife”. And so it has been all these thirty or more years. We grew up together, having married in early youth. But neither of us has conceded our respective views on spirituality and theism. He is a metaphor for practical reason and logic, whose scientific sensibilities permeate the structure of our domestic life. We exist, he makes plain, by virtue of being the fittest. Our process of living according to him is a result of the concerted functioning of our organs and hormones. Once this activity stops, we seize to exist-we die. I happen to hold different views on the subject of our existence. Indeed life and death are more than the birth and decay of cells. I am conscious of my being a tiny speck caused by the will of a creator- A supreme force we call Brahma/God/Khuda. However insignificant a part of this cosmos I may be, I am still a remarkably vital part of this whole. My doing or undoing does make a difference. I see the divine grace exhibit itself in the small details of life - In the symmetrically arranged hues of a butterfly’s wing, in the perfect synergy of petty organisms like ants toiling as sincere workers and managers, in a flawless blue night sky - though I know the reality of stars. The two of us debate and argue to no end on the issue. He says science does not recognize anything like soul or spirit, calling it the fantasy of human creativity. This other worldliness was conceived as a frustrated mind’s hallucination, according to him. I don’t call him a Godless atheist but more an upright man of action than a thinker. My thinking persona cannot help but pose a teasing question- how come cigarette smoking leaves one individual afflicted with cancer while another one indulging in the same habit lives to a ripe old age. He explains extensively about cancer research, contact inhibition of cells, tumor suppressors like p53 etc. Again- if human DNA closely resembles the parental one, why a child born to two healthy parents turns out unhealthy? For me, the flawless rhythm of day and night, life and death, mirth and sorrow is in the hands of a super coordinator who controls and acts, acts and controls. He, being the ultimate remote controller. That is why all the passengers of American Airlines escaped miraculously on the surface of freezing waters of river Hudson. And then there is a disaster of Air France plunging deep into the fathoms of the ocean. The end had already been decided, the cause was caused by that super power whose will prevails. Where all science and logic are at their boundary and find no answers. Nevertheless, I walk a thin line, neither underrating his pragmatism nor overrating my view, though my faith is not dogmatic. I stand in humility before the super entity watching untimely deaths, debacles and disappointments. I feel the need of an unseen hand which could wipe away my vulnerabilities and make me feel less helpless-also brave enough to accept the unpredictabilities. Once a week, to remain connected to my inner self, to kindle a spark to realize the occult luminosity and to remain in communion with my spiritual tendencies, I fast and pray. All of a sudden, as if to bolster my views, I am rewarded with an extraordinary experience. The mysterious conjuror casts His spell and brings about a scene. During my mother’s hospitalization for a heart surgery, I lost my wallet. It had a substantial amount of money, other knick-knacks and most importantly my hospital pass, which gives me access to my mother’s room. The card had the patient’s name and the name of the hospital. “Something was amiss in your puja today”, my husband comments sarcastically. Yes!! My faith is shaken or even shattered. My cauldron of woes is full and my cascading tears overflow. How to obtain another pass was the immediate concern. Amidst a weepy dinner, our phone rings. It is a friend, she sounds excited. “Have you lost a packet or something”? My eyes light up. “Not a packet exactly but --”. “Call this number immediately, this person is trying to reach you”. We call the number. Yes, the wallet is with him. He asks the colour and the amount of money to ascertain our genuineness. By providence the friend’s phone number happened to be scribbled on a piece of paper in the wallet. On finding it in the middle of a thoroughfare he picked it up, opened it and found the hospital attendant card and patient’s name. He called my friend at the number in the wallet to enquire whether the patient of that name is known to her. My friend disconnects, discarding him some kind of a stalker. The person shows perseverance, calls back and requests to recall if she knows somebody by that name. Sometime back I had mentioned to my friend that our mothers shared a typical Kashmiri name. I had talked about the impending surgery also. Things fell in place and she called me. We met the man. He beamed on locating us, handed over the all important commodity and before we could thank him, he vanished into the busy crowd. I already find myself standing at the borders of realms of unattainable mysterious land. Grabbing my wallet I look triumphantly into my scientist’s eyes- he shrugs his shoulders. And then again! A family reunion is arranged at a pilgrim place-The dearth of time with every individual makes it a convenient converging point. We (I and my husband) reach the place ahead of others. After checking into our hotel, we want to finish our Darshan to avoid indulging in laborious rituals with others. We join the serpentine queue which is like mosquito repellant coil of jam packed human heads and limbs. After being in this state of helplessness, I suggest to quit as I am almost claustrophobic. Only the perseverance in his nature lets us move, though with a snail’s pace. More heads, more sweat and heat and I am giddy. We can’t stand the ordeal anymore, what with swine flu on our heads. I pray- let this human ocean have more sense and system; I plead- we don’t want such a Darshan, but how to reverse our steps in such a human melee. Somebody says we can jump the railing and we are ready to do that. And Lo and Behold. A nondescript diminutive man almost pleads with me “Nahi Jav Amma-Dus minute main ho jayega”. “ Don’t go madam, it is going to take you ten more minutes- Don’t go, Don’t”. He tells us to stand in a corner. Surprisingly the mob does not object to our breaking the line- When the security person wants us to go back to our place-the other people plead- No that is their place. The diminutive man pushes us to join the people who have the special pass for the Aarti. We are ushered into the hall after crossing a labyrinth of corridors. We smile at each other. “ What is happening over here?” we ask bewildered. And when we come out rewarded with the Darshan- The diminutive man locates us again. “ You should never leave a pilgrim place without Prasadam- I will get for you- I am there- Main Hoon Na “. Yes you are there- I reply. |
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*Parineeta Khar nee Zutshi was brought up in an extended family where joys and sorrows, even the illness and career of a child was a shared affair. Although she is a science graduate,. the penchant for English literature stood in her stead ; She came out with an Honours in English literature. She further accomplished her Masters in the same subject from the University of Kashmir. Her restless existence had no time to grow as she got married during her university days. Her husband’s career tossed her on to the far off lanes of Paris. Motherhood, responsibilities of a wife and a daughter-in-law and running a household with a scientist husband kept her busy for a good part of her energetic years. When the demand for her other roles diminished she had time to reminisce. The stored up memories gushed out in a deluge. She started writing short stories for local newspapers.Her first book “ ON THE SHORES OF THE VITASTA” was published from the Writer’s Workshop of Calcutta. The other book “ WE WERE AND WE WILL BE “ was published from Utpal Publications, Delhi. Her stories depict a celebration of life a continuation of life. Parineeta and her family have been living in Hyderabad from the last twenty eight years.. |
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