Flights From My Terrace

By Santosh Bakaya

This book is a collection of 58 essays most of which are based on observations from my terrace.Some have been written quashed in ramshackle buses while commuting from and to my work place. still others have been written from the snug confines of a car, watching lives pass by with their extraordinary hues, some of them are embellished with reminiscences of my childhood days in the warm cocoon of family life, surrounded by affectionate parents, siblings and cats, dogs and birds, many of whom were restored to life by my father,
Some of the essays are about the sunny moon, a boy with a crutch, a canine sponge, a human sponge who loved cricket, the spy who came in from the rain and chance encounters which changed into lifelong friendships. Many of the incidents and episodes that I witnessed made me realise that life is what happens when we are making other plans. Through all this, I realised that it is the cascading abundance of love and love alone which can sublimate the seeming cacophonies of life into a sublime euphony.
A couple of essays are about my beloved Kashmir where I spent many summer vacations with my cousins and also winter vacations making joyous snowmen. This was all before my homeland turned into a gory conflict zone. In short, I can say that these writings made me understand the real meaning of life and enriched me no end. I hope the lives of the readers are also similarly enriched.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Santosh Bakaya
• Release date: Oct 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310157080

Santosh Bakaya

I am an educationist, with a passion for writing, many of my books and articles have been published worldwide. I am an essayist, a poet,and a novelist. Many of my novels for young adults have already been published. My poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi is about to be published. Although I have a doctorate in political theory, it is the everyday reality which always enthralls me.

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FOREWORD

From the terrace outside her bedroom, Santosh Magazine sits every morning communing with nature and enjoying her own bird’s-eye view of Jaipur, Rajasthan, where she lives with her husband and daughter. Most days, as she soaks in her colorful surroundings—from the cloud in the shape of a melting watch, to people playing a boisterous game of cricket, to cows wandering through the yard—these telling details catapult her to earlier places and allow her to connect the dots to universal feelings that are magnified with the wisdom of time.

Thus is the scope of some of the rich essays contained in this collection, drawing readers from the coziness of the narrator’s current home setting to her colorful childhood schoolyard, to her family’s former home and the village she left behind. The innocence of a younger Santosh flirts with the sophistication of the grown narrator. Both of them share the same optimistic viewpoint that—regardless of age and experience—allow her to find beauty in the ordinary moments and in the connections that form such a powerful web.

Through her reflections, she also is able to communicate the joys and frustrations of marriage and motherhood, her devotion to her late father and her yearning for their relationship, as well as provide a tribute to her grandmother, who lived more in her mind than in her body in her later years; and this perspective serves as an inspiration for some of Santosh’s own keen observations.

Santosh, the narrator, also has a burning conviction to fight against the inequities that are so entwined in everyday life in her world … a world where people go hungry, traffic has no pattern, and the higher class always rules. Yet these realities coexist with the luster of cell phones, popular televisions shows, and fancy stores. While many people around her likely overlook the beggar in the street, the rich man who doesn’t tip, the mother-in-law who directs her daughter-in-law’s strenuous chores, the haves and have-nots competing for their spot on the sidewalk without thought for each other’s fate, for Santosh they are magnified and in her quiet but powerful style, she brings them to life with her words.

Other essays are told from the family car, a crowded bus, the street, a scenic vacation spot, lunch with a friend. Regardless of where she sets her pieces, what they all have in common is that they capture an array of universal emotions that pour not only from the lovely sensory-rich scenes and images she lays out for the tasting, but also in the rhythmic style she uses that unfolds almost like a fable. Once you step inside the first page, it will be difficult to stop until you have drunk in all of Santosh’s observations.

Perhaps one of the most magical elements in all of the essays, though, is the unusual personification of nature—the clouds, birds, flowers, and trees all have their own language and emotions, and they serve as a wonderful mirror into Santosh’s soul. This provides a unifying theme throughout the book that sews it all together and will help the joy of the journey stick with you for years to come.

Experiencing this heart-felt collection is sure to be like finding a dear, and lifelong, friend that will remain in your heart forever.

Lisa D. Ellis

FINDING LILY (Soul Mate Publishing, 2013)

Boston, MA, USA 2013

Introduction

When I think of Santosh Bakaya’s writing a smile comes to my lips and my antennae raise in anticipation of surprise.

The characters who populate these essays are both earthy and complex, seen through the unique lens of Bakaya’s humor and insight, and portrayed with a rare mixture of sardonic realism and exuberance. Take, for instance, the horde of passengers she encounters on a bus ride to Bharatpur:

[There is no space in the bus, enter at your own risk. The skinny conductor warned and flung open the door at a place called Bhusawar, known for its pickles and an educational institute for girls. Oh what a pickle I was in! And what an education I was receiving on these roads and buses.

If there is no space why are you opening the door? shouted someone from the rear. His indignant squeals fell on deaf ears, as the conductor was busy listening to the music of the coins that fell into his bag – money that would go unaccounted into his kitty.

All the risk lovers trooped into the bus, putting other peoples’ lives at risk with their massive suitcases, haystacks, long iron rods, mewling and puking infants, hold-alls, tiffin carriers, sweet-boxes, and hold your breath, buckets half filled with oil.]

Bakaya has an eye for detail and a sure-fire aim that sends her arrows of perception straight to her chosen target every time. In this collection of essays, you will encounter total strangers brought into the fold upon making their first contact with her darting, perceptive eyes. They reveal their conflicts and desires, their sorrows, complaints, and simple silliness as if placed on an invisible stage meant only for them—each one cleverly constructed to last for a few moments of sheer entertainment.

Where else but in this enchanting book would we find a flood of memories triggered by a cloud shaped in the form of a melting watch? With deft strokes of her color-filled pen, Bakaya takes us back to her childhood, where we hide alongside her in the green canopy of a Neem tree, looking down at her frantically searching brothers and sisters. Come down, we know you are up there, her younger sister yells in a high-pitched voice. This is a family knit together by shared pranks and outrageous humor. How fitting that, at the end of this essay, their father serenades them with The Owl and the Pussycat while strumming on an imaginary guitar.

You will also be captivated by Ms. Bakaya’s husband and daughter, who travel with her to her husband’s ancestral home in their beloved Kashmir, only to find it surrounded by sandbags and guarded by the BSF (Border Security Force). Even here, her pen—and her determination—never stray from the search for hope. The family’s combined force of will convinces the soldiers to open the doors to the now dilapidated house and in her husband’s dusty, boyhood room they rescue a copy of Dickens’ Hard Times, presented to him on his 16th birthday.

Shakespeare, Shelley, and Wordsworth, fill these pages too, as if sitting alongside the author on her terrace in Jaipur and sharing her observations. She is that rare writer whose vision keeps expanding, until the unfamiliar becomes home. Birds, camels, buffalos, goats and cows play their part too, making this book a total celebration of life, rather than solely a paean to humanity.

[Village life passed by in its various hues. A woman was starting a fire, while a toddler sat on a string charpoy playing with a piece of string. As the car moved further we glimpsed many such scenes, a father was lovingly bathing his four year old under an erratically flowing tap; another was pouring his love all over the back of a buffalo in the form of buckets of water, while his wife sat peeling onions and hurling bits of suggestions his way.]

Welcome to Santosh Bakaya’s world.

Joyce Yarrow is a Pushcart nominee,and the author of the Jo Epstein mystery series : Ask the Dead  and Russian Reckoning[aka The Last Matryoshka].Her most recent book,co- authored with Arindam Roy, is a romantic thriller set in India and North America. Joyce has worked as a screenwriter, singer-songwriter, multimedia performance artist and most recently, a member of the world music vocal ensemble, Abráce.

BLISS IT WAS IN THAT DAWN TO BE ALIVE

Two pigeons sat on the telephone wire with a languorous air, and a magpie robin perched on the nearby Neem tree randomly watched life’s random pageant pass by.

A newspaper boy mounted on a chugging moped hurled a paper in the neighbour’s balcony, and it hit the neighbour bang on the head. I saw him picking it sheepishly and looking at the clothes fluttering on his clothesline on the terrace, like fragments of memories striving hard to be noticed.

A tiny boy scavenged in a heap of garbage, probably for some unexploded remnants of fire crackers, leftovers of last night’s wedding celebration, in the vicinity the musical strains of the party still ringing in my ears. He did find something, picked it up with a serendipitous gleam in two round eyes, shot a look in my direction, and ran away with the booty clutched firmly in a tiny hand. A dangerously vulpine looking woman watched his actions from afar, and then hastened towards the heap. Perhaps she could also find some booty there.

All of us are hunting for some elusive treasure which will brighten our lives, enrich us, and irradiate our mundane existence.

I have a treasure trove of memories and whenever I feel like; I dip into it, and take my pick and it brightens up my life like firecrackers. And yes, I also have a winged chariot at my command which specialises in time travel. It materialises before me at the flick of my fingers.

As I sat in my chair looking up at the aqua sky, the birds flocking to and fro, I heard a chugging sound. Was it the newspaper boy on his chugging moped? No, it was not. It was my time machine. It glided to a stop on the terrace, tantalisingly near, and I jumped into it, and it soared high into the blue beyond, erasing years, reviving memories--it travelled ....and it travelled....and it travelled...round and round in circles, there were pockets of turbulence.. it bucked and bounced and whirred to a stop outside R-4 university campus, where I had spent my childhood years, ah bliss it was in that dawn to be alive .But to be young was very heaven.

The neem tree that had been planted by dad and which had grown along with us from a droopy, diffident sapling into a huge, shady canopy appeared to smile in recognition. A magpie robin perched on one of its branches. Had it also travelled in time? I stand behind the tree and eavesdrop on my past... ah my idyllic past, did it really exist?

The rockery that father had built with so much loving care, picking up a rock here, a pebble there and a sapling from the university nursery had slowly become the neighbours’ envy. How he beamed when his efforts were appreciated. Maybe many years later, it would fall victim to the ravages of time, or maybe be demolished by the occupants who would inhabit it from time to time. But right now it was there, in all its rocking glory.

Nipper, our dog bounded towards me with astonishing speed, it charged right, pounced left and started licking me all over. What was it trying to tell me? Perhaps showing his gratitude for the time when I had saved him from father’s blistering wrath, when he had barked viciously at the neighbour’s daughter?

Hey, who was that figure in white smiling shyly in my direction? Oh my granny!

I still have a picture from those wonderful days, many pictures actually, but one that stands out in all its dental glory!

I, a mere toddler sitting in granny’s lap, smiling for the camera, with my two front teeth shining, trying to compete with granny’s three teeth! The glint in both set of eyes spilling out to form a happy star.

Who are those sprint champions running all around the garden....hey, why is that kid rushing towards me...?

A ten year old came loping towards me, hitching up his extra-large knickers. Then with a dangerous pout, he whined, "this Ashok does not teach me how to fly a kite, he makes me run after him with the roll of manjha,he is very mean."

I ruffled his hair, promising to look into the matter. Thoroughly satisfied, he skipped away towards the neighbouring house, and then stopped in his tracks. Retracing his steps, he came up to me and said I can smell a horrifying stink coming from the kitchen, I am sure Janak Singh has again made one of his weird concoctions. I am not going home.

And he did not go home, his home actually, but hopped on towards our house where mom’s culinary skills had always enthralled him.

Another ten year old raced towards me and cannoned into me, screeching like a jungle monkey. Holding my wrist in a vicious grip, he said I will release you only when you say ALIKBADKYOON.

Wh....a..at ....on ...earth is th..at?I asked in complete stupefaction.

Say or else.... My younger brother had a weird penchant for blackmailing us three sisters into uttering nonsensical words, much to our intense discomfiture.

It is absolutely against my philosophy to utter such meaningless words and below my dignity too. I managed to say, despite the pain in my wrist.

A boy, smaller than these two cannoned into me like an animated cartoon on steroids, and you know what, he was running around on crutches....ah I remembered he had fractured his leg...

Leaves whirl around in a helter-skelter confusion, creating a maelstrom and I stand amidst this maelstrom looking around..ah there is my little sister..is that her voice whispering sweet nothings to Lazy, our slothful cat , holding her front paws in her tiny hands while Lazy stands on her hind legs-the spell is broken, Lazy has sighted a squirrel and runs full throttle towards it, no more lazy!

I could sense the Bhandaris leaning against the barbed wire fence and looking at me curiously.

Is that you Santosh???

You do not seem to have changed...you still have that naughty twinkle in your eyes-you naughty brat!

Their daughters came running from inside the house, books in their hands, smiles on their faces. Both of the studious sort, I had always been the mischief monger, the rabble rouser, the boisterous brat, running after kites, chasing squirrels, climbing trees, doing the disappearing act.

Hey, there was my dad near the flower bed, lovingly watering the plants, his brows furrowed in concentration so severe that he did not notice me, and mom stood behind with a sweater in her hand, her eyes brightened when they fell on me, and she complained, He refuses to wear it, it is quite cold.

Yes it was quite cold without dad’s warm presence. That is why I had come looking for him in the blissful past. Work was his mantra of life. He never rested, but now he was resting-peaceful and quiet.

"The man who wins is the man who works

Who neither labour nor trouble shirks;

Who uses his hands, his head, his eyes

The man who wins is the man who tries".

Time and again, he would quote Conrad Hilton, in his attempt to make us see the importance of hard work. He ironed his own clothes, polished his shoes, washed the plate he had his food in, oiled the bicycle, the door hinges, removed the cobwebs from the house and from our minds, and made mouth-watering pancakes liberally splashed with chocolate sauce. He discussed films with us, trained us for elocution contests, debates and plays, recited poems for us...ah that delectable pea green boat....and the owl and the pussy cat...Edward Lear...the star studded sky and the imaginary guitar..

I keep travelling back in time, but just a few days back I had visited the campus, only to be shocked at the rampant desolation, the vacant houses, the weeds running riot all over, erasing all those wonderful fun filled days of yesteryears-the fun and the frolic, did it really exist-or was it merely a figment of a fevered brain?

The Guava tree was still there in the backyard of the Srivastavas’ house, but the branches had a lacklustre air about them. We had spent many a happy moment hidden among the branches, almost snatching the luscious guavas from the beaks of the garrulous parrots!

Our backyard had a water tank, and on Holi we dunked many an unsuspecting victim into it, it was silent, almost sad- like an elegy.

An elegy on the passing of a bygone era!

In fact the entire campus had a lost look. Was it still missing our boisterous presence, our nocturnal exploits, our escapades, our pranks, our carrom Olympics, our mad cycling, our heated debates, our antakshri contests , our marathon Ravana making efforts and our picnics in shady corners of the campus?

Where was the shade now? With a flick of my fingers I had again escaped into the past- the idyllic past.

Ah there it was, the shades of the evening.....

I looked west, the long shadows of dusk were creeping in a relentless advance towards our house, and it was time to head back. I flicked my fingers and jumped into my chariot, and was airborne. I looked back to find Nipper chasing a squirrel, dad getting into his sweater , the two ten year olds chasing each other across the velvety garden and mom smiling triumphantly that dad had finally given in to her cajoling and coaxing.

And yes dadi was there too with her raised gnarled hand waving in my direction.

Was she trying to stop me?

No, none could stop the ruthless advance of time.

The chariot moved on, its outline silhouetted against the crimson glow of a setting sun, the diminishing vista of the mountains in the distance looked on morosely.

I suddenly remembered my daughter- had she eaten, was she fine? In my obsession with time travelling, had I been ignoring her?

You are always ignoring me, lost in your own world -saw you in the morning-you were on the terrace-afternoon –terrace-evening –terrace----what are you up to?

She was lounging on the bed watching Charlie and the chocolate factory , and gave me an irritated look when I entered the room with a sheepish expression, the past still trying to intrude into my present.

This gum is a full three course dinner by itself Johnny Depp announced and she hung on to every word of his.

I can’t have a blueberry as a daughter, at these words of one of the mothers, she threw a fond look in my direction.

I know that my mom will always love me, even if I change into a blackberry, strawberry or raspberry, she smiled out this remark, and went back to the TV screen.

"Did you have something to eat?’ I managed to stutter, feeling guilty of my long absence.

What do you want out of my life-wear your socks, wear your sweater. Do this do that, come on give me a break mom, I am almost eighteen. The landline is ringing; can you not pick it up? And yes, I want an i Pod for my birthday. She rattled off in one breath.

That is co...st..ly ,is it not? I stammered.

Not so costly that we cannot afford it! There was defiance in her voice.

‘Hmmm’’.

BTW, where do you keep disappearing? You will definitely get the Booker Prize one day!

I raised two grateful eyes, a THANK YOU, hovering on my lips, only to notice the glint of mischief in her eyes.

"I mean the FACEBOOKER PRIZE, mom’’. She quipped and hopped out of the room, with a wicked glint in her eyes.

Did you go to the doctor, Baby? Are you eating properly? That was my mom on the land line. I was still a baby for her!

Some things had not changed! Some things would never change!!!

Years melt, days melt, time moves on- memories remain-and remain-sitting in a pea green boat of yesteryears, I move up and down the waves of memory.....

THE MELTING WATCH

The shades of the evening had started to fall; streaks of orange which were splashed all across the blue sky just some time back, appeared to be slowly disappearing.

I doffed my hat to this incredibly versatile painter who had once again picked up brush and paints and coloured the sky.

Multi –hued nature embraced me from all sides, soothing me, comforting me, as I sat on the terrace of our Jaipur house, feasting my eyes on the painted sky.

Was it the surrealism of Dali, or the impressionism of Monet and Claude that had me so intrigued? The orange and blue hues were soon replaced by sinister clouds.

Honestly, one of the clouds looked exactly like a melting watch. Time stood still for a while, the present melted away, and the past took over. I was appalled at the ‘persistence of memory’ which is always tucked away in a corner; a sound, a smell, a word, enough to trigger it.

In no time rain started, followed by a flood-a flood of memories, which threatened to swamp me.

I raced inside, afraid of being drowned in the flood but the memories followed me inside and I was drowned absolutely.

Slivers of memory popped out of this flood like flotsam and I lunged at them trying to salvage them from the rushing and roaring flood, like the hundred year old photographs of British India which were serendipitously found in a shoe box in Edinburgh some time back.

The rain had transported me to a long forgotten past; a past spent laughing ,enjoying playing away our childhood years in R-4 University campus ,Jaipur-a warm cocoon of love, affection, playful banter, compassion and concern.

With my mind’s eye, I could see a bunch of rambunctious kids dancing and traipsing in the rain, shrieking and singing in untrammelled glee.

I looked closer and, there I was! A monkey faced monkey full of spunky mischief, a leader of many who believed in being led by me, the perpetrator of many a practical joke ,the initiator of many a protest movement, the crusader with many a cause to fight for!

Be it a hike in pocket money, or permission for going out for a picnic, or a movie, my advice was sought and followed.

Long forgotten vignettes cried for attention. Ah a bygone era had me totally in its grip!

A huge neem tree standing in the garden which dad loved to tend was a swaying witness to our pranks and escapades. Under its green canopy we would make ourselves snug inside a sort of tent formed by the overhanging limbs of another tree and a few overgrown shrubs, and there in this luxurious comfort we would devise many a diabolic plan, hatch many a conspiracy, crack many a joke, ignoring the raucous calls for lunch.

Notorious for my tantrums, no one dared to scold me for fear that I would run away from home, for that was what I would threaten everyone with!

But one day I was scolded; and well, I did run away!

With cat like stealth, I crept into granny’s room, which had a small store with different trunks holding our clothes. Granny was involved in laughing at the jokes of her own world so she did not notice the stealthy intruder.

Slowly, cautiously, I picked up my favourite night suit-the one with tiny yellow and black flowers against a white background, a frock which was a hand-me-down from my elder sister, a toothbrush and toothpaste, an apple,