'Another Man's Wife' by Manjul Bajaj

‘Another Man’s Wife’ is one of the titles in the collection of nine women-orientated stories beautifully told in a poetic detail with easy flow.

Manjul Bajaj, is a good observer of people’s expressions and mannerisms, her description of characters helps you relate to the persons you might have met sometime in your lifetime.

On page 107 she writes

Nusrat never fussed or hemmed about telling a story like other storytellers do. No clearing of the throat or slipping of a clove into her mouth or asking for water or tea. It was as if the story of the day was in the air surrounding her, waiting to be plucked out and told. “Listen then,” she would say, tilt her head to one side and simply begin

On page 207 she beautifully chalks up the love affair between heaven and earth during rainy season, she writes

Weeding the vegetable patch in the homestead, Kuheli looked with happiness at her maize crop dancing in the breeze. After three successive years of drought, the rain has come pelting down this chaumasa season. The gods had finally stopped clearing their throats and were singing without restraint, the joyful song of falling rain. Heaven and earth were in love again and many good things would be born of their passionate coming together.

I love her style of writing and her bold descriptions of sensual moments, showing sensitivity and insights, the writings that very few Indian writers dare to explore. On page 282 she writes

Betrayed by her knees, she shut her eyes tight and slid down slowly to the floor, pulling him to her, over her, into her. The river of time was breaking all around her in swift spasms, rising, falling, thrusting, heaving, twisting, turning, shuddering, gasping and finally crying out aloud. She heard him whisper her name over and over again, like life-saving mantra, as he climaxed.

On page 144 she resonates my thoughts on women, she writes:

I wanted to tell her that we virtuous women set too much store by our virtue. If we don’t let the man who love us take our body, time will take it anyway, without passion, indifferent to its beauty. I no longer believe that there are thick dossiers on each of us in the heavens and a record kept of our every deed and omission. At most each of us is given four or five chances at happiness. At the hour of reckoning we are left alone with ourselves to answer this- did we grab our opportunities with open arms or did we let them slip through our fingers, did we squander those chances or make something of them, did we sit our life out on the earth caged in prisons of our own making or did we have the faith and courage to walk out and know ourselves as the inheritors of the world and all that it has to offer?

'Another Man's Wife' has been an excellent read for me, I surprised myself when I took 2 days off the social network and paused all my other activities to cuddle with this book and walk with the author, Manjul Bajaj, into the interiors of India, passing through the villages, the deep forest, the Mango orchards, the markets, into the huts, the Shikaras, the private homes, feeling the spirit of a particular community and getting entangled into the folds of women’s mind. 


I would highly recommend this book to all those who like women-oriented stories.

Sitting In a Durbar With Tavleen Singh

I first heard about this book when I stopped for a brief moment at NDTV and watched Barkha Dutt interview Tavleen Singh. The interest was immediately aroused when I learnt that this book revolves around Nehru family during 70’s and 80’s.

I lived in Surinam in late 80’s and being Indian, when Indira Gandhi was killed, I had group of local people gather in my house who came to offer condolence.

There was just a brief mention on Local TV channel about Indira Gandhi, and the social media was non-existent, local Hindustanis, the natives of Surinam, wanted to know more about Sikh community, many of them failed to understand how an Indian could kill their own Hindu Prime Minister.

When I moved back to India, I was more curious about Indian politics than ever before. Almost nothing has been written about the inside stories during emergency and Rajiv Gandhi era, and the beginning of Punjab and Kashmir problems, therefore I was most pleased when I chanced upon this book.

What I liked about this book is that it’s a first hand account of events unfolding as she takes you through the corridors of power and the mistakes that they made, of not being able to change policies or bring about changes when it could have been done.

“I saw how my life as a journalist open up doors that made me constantly ashamed of how India has been betrayed by people like me. I believe that it is because India was let down by the ruling class that she failed to become the country she could have been. If we had been less foreign and more aware of India’s great wealth of language and literature, of her ancient text on politics and governance and her scriptures, we would have wanted to change many things, But we failed and brought up our children, as we have been, as foreigners in our own country fascinated by all things foreign and disdain of all thing Indian” she writes

She describes Sonia Gandhi, the president of the congress, as merely a foreigner who loathes the nation she reluctantly adopted as her own, one who fervently stated that she would rather see her children beg on streets than allow them to them join politics.

"Sonia's taste in fur coats was so refined that she was not satisfied with Soviet tailoring and had the coat sent to Rome to be redesigned by Italian fashion house Fendi. These were the stories that are never possible to confirm, but gossip rarely needs confirmation to be believed," Singh writes.

"That Sonia's become the most important political leader in India is a comment on other political leaders," she says admitting that one of her motivations in writing the book was to chip away at the Gandhi mystique.

An interesting book that kept me awake late nights even after I had shut the book and the lights to log on to yet another day.

Post card from Darjeeling

I looked out of the bus window. We had arrived after five hours journey. Different shades of green glistened under sunlight. The small wooden cottages behind the lush greenery looked so cozy and inviting. I envied the people who lived so close to nature away from heat and dust of Mumbai. The air was cool and crisp. I wrapped myself with my woolen shawl and got off the bus. I needed to walk, to stretch my limbs. It’s awfully tiring to be travelling in the bus for so long. The scenery was breath-taking and we had passed many tea gardens down the winding road. I made a mental note of visiting those tea gardens later during the day. But first we had to check into a hotel and freshen up. Hotel was closer, just few minutes away but driver had decided to stop for a while.

“Hurry up” said the driver “If you want, you can take a short walk up the hill to see the war memorial, that stands as a reminiscence of the Gurkha martyrs of Darjeeling, who sacrificed their lives for their country in the wars and operations that have taken place since independence." he said, adding, "In 1976, Manish Gupta, the then Deputy Commissioner of Darjeeling, had taken the initiative to construct a War Memorial, to pay homage to the 76 brave sons of Darjeeling who had sacrificed of their life, for the cause of their nation.” explained the driver pointing towards the monument.

We started to walk up the narrow path, and had almost reached the steps leading towards the monument when we were distracted by the train whistle. The toy train came chugging and we stood to watch it roll by, excited like kids even though we saw this train many times, as it kept turning, making several u-turns and passing us from different attitudes of this park, we stood there, stationed at one position, turning our heads in the direction of the train and following it with our gaze.

Some of the other people walked up to the war memorial to get a closer look, but for me train was a novelty and I stood there, leaning against the railings till the train disappeared behind the hills and the whistle faded in the air.

So this 'World Cup' is ours to keep for next four years.

Throughout the day we sat, nail-biting, although there was lots of food in the house, a special meal to suit everybody’s taste but still, nails are tastier in the times of stress.

This was the Day of Judgment, there was question on everybody’d mind - "Who will win the world cup?"

Actually speaking, I don’t understand this game of Cricket and find it a sheer waste of my time, seems so silly to follow every ball around the screen (I mean field). I am always awed by people who get super-excited as they follow the balls’ movements zigzagging its way in different directions after being whacked by a hard wooden bat, the batsmen running up and down between two ends of the stumps, hundreds of spectators announcing the same score, and all this while I am thinking, "What game is this, that keeps the people’s passion so alive that they scream and hoot as though their life depends on that score". Duh!

“I have better things to do” I mumble, tuk-tuking my head at this madness, until the day arrives when the cricket fever is so high that the temperature in my environment rises beyond my ignorance value. I realize that this is neither one of those 1000 odd ODI matches that are playing on TV 365 days a year, nor those IPL matches that people keep betting on.

I am distracted and slightly interested.

This is the most important ‘The World Cup’ match (I am told) and I learn about it only after I see the excitement in everybody’s faces when they talk about that war-like-match between India/Pakistan. Whenever Indians talk about Pakistan, their antenna always shoots upwards into the nether zones, there is some kind of love-hate relationship between these enstranged neighbors which is never going to be resolved. Everybody was talking about this match, so I googled a bit but the real tutorials came from some kids in my building who updated me about it during my evening walks, they educated me on its importance for India, and then there was also TV, Twitter, social media, all breathed cricket who spoke nothing but cricket and my interest had sowed its seed.

I learnt about the passion of cricket in India, when I saw the crowd outside every electronic store. Walking down the streets of Bandra, saw hundreds of people crowded around a store. "What can the matter be?" I wondered as I approached to investigate. I discovered that all were glued to the TV in the store watching a cricket match. "Oh dear!!! What a craze!!!"

On the day of ‘The World cup match’ my friends came over. (This was one more excuse to spend the Saturdays with my friends) We chatted, we played cards and watched the match munching on snacks and drinks. My cousins were in contact with me on Blackberry and their conversation/ comments added zing to our party. At regular intervals they forwarded the messages which I would share with my friends at home. This was an added advantage as a stress buster (not for me, but for my friends).

The current Cricket World Cup situation  between India versus Sri Lanka is this.... India (Ram) married World Cup (Sita) in 1983 and in 1996 SriLanka (Raavan) took away Sita (WoldCup). Now after 14 years of Vanvaas, they meet again and you know the results..! One of the forwards posted on my BB

But the stress was there throughout the game, my friend who is a cricket fan didn’t want to see the match till it was ‘safe to watch’, she wanted the game to end before the 50-overs, saying - "playing till the last ball is very stressful". She cursed the players who got out and cheered the ones who scored well. “Hit four! Hit four!” she kept scolding the cricketers, showing her fist to the TV whenever there was no score. When the wickets fell, she covered her face with regrets.

After eight hours of viewing this match, finally there was ‘The Six-er’ a brownie point that spelled ‘Victory’. There was hugging sessions in my room, with my friends laughing loudly, congratulating each other. We watched, we celebrated with billions of images with equal euphoria and merriment.

We decided that it would be fun to go to Carter road for the celebration, we dressed up to go to a coffee shop by the sea-shore and was surprised to see that there was a midnight party in every lane, with sweetest traffic jam and the processions of dancers and singers, all waving India flag, screaming and hooting till their throat crackled. There were small children, old people, young and middle-age, all came out of their homes to be on the streets, to greet each other, to see and to be seen.

Everybody had Indian flag to wave showing their National pride in their victory

All the people were seen sitting on the bonnet, n the roof and on their car windows with their body protuding out from the window (there were some serious accidents too I learnt abour it later)

Some people were quite creative, painted their faces and body to show their happiness.Those people expert in body-painting had world cup painted on their backs, they drove through lanes of Bandra on a scooty, congratulating each other.

This was one big street party and this was day they didn't complain of being stuck in a traffic jam

Yes I was glad that my interest had been aroused and I understood what this excitement was all about. I celebrated the victory with the cup of vanilla crush........ Jai Ho!!

Grocery store at street corner

A grocery store in India

I grew up in Sion, a suburb of Mumbai. My granny used to send me for small errands down stairs to a grocery store. During those days, there were no supermarkets or malls in Mumbai and we could do all the stopping from small stores down the streets. There was a small grocery store at the corner of the lane. I often went there to buy sweets that were kept in a large jar. There would be several jars containing sweets of different shapes, colors and sizes. I would pop few sweets into my mouth before giving the shop assistant the list of items that my granny wrote on a piece of paper. This store would be quite messy and was always cluttered with various items, some of them strewn on the floor. There would be sacks containing pulses, rice, dried red chilies, wheat, etc, filled to the brim, some of them overflowing. There would be no path to walk into the store. The shelves, lined on all three sides of the store, would be full of other packed or bottled food that would reach up to ceiling.

The shop owner would sit at the cashier giving directions to his helpers. The assistant would read the list, bring out the things and weigh it in front of me. He would then pack it in a paper bag and tie it with a twine and keep it on the counter. There were no plastic bags in those days and I always carried a cloth bag with me whenever I went to buy the grocery. The shop owner, an old man dressed in loose white kurta-pajama and a Gandhi cap, would then write out the price of each item on a piece of paper, do a mental addition and charge for the same. Calculators had not yet made their invention and everybody knew their proper mental mathematics, right from addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. Everybody knew their sums. I knew it too. That was years ago.

Today, after many years, I went back to that store. Yes! The grocery store is still there at that same corner, but the shop looks bigger. The shop owner sitting at the cashier was a young guy with a long hair tied into a pony-tail, maybe his grandson. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt making a statement. The shop was neater with things categorically placed. I went around picking up the things that I wanted and placed the stuff at his counter. He used calculator for addition/subtraction, did not waste time honing his mental mathematical skills. He asked me if I would be interesting in buying new products that were available at his store. I asked me to explain what he had and he introduced me to new health products that were available, the power snacks that had little oil, the dips made at home, the drinks that were organic and before I knew, I had bought many more things than what I had intended to.

For packing my stuff he had no plastic bag but he suggested I buy a cloth bag from him for Rs4 which he would refund if I gave the bag back to him. I bought the bag too, but it is so impressive that I may not return the bag and get the refund. Maybe that guy knew it too.

Now that is called business tactics!!

Water; water everywhere…what’s a big fuss?

Why do my NRI relatives and friends make such a big fuss over consumption of water? They grumble if they see a leaking tap. They need a warm shower bath to clean their body. They need spacious bathroom. They won’t drink boiled or filtered 'Aquaguard' water. They want sealed bottles of a well known brand to stay healthy.

Are they so delicate?

In India, people take water for granted. If there be a water tap in the middle of the road, you might find somebody taking the opportunity of washing clothes and or taking bath in the most spacious open area, unmindful of the moving traffic or dusty and filthy streets and some thirsty passerby may even be brave enough to stretch his empty bottle for a potable refill.

It happens only in India.

Yes! I am a Bhaibhand

When I was young I often heard my family boasting that we were Baibhands and they made strange remarks when talking about other sects such as Amils, Sahitis, Larkanas, Shikarpuris, and other such sects. For me, all that mattered was that we were all human and spoke a common language that compartmentalized us into Sindhi group. During my schooling years, my school friends often ridiculed Sindhis, criticizing their etiquettes and habits which were common in certain sect, and embarrassing to me, so much so that I often pretended that I was non-sindhi and was even shy to expose my ability of speaking perfect Sindhi.


To an outsider, it will be difficult to differentiate one Sindhi from another, but when we are in the inner circle, we do notice the difference in food, culture, dialect and sense of dressing. But one thing is common in all the Sindhi’s that they have emerged as winners. Most of the Sindhi families were displaced during the partition of India-Pakisthan war and were forced to give up their wealth and property and migrate as refugees. But hard work and will to survive with dignity has paid off and there are not many Sindhi beggars you might find today. That’s because Sindhis are very generous by nature and are willing to support their not-so-fortunate families.

Even before the partition, when all Sindhis lived in Sind, they had the same quality of camaraderie. Bhaibands never focused on education, and preferred to trade. In the days of the British, they sold some specially embroidered cloth pieces. Coming mainly from Hyderabad, Sindh, Sindhi workers specialized n the supply of local art and craft objects, referred to as ‘Sindhi work’ to the British and other Europeans in their homes. English men called those boys ‘Sindu workers’.

Generally, a boy of seventeen or so, among Bhaibands, went abroad for some time. That was called his first tour. When he finished his tour he came back to Hyderabad and was married. The husband left for foreign lands while the daughter-in-law was at the mercy of her mother-in-law! Daughters-in-law were sometimes not happy with this arrangement but this was compensated with huge stack of money checks that arrived regularly and enhanced their status in the society. (However, after Partition, the wife started leaving with her traveling in order to stay with him).

Bhaiband men went to different lands: Singapore, Hong Kong, Japan, Saigon, Jawa, Sumatra…even the remote corners of the world and did business. They suffered many difficulties. They had to learn the language of the place and eat food they didn’t like, but they learned the tricks of the trade! Most often, they established their own firm. They shared their knowledge with their own family members and encouraged them. The members of the firm were brothers or cousins only. Each member set up base in one country. The system of demand and supply used to send these members to different countries and lands in order to spread their network far and wide. Perfumes, cloth, almonds, pistachios, and such goods, bought cheap in one land were sold expensively in other lands and all the partners of the firm became rich!

In 1947, when the families were displaced, many of the Sindhi migrated to those places where they had done business initially before the partition. The concept of family life for many Sindhis living abroad underwent a change. Men, who had always worked for few years and then returned home, the idea of ‘returning home’, ceased to exist, more-over the business suffered and they had to start a life anew.

Bhaiband never like the idea of women working outside the home, but many women are normally involved and are encouraged to participate in family business, (if need be) to take care of their hubby’s biz in their absence.

Over the sixty years, life had changed. Bhaibands are more educated now and it is difficult to differentiate them from other sects. Youth of today don’t care much for diamonds and gaudy jewelry (which was the specialty of Bhaibands) and are easily adjusted to every country wherever they choose live in, adopting the culture and language of their adopted country. A Sindhi youth may not know his own Sindhi dialect, but is well versed in the foreign language, trading efficiently in whichever umbrella he chooses to be.

The adults too, foreseeing the erratic working hours and the hardship of the trade and business, encourage their children to take up the professional field, which is more secured and relaxing.

Although more and more Bhaibands are educated now, seeking the best educational degrees that money permits them, and pumps them up to enter the best professional stream.

Surprisingly young, educated Bhaiband still bounce back into the family business!

Planning a trip to America -- part 6- Submitting Visa application papers

Breach Candy (also known as Bhulabhai Desai Road) is a place closer to famous religious monuments like Haji Ali Mosque and Mahalaxmi temple. It also has a Breach Candy hospital, an elite Breach Candy Club, and eateries which are quite popular with the expats.

Breach Candy is a hip place and shoppers’ paradise. This is the place where American embassy chooses to have its two venues, one for submitting visa papers and other for holding their ‘interviews’. The venue for submitting the papers is surrounded by the row of shops selling trendy clothes, watches, sunglasses and has some elite supermarkets that sell exotic foods that may not be available in other parts of the city. On any other day, I would enjoy walking down this street, window shopping but on the day of submitting my visa papers; I was in no mood to do anything else.

I returned to this venue the next day again, this time sans camera. (as I mentioned earlier that I had to waste one day because I had camera in my bag the previous day) the security guard checked my bag, silenced my cell phone and satisfied that I was an innocent citizen just seeking visa, I was granted entry to go through a narrow gate, down the steps into a heavily guarded office. I looked around noticing that there was no piece of art that would have attracted my attention enough to click the pictures even if I had camera on me.

There were five windows and enough seats to wait for your turn. I was the only person entering this office and I submitted my papers. The woman behind the window scrutinized my papers and was not happy with my photograph. They are very particular about the photograph. Photo format should be exactly as it is required. In my photograph some strands of hair were falling on my ears. She asked me to go to the photography cabin and click my picture in accordance to the requirement.

The girl in the photography cabin had a digital camera mounted on a tripod, a computer and a small printer on her side table. She clicked my photograph and then checked the picture in her computer, not satisfied, clicked one more picture and removed the ugliest photograph of me with a full charge of Rs100 for her labor. I must tell you that she was no good photographer With all my hair strung back behind my ears, droopy eyes and no smile to add the rosy-ness to the face, I resembled a terrorist and I was sure anybody would be refused visa with such expressions. Not even a second thought would ever change their mind. Silly!!!

Anyways, I returned to the window to deposit my photograph and the girl had enough time to go through my papers.

‘What do you do?” she asked me when I returned.

“I am a coordinator with a special school, I collect funds for the school, maintain two blogs for the school ( from my six blogs that I update regularly), counsel the parents of the special children, hold workshops for special teachers and am also a committee member” I said.

“That’s not a job” she said, handing me my papers she said, “Write here that I am ‘unemployed presently”

I looked at her from the corner of my eyes; wondering if it is necessary to show salary slips to confirm that I am not idle? I wanted to ask her but I was in no mood to argue. I took the application form from her and wrote ‘presently unemployed’ signing my name beneath those words.

Fully satisfied, she asked me if I would want to wait in comfort and without stress at ‘Stars and Strips lounge’ on the day of my interview. I was asked to pay Rs250 cash (no credit card is honored for this service) and to come just thirty minutes prior to my interview time.

To be continued……