Sunshine Mist and the Rainbow: Life Is Simple Predictable and Fun

By Rita S Varma

The story that proclaimed itself, tugged at the Author to be written for all. From pre-Partition India to the present, it captures and captivates the decades in between. Traversing through the two capital cities of Delhi and Leningrad. Highlighting the fundamental formula - Life is simple, predictable and fun !

Earnestly he said, she will know the truth and the truth will set her free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482845020

Rita S Varma

Rita S. Varma is an engineer and a novelist by choice. She has two titles, “Sunshine Mist and the Rainbow” and “On My Terms and Conditions.”

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Copyright © 2015 by Rita S Varma.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1: RAINBOW DREAMS

CHAPTER 2: SO NEAR YET SO FAR

CHAPTER 3: HER OWN LIFE

CHAPTER 4: SAMSARA

CHAPTER 5: THE DIVINE TOUCH

CHAPTER 6: ONWARD ON WINGS

CHAPTER 7: THE TWO CAPITAL CITIES

CHAPTER 8: RIOT OF COLOURS

CHAPTER 9: ANCHOR

CHAPTER 10: THE RETURN

CHAPTER 11: FINAL JOURNEY

LAST CHAPTER: THE BEGINNING

Dedicated to

My father Prof K K Shrivastava ( Raja )

And

My daughters Ashita and Rishita

All Engineers

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Lord Almighty

To Time

To Knowledge

To my teacher Shri C B Narnauli ji

To my beautiful mother for being there

To my husband .. before I change my mind

To all

CHAPTER 1

RAINBOW DREAMS

S he had had a grand wedding. One where the celebrations lasted over a couple of days and the one she wished would last her a lifetime. Everyone was joyous, her parents, grandparents and the assortment of relatives spanning three to four generations. Some from distinct lands others from distant lands and villages. She could place some of them by their names, place some of them by their place and place only a few both by their names and places. Everyone was heartily welcomed, each one of them had a story to tell, so there was a lot of banter and laughter and the din rose and fell like the swell of the waves. Her grandfather boomed about presiding over matters ranging from tedious to trivial with the same aplomb, his wife in tandem like an erstwhile secretary. She remembered little of her grandmother, a simple lady who either stood behind her towering husband or stooped in front of her Thakur her God in her prayer room. Her presence was equivalent to that of an inert-element, which neither made nor marred or modified its environment. It seems that in her lifetime her grandmother had spoken more to her God than to her husband. So it was no wonder that she had not only come to admire her father and grandfather, and in that order, but was greatly influenced by them also.

It seemed to her that the three of them were participants of a relay race. Grandfather her father and then she herself. That the relay-baton was in reality being passed from the hands of her grandfather, as he lunged towards his finishing line, into her young hands while her father was the enabler who’s responsibility it was to enable a smooth transition between the two, providing a graceful and effortless switch from the one in the lead to the leader in waiting. In his time to come her father would be the one to pass on the baton to her daughters as she stood up for her part of the enabler. Everything gave the impression to be perfectly orchestrated everything seemed to fit into a scheme of things engineered by an invisible force an unseen hand called her destiny. In this scheme, her wedding was also a pact, which would come to have tremendous impact on the turn of events, a masterstroke by the Marshal.

On the eve of her wedding Mehndi and Sangeet were performed. After lunch in the afternoon the ladies of the house, friends and relatives gathered in the decorated hall. Her hands and feet were adorned with intricate mehndi the traditional henna patterns on her palms and slender arms. Alta a blood red coloured liquid was applied on her feet along its side so a centimetre thick band was circumscribing her feet now. All the women gathered for this occasion also put henna designs and colour on their feet, even as snacks, sweets and tea was served. Few took to taking short naps on the mattresses lined on the floor covered with brightly printed patterns on the bedcovers, while the henna designs dried and crumbled on their hands, to get maximum colour. Lore had it that the more a husband loved his wife the more darkly her hands and feet were tainted on finally removing the dried henna. So competition was tough and some resorted and restored to tricks and means such as adding lime juice or oil to enhance the brilliance of the dye and soak up the drying paste. One of her cousin acted as the house DJ and songs alleging undying love and romantic numbers were the flavour of the hour.

Evening saw more friends and some members of the groom’s family come over for the formal Sangeet, the musical evening. Much fun, laughter and dance prevailed with songs sung by those gathered, accompanied by the dholak – a percussion instrument. The songs ranged from being mischievous to naughty, from wanton to vulgar bordering on to the lewd. These songs were specially written for the occasion, wherein each member of the bride’s and the groom’s family was made fun of, teased, ragged or bullied while anticipating their conduct with the bride or the groom in a lighter vein. This went on till late in the night after dinner.

Early next morning she woke up to the melodious strains of the Shehnai by the shehnai maestro Ustad Bismillah Khan and then the mellifluous strains of the Sitar by Pandit Ravi Shankar. The resident DJ, her cousin could not have given her a more precious gift. Till date she remembers lazily waking up to the mesmerizing tunes that seemed to fill her heart and soul with mirth. A better beginning to the grandest day of her life seems unattainable. She took the ritualistic bath, when a paste of freshly ground turmeric powder and sandalwood with aromatic oils was applied to enhance her beauty. The groom underwent a similar ceremony at his place. She had never seen her parents and grandparents fret and fuss over her so much, snatching precious moments with her. They appeared engross in hectic chores to overcome their anxiety and the imminent separation.

Evening saw a frenzy of activity last moment panics and preparations. An aunt’s matching blouse went missing – she was accusing the presswalla. What was she to do now, her other heavily embroidered sari did not go well with the jewellery she carried for the occasion. The exotic flowers some young girls had hidden in the fridge to keep them refreshed were detected by a bunch of naughty kids and used to perform the mock wedding of their dolls. These girls now nearly in tears, were rescued by another thoughtful cousin. He offered to get some fresh exotic flowers from the florist, as the ones used for decorating the venue were common flowers the girls believed. It was important that they regain their composure, for some of them were to wear the sari for the first time and no one wanted to mar the event for them. They seemed as excited and nervous as she did, at the prospect of the evening.

An old couple’s suitcase refused to open up and yet both relaxed in a corner, spectators to the flurry of activity around them. Till an uncle enquired why they weren’t dressing up? ‘Oh our suitcase is jammed and we barely need a couple of minutes to change, we knew some Samaritan like you would eventually turn up’ concluded the wrinkled man. They became a ‘hit’ pair, when someone asked them about the secret of their cool stance, the man said ‘Oh, we’ve both discovered the merits of talking less it can save enormous energy and nastiness.’

‘Oh’ interrupted his wife of many years ‘he likes to make light of everything’ throwing some light to his light-hearted remark.

‘Yes like travel light’ he added chiding her trying to resume the topic of resentment between them for the past two days. In his enthusiasm to show off he tried to carry the suitcase indoors when they reached the wedding place, and was now nursing a backache.

‘No’ she explained unabashedly ‘like switch off the lights’ she quipped not giving in, also at the same time accusing him of his recurring and annoying habit that incensed her much.

‘Okay, that’s enough conversation for the day’ he added making an elaborate gesture of dabbing his forehead and the unseen sweat, while she just shook her head and smiled.

The men tended to the decorations of the tiny red blue green bulbs lighting the façade and the taller trees in the front garden. They were also overseering with great overt gusto the cuisine the drinks and the invites pouring from all parts of the town to receive the Barat – the grooms family and bless the newlyweds. She dressed in a crimson colour Banarsi zari sari with motifs all over, jewellery carefully selected by her parents for her and looked radiant, irrepressible and resplendent. He in a dark suit with the pagri decorated with a kalgi as his headgear, he must be looking suave and subdued she knew. The Barat left for her house and arrived with much fanfare and fireworks. Every few feet of the journey, jovial dancing by his relatives and friends on the loud music the band accompanying them played would interrupt them proceed. So a mere twenty-minute walk had taken them over an hour to reach her parent’s home the venue of the wedding.

They exchanged garlands amongst shower of petals and cheering from all present – signifying that the bride and the groom have chosen each other. They then sat on huge ornate sofas. Soon the guests queued up to bless the new couple, shower them with gifts and get the mandatory photograph clicked by the professional photographer. He would later transform the video recording into a hurriedly edited movie with appropriate Hindi film songs to match the on-going ceremony and mood with titles and subtitles. Later, after most of the guests had left, the singing the dancing the celebrations were replaced by sobriety and a softer palette during the actual ceremony performed under a special enclosure – the Mandap. Four banana plants with lush foliage tied to the four posts forming the corners of the mandap. Green mango leaves interwoven by marigold flowers festooned and adorned these in turn. Earthen pots of decreasing diameter were decorated with a paste of rice soaked overnight. These were placed on the inside corners of the mandap. A Hindu marriage performed by a Pundit, the priest presiding over the ceremonies. He chanted mantras, ancient invocations and prayers. Commencing the ceremony was done by lighting of the sacred fire or Havan at the center of the mandap to seek the blessings of lord Ganesha, the family deity and other deities. This fire was the divine witness to their union and so was regularly fed with ghee or clarified butter by the bride, the groom, the pundit, the revered members present, while the ceremony was conducted around it.

A poignant moment was the kanyadaan literally meaning giving away the daughter. Her father Daadu handed her over to her husband. The glistening tear in his eyes was not from the fumes that rose from the fire. Most of her family and some from the grooms side present had tears brimming their eyes, some in anticipation of their daughters leaving their homes and some in revived memories of their daughters. Daadu had mixed feelings of being able to carry on his responsibility as parent in his lifetime and the pain of parting. She too had mixed feelings, those of excitement and anxiety at life’s new journey at what her future would hold. One end of her veil was knotted to one end of his chadar, then the seven vows were taken by going around the fire seven times – symbolizing their journey through life together. Each vow ensures a distinct benediction. The ritual over both newly wed’s, such an awkward designation she remarked to herself in her thoughts, took the blessings of the elders by touching their feet. The next day saw her leave her childhood home ‘Uttarayana’ in a simple pink sari with a narrow golden border to enter her new home.

Life is simple, predictable and fun, moreover you can figure out life. Yes, one can figure it out, on your fingers; just like you figured out that if one chocolate cost you two rupee, then three chocolates would cost you…umm…umm…six rupees. Simple, predictable and fun, on your fingers just like that. That’s what she thought as a kid, then as a youngster, then again as a young lady. Now that she had grown older, she had come to realize one did not always live a bright colourful life there were lighter shades which at times assumed darker tinges darker tints making the canvass of that person ugly and messy. Shades one could not undo at the mere click of the mouse, shades only the passage of time could erase or subdue.

Yet, she still believed what she had always known, life was simple, fun, predictable and also that people follow more or less a fixed pattern a flow chart. There was always a ‘Starting point’, then there were some factors and parameters that were fixed some that were variable but these varied from person to person. As one progressed in age and with time you consistently encountered circumstances. The decision box, the diamond shaped box where you encountered your conscience. If you choose to remain good, erect and upright you proceeded right on the right course. If in the mean time your values your variables had undergone a change, then depending on what you choose you drifted towards the left course, it would amount to a paradigm shift in life, from the right course. And if you choose to ignore the events the circumstances and choose not to let it affect you, you moved ahead straight on course, but of course.

Whether one went straight ahead, or chose the left or the right path, one invariably encountered more variables; more circumstances and in turn more and more decisions. Sometimes a wrong decision could create a loop and life would come to a point of ‘kadam taal’ marching at the same place, biding time, waiting for external factors, orders to redeem one’s state of affairs, or internal feedback triggering auto-correction leading towards the path to grandeur. Or all of a sudden out of no-where all parameters became optimal. A condition met or at times specifications were satisfied and before one can even adjust to the amendment and alterations in the circumstances or reason out the cause behind such drastic and dramatic modification a distinctive conduit not only becomes visible but one is instinctively thrust on this path of pristine brilliance. Another day arrived bringing with it multitude options where none existed. Corresponding on the data, the decision with their branching flow lines, depending on the answer and the process taken one finally reached their END. Looking back one had either lived a magnanimous life, complete and replete with memories, milestones a life well lived. On the other hand if one had been manipulative, their journey was marked with miseries and malignancy; a life lived wrongly yet lived. And yet a few had muted lives full of malaise and maladjusted, these people led short uneventful ignorant lives ceasing to matter to themselves and to those around them.

She had been carefree and happy as child and youngster at ‘Uttarayana’ their house. Uttar meaning North and Ayana is movement, Granddaadu would say. She would nod gleefully in agreement thinking that her lesson for the day was concluded. Seeing her eagerness towards his tuition he would then go on to elaborate; Uttarayana marks the commencement of the Sun’s journey to the Northern Hemisphere. Traditionally, in India this period is considered an auspicious time. Also when the veteran of Mahabharata Bhishma Pitamah vanquished by his grandson Arjun, fell to his arrows on the tenth day of the battle we are told that the warrior hero even on being fatally wounded and lying on a bed of arrows, lingered on till Uttarayan set in, to breathe his last. He who was endowed with the power of leaving his material body at his will the greatest of them all Bhishma Pitamah. He would further go on to add it is believed that the person who dies on his auspicious period escapes the cycle of birth and rebirth and that the soul mingles with the almighty. Bhishma chose to die during this period with his boon to choose the time of his death. He waited on a bed of arrows to depart from this world during this phase. Different traditions are followed throughout the length and breadth of this ancient land at present times too. Offering water to the Sun god, a holy dip in a sacred river, lake or pond is said to purify the self and bestow punya, puja is offered as a thanksgiving for good harvest too. Colourful kite flying all day long beckons people of all ages and strata to come out into the open after the cold weather and mingle.

Do you know her grandfather would quip there is a special significance attached to the celebration of this day also popularly and more commonly known as Makar Sankranti. This day when according to the Hindu astronomy the sun enters the zodiac of Makara the Capricorn, heralding the month of spring and heading in the direction of … he would take the much expected break in his narration where she was as always supposed to pitch-in with her precise response marking her attentiveness. Most times she was able to take the bait and answer impromptu at other times she would get assistance from her grandmother. Who in her effort to spare the child from such heavy-handedness from her husband was ever keen to whisper the right answer for her benefit from behind the patriarch’s back. Uttar, she replied now reading the lips of the old lady. Yes, Granddaadu beamed in self admiration, Uttar the northern journey of the sun. Then as if on cue and becoming aware of the slight commotion and signalling between the two females he enquired stiffly what was going on behind his back? Ever the spontaneous one to circumvent any holdups, a trait she inherited from her mother, Shaleen countered Uttar Daadu Uttar. Granddaadu was always replaced with the shorter Daadu when she was in her demonstrative mood knowing well that the jargon softened Granddaadu each time without fail, allaying mischief on their part.

Uttar as in Answer and Uttar as in North, they are antonym Granddaddu. Ever to appreciate a clever remark he acknowledged her with a broad smile lightening up his eyes as he uttered the monosyllable shabaash. Unwilling to conclude his lesson just yet he continued after the interruption unperturbed much to their dismay. The day is also of special significance because on this day, the day and night are of equal hours. This worthy of note piece of data brought her back on the tracks too. Makar Sankranti marks the end of a long winter and is considered as the most auspicious day in the Hindu calendar. Always falling on the fourteenth day of January every year, as this is not the trend of any other celebrations and festivals here. This so, for the festival of Sankranti is based on the solar calendar unlike the rest of Indian festivals, which are based on the … lunar calendar she would conclude to his satisfaction. Even though Sankranti comes every year, in the month of January it is considered especially auspicious as it coincides with the harvest season too.

It was in 1901, he would give details for her benefit that Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore founded a school in our traditional gurukul system. Rabindranath ji’s vision was of a world where humanity and nature would be in perfect harmony with each other. The school famously known as ‘Shantiniketan’ or the abode of peace was the fruition of that vision. Uttarayana was also the name of the complex where Rabindranath lived. He would go on to add with a faraway look in his eyes reminisce his visit.

Grandmother though docile would then assert herself at all this factual, scientific and historical information. What use is all this to a girl, she would muse. What a girl really ought to know is this; Makar Sankranti heralds the arrival of spring, the season of fruitfulness and plenty. And nothing signifies this well than the soft seeds of til or sesame. A panoramic view to the preparations of the assorted events across India would be something like this. Housewives prepare sweetmeats made from til - whether it is a basic mixture of til and jaggery, or laddus. In Uttar Pradesh, during the festival typical rice and lentil preparation called Khichdi, with the mandatory dash of ghee, is offered not just to the Gods, but is also distributed among the poor. In the southern part the day is celebrated as Pongal, where a fulsome meal of lentils and rice liberally dashed with ghee is offered to gods, and then to family members. In the northern states, like Punjab, the festival is celebrated as Lohri, where the end of a bitter winter is marked with the burning of huge bonfires abundantly fed with handfuls of til sweets, rice and sugarcane. Interestingly, this is a time of celebration for Muslims too. Just out of the month-long fasts of Ramzan Muslims celebrate the festival of Id just a few days prior to Makar Sankranti. Prayers and hectic preparation of food and the famous seviyan, or vermicelli pudding cooked in milk mark the day. It is a time to eat the best and wear the brightest. It’s a time of plenty, and a time to give, especially to those who are needy. But, the most colourful celebration of Makar Sankranti is the colourful kites that dot the skies as each one attempts to outdo the other. As the sun sets, children and adults desperate to extend the day, add floating oil lanterns to the tails of their kites - a sight that brings to life the true meaning of the day: a return to light, to warmth, to the life-giving sun, grandmother would conclude to her relief that her husband had not interrupted her and was all attentive.

The last word though was always those from Granddaadu. Like any public function the end to this lore of Uttarayana, would keep slipping further and further away till many ego’s had been satisfied. Harping on the topography now he dispersed more wisdom to her, in ancient Rome there was the custom of distributing figs, date palms and honey, on this day. In Greece too I heard that the parents of the younger generation distributed til, for the increase in progeny, on this day. He would then go on to conclude with much aplomb in a grand finale, with a famous Sanskrit Shloka that expresses this sentiment best:

Asato maa Sadgamaya; Tamaso maa jyotirgamaya; Mrityoor maa amritam gamaya.

Shaleen believed in this simple shloka with its simple and easygoing Hindu philosophy of Karma and rebirth. Translated it would mean:

‘Lead me, O Lord, from untruth to Truth, from darkness to Light and from death to Immortality.’

‘Young lady’… it still rings a note, always will, the title lovingly conferred on her by Daadu her father, one spring morning, her Birthday. Young lady…..… She still remembers the sound, the setting and the scenery when these very words were uttered to her. She can still feel the baritone voice of Daadu, as he summoned her to come and sit next to him in the veranda of their house ‘Uttarayana’ in Gwalior. A mild morning breeze stroked the trees laden with the scent of flowers and fruits, the birds chirping away to glory as though each day was a celebration. The slight squeak of the large swing as it reached the farthest end of its slow rhythmic motion, on which sat her grandfather at right angles, his back straight and erect and his feet crossed legged at ninety degrees to the spine.

It was her fifteenth or was it sixteenth birthday… on the graph of life does a year really matter? A year here or a year there or a year not to be found anywhere .. does it matter ? Not really, not now to her, not any longer. But on that birthday it did, Daadu said ‘Happy birthday Shaleen. You are a young lady now and I wish you will conduct yourself with great poise and dignity in life, as befits you.’ He always treated her like this, in a refined and gentlemanly sort of manner; and then looking at Mamma her mother he added, ‘like your Mamma.’ Next he gave her a small rectangular gift, smeared with a few grains of uncooked rice and turmeric powder indicating that the gift was originally offered to the God’s in the prayer room first. Shaleen had never really received any gift from Daadu, directly. All gifts until then from him came indirectly, via Mamma. She looked up to Mamma who was soaking up the moment of adulation between parent and a child, father and his daughter, Daadu and Shaleen. Mamma knew how rare and cherished these moments are for a daughter. She smiled and said, come on! Go ahead open your gift. It was a small ladies watch, a simple square white dial, steel body with a