Yes, I'm still writing. This is the reply I often have to make to the stock inquiry well meaning acquaintances fling at me--'Are you still writing?'--sometimes kindly, others patronizingly. In my most understanding moments I accept it as one of those ritual queries--how are you/is all well/are the children fine--people serve up in the course of polite interchange...An acknowledgment of my existence as another human being, someone who has tried to adopt a profession which is (most likely) baffling to those who do not 'write'.Most of the time this question arouses uncharitable responses which for various reasons I suppress to share later with other writers who have similar experiences. Yes, being the kind of masochist who has chosen to sequester myself in a dark niche I deserve what I get, perhaps. The kind of niche populated by similar gnomes who enjoy toiling in the dark but can share the glow cast by a nugget someone else has unearthed even if it is to compare its size with the one they have come up with. Occasionally one of us finds an extra large one and hopefully emerges into the light and one one ever asks her again--'Are you still writing?'
As for me, 40 books later I'm still waiting for my non-writer friends to learn that I write every single day of my life--even when I'm not feeding words into my computer!

Yesterday was Women's Day. There was plenty of commentary on what women have achieved and what they have not to escape from the traps nature, nurture, religion, custom, the state have set for them. What dismayed me was the finding that the majority of Indian women in metropolitan cities, whether housewives or employed outside their homes (remember housewives work very hard too, just for their keep) let the men in their families decide how to spend their money as well as their evening entertainment. I wonder what the women would have come up with if they analyzed the reasons why they didn't make these decisions for themselves. Where money matters were concerned, ignorance could be one, though many women are far more canny than men in financial matters. Think of all the housewives managing to take care of their families' needs on the limited allowances doled out to them. Haggling, hunting for bargains, saving a rupee here, another there. The smarter ones(read selfish in popular parlance) often lay up a decent nest egg for themselves. The sacrificey Hindi movie types will of course, save to produce the fund at a time of family crisis.

Whatever it be, it seemed horribly depressing that a woman who put in double duty,efficiently taking care of the household chores and then putting in her best at office would not think herself worthy or competent enough to decide how to spend her own money. Or be afraid of being considered selfish, making mistakes and being put down, of not being loved, of having to face ugly scenes, maybe physical violence.
To all of us women who suffer from these and other multitudinous fears, who dare not make a choice of what they would like to do on an evening--the movie of their choice,even a TV programme, or just sitting in their rooms and reading a book, going out to a pub (especially because of Mangalore) or a cultural event, I say--please, at least give your wish a voice. No one will love you more just because you always keep trying to please them. More likely, they'll push you more and more into a corner. Soon you'll be wedged in so firmly that you'll never be able to get out. You deserve a lot more from those families for whose happiness you're stifling yourself and they won't give it to you unless you ask them for it.
And think, please sit down and spare a moment to analyse the reasons why you act like that. Maybe you might be able to change yourself. It's very, very hard, but it's more than worth a try.
There, now I've said all this out, I'm going to sit down and think why I let my husband give me suggestions about how to invest my negligible earnings. But the truth is, when I'm spending I don't ask anyone's advice! When I have some money to spend, I go all out and splurge. As for the evening's entertainment, we discuss it and sometimes even do out separate things. I think it's civilized enough and so far hasn't caused too much grief.

Last night my oldest daughter Garima left for Geneva, where she lives, after a three week long stay. As her visit drew to a close, the usual sympathetic comments from friends and relatives fell on my ears like acid rain:'It's going to be lonesome when she leaves...Oh well...she'll only come back after a year...Lucky you, your youngest lives in Delhi, some consolation, etc. etc...'
I made the appropriate noises and inwardly gnashed my teeth. Right, it's a truth universally acknowledged that Aged Ps are condemned to the unrelenting gloom of a solitary existence when the little birdies spread their wings and fly off to distant places. Particularly mothers. My own mother was consumed by loneliness, living by herself in a deserted neck of the woods and I was consumed by guilt that I couldn't do enough to relieve it.
Over the years I have encountered so many discussions on the miseries of an old age sans the comfort of your children's loving presence that I sometimes wonder how people retain their sanity at all. Just a few days ago I read a rather chilling short story, "Toga Party" by John Barth, about an aging couple who enter into a suicide pact because they cannot bear the thought of living on without the other. Their children live far away and don't care enough.
All this makes me almost feel guilty that I can be quite comfortable in my solitude. Of course, I miss my daughters and my two grand kids. But I can enjoy my own company too, thank you! How else would I manage to write a word? Or read? Or simply daydream?
Solitude sets you free to be yourself, without the pressure of living up to roles that you have acquired in the course of your existence or been compelled to. It gives you space to breathe as deep as you wish. That's the way I feel.

THE CASE OF THE MISSING POP STAR (contd.)

“Arre? What’s the matter? You two up already?” Dad looked surprised. Have you forgotten it’s Saturday?”
“Hasn’t Ma told you, Dad? Gautam bhaiya is taking us to meet Lassi,” Buddy said.
“Who’s Lassi? What kind of a name is that? Is it a dog?”
“Dad please, don’t you know Lassi?…Hey, you’re pretending!” Bizzy cried as she saw a smile slowly spread over Dad’s face.
The sound of a car horn being blown insistently alerted them that Gautam had arrived. They rushed outside right away.

The lift zoomed up to the sixth floor of the hotel. Bizzy and Buddy exchanged excited glances. Gautam bhaiya smiled.
“He’s quite a nice guy, you know,” he said. “Very friendly. Ah, here we are.”
The doors of the lift slid open and they stepped out. Bizzy’s heart was thudding as they walked down the narrow, maroon carpeted passage that led to Lassi’s room. Then Gautam bhaiya suddenly stopped short.
“Hey—where are the security guys?” he exclaimed. “What’s going on?” He rushed forward.
The door to Lassi’s room was slightly ajar. Their skins prickling with sudden apprehension, the twins followed him.
“Tinkooji, Rajesh, what’s the matter…Where’s Lassiji?”
The two men in front of them looked very, very anxious and--afraid. The older one, plump with a smooth, bald head, who was on the phone, paused in the act of dialing. His face was grave as he said, “We don’t know—he seems to have vanished!”
“Vanished! Where? How? Where are the security guards?”
“We-we’ve sent them to check out the whole hotel thoroughly. Bobby his personal bodyguard has gone with them too.”
“But--how did this happen and who’re you calling?”
“I…I was calling his secretary in Bombay—asking his advice. Maybe we ought to call the police…”
“No!” Gautam’s hand clamped on to the receiver of the phone. He banged it down. “We can’t tell anyone right now. We’ve got to try and find him ourselves first. Otherwise there’ll be a big hangama. Tell me how it all happened!”
“You know Lassiji. He wakes up at six thirty and after a glass of lassi he goes for his workout. He had gone down to the hotel gym. The security people were with him. After his workout he went to the toilet there. The guards waited outside, Bobby too. When he didn’t come out for a long time, they went inside to check. But there was no one there—the toilets were all empty. He-he seemed to have vanished into thin air!”

“Vanished into thin air? B-But how?” Buddy cried.
“That’s we’re wondering,” Tinkoo said gloomily. “It seems Chota Samson has got him.”
“Chota Samson?” Bizzy asked.
“The gangster,” Rajesh clarified. “But…it doesn’t seem like his style. More likely he’d shoot him down openly.”
Gautam frowned. “Let’s go there and check up,” he said, getting up. They all walked rapidly down the plush carpeted corridors and took the lift to the gym, which was on another floor. The security guards were still there, looking around.
“He just went in,” said Bobby, a muscular looking guy, pointing to the toilet, “and we sat here waiting…and he never came out.”
“It doesn’t seem possible!” Gautam shook his head. “Where could he have gone?”

Where has Lassi gone? Will Bizzy and Buddy find out? Wait to find out...

The Bizzy-Buddy Mysteries appeared in serial form almost ten years ago in Chatterbox, a wonderful magazine for kids which had to close down, sadly.

Readers enjoyed them a lot. But what does a writer do with magazine stories after they've appeared? Sometimes they can be published as a book. But often it takes some time to find a publisher. I thought it might be a good idea to share these stories with readers via my blog. Hope you enjoy them!

THE CASE OF THE MISSING POP STAR

“See this?” Fattu waved something in front of Bizzy’s face. There was a triumphant grin on his broad, self-satisfied face.

“How can I, when you’re waving it at supersonic speed?” Bizzy snapped. She couldn’t stand Fattu. The class pest, he was always bragging and showing off. That’s why he’d been nicknamed Fattu.

“Show me!” Her twin Buddy reached out and grabbed Fattu’s hand.

“Careful!” Fattu shrieked. “You might tear it!”

“What is it, for God’s sake?” Bizzy said. “A million dollar note?”

“Well, almost as precious,” Fattu smirked, laying down the green slip of paper before her on the desk. “It’s a ticket to the Lassi show—you know—Mast Mast Lassi! A thousand rupee one, in case you haven’t noticed.” His eyes glittered with smug delight.

Bizzy bit down her fury. The Lassi show! Her favourite pop star, he was having a show right here in Delhi in a couple of days. And she had no chance of going while this creep...But before she could react, she heard the sound of chairs being scraped back. An instantaneous hush followed telling her that the teacher had arrived. She hurriedly got to her feet along with the rest of the students.

“Oh, what wouldn’t I give to go to the Lassi show!” Bizzy cried.

“How about selling your precious diamond ring!” Buddy teased.

“Creep!” Bizzy threw a pencil at him.

They were back from school, holed up in Buddy’s room, trying to finish off their homework. Though they had separate rooms they always studied together. And invariably in Buddy’s room which always had each and everything in place unlike Bizzy’s horribly messy one.

Even though they were twins, twelve-year-old Bizzy and Buddy were quite different to look at, being fraternal and not identical twins. Bizzy was taller, skinny as a bamboo stick with a mop of curly hair always falling into her eyes. Chunky-built Buddy was exactly twenty-three minutes younger and much he resented it. He had inquisitive black eyes, which shone brightly behind his glasses. A natural snoop, he could never keep his small, sharp nose out of anything.

Their actual names were Vasundhara and Vardeshwar. But an aunt whom they had been visiting when they were just two and a half had exclaimed, “What a pair of busybodies!” as she watched them scramble all over the place, peering into cupboards, pulling stuff out of drawers. “They should be called Busy and Body.” These had somehow turned into Bizzy and Buddy and now hardly anyone knew their real names any more!

“Well, it’s no use moaning and howling,” Buddy said, catching the pencil. “You know we can’t. I’d never dream of asking Dad or Ma to shell out a thousand bucks for a show. Even if it is Lassi himself.”

“Well I wouldn’t either!” Bizzy shot back. “But I do want to go, yaar. Terribly.”

“I told you it’s no use, so will you kindly shut up!” Buddy said. “I want to finish my maths homework.”

Bizzy made a face. Buddy was too down to earth. She stared down at her social studies book but her mind was far away...

Distractedly she listened to her mother talking on the phone in the next room. “Accha,” she heard her say. “So Gautam’s company is doing the Lassi show…”

Something whirred in Bizzy’s mind. “Gautam bhaiya!” she screamed suddenly, making Buddy jump.

“What do you mean, Gautam bhaiya?” He frowned.

“Gautam bhaiya! Did you hear? The company he’s working for--it’s organising the show. He could get us passes…maybe.”

“Passes…hunh!” Buddy frowned again. “Forget it! A hundred million people must have asked him already.”

“Come on, yaar! Don’t be such a bore. By the way…I remember seeing their office address in the paper. It’s at Vasant Place. That’s practically next door! Come on!”

The office of Star Track Pvt. Ltd. was awhirl with frantic activity. Buddy looked sulky. Bizzy had practically dragged him there. But now that he was here, the excitement grabbed him too. The whole place throbbed with it. People scurrying around, phones ringing nonstop, piles of posters lying around. He picked one up. THE ONE AND ONLY MAST MAST LASSI! it said, with a huge photograph of the pop star dressed in his favourite colours, black and silver. Below, in smaller letters was written, ‘Also Dilruba Makki in a special appearance’.

“Gautam?” A young girl said in reply to Bizzy’s question. “He’s in the next room.”

Gautam bhaiya had always been one of their favourite cousins. Lean, lanky, with a smile always splitting his face, he was staring hard at a computer screen.

He started up. “Hey, you two! What’re you doing here?”

“Came to see what was happening with the Lassi show.” Bizzy’s smile was wide.

“Whewooo—big excitement. See, I was just checking the arrangements. He’s flying down from Bombay—“

“Where’s he staying?” Buddy asked.

“We’ve got bookings in three hotels.”

“Three hotels!”

“Yes,” his voice sank to a whisper. “This is top secret. He’s in big danger. It’s a marvel that he agreed to this show. We’ve booked in three hotels so no one can be sure where he’s staying.”

“B-but why?”

“Some underworld don, I can’t tell you his name, is miffed at him. He refused to perform at his son’s wedding. They say he’s given out a supari contract.”

“Oh no!” Bizzy felt goose pimples prickle her skin. “I must say it’s very brave of him to come.”

“Brave! I bet he’s getting big money,” Buddy scoffed.

“You won’t believe what we’re paying him. And we’ve got unbelievable security around, too, besides his own personal bodyguard. But we’re expecting to do pretty well ourselves too. The tickets are all sold out.” He stopped and looked at them. “Say…you kids looking for passes?” He frowned. “I’ll see what I can do. There are big demands from important people. If …I can’t get you any, I promise I’ll at least arrange for you to meet him, get his autograph. I’m the one who’s supposed to be personally taking care of him.”

“Oh, that’ll be too wonderful! When’s he arriving?” Bizzy asked.

“Tonight, by one of the late night flights. The show’s just tomorrow.”

“Right,” Buddy said.

“Tell you what. I have to be there at the hotel tomorrow again at eight. If you can and if you want to come along then, you could. It’ll be the only chance, actually. The rest of the day will be crazy with the press and all coming.”

“Of course we can!” Bizzy bounded up. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. No school.”

”I’ll pick you up at quarter past seven, then, okay? Be ready.”

What happens next? Wait till tomorrow to find out!

I love the words 'Happy New Year!' The way people's eyes light up as they wish you! These are words of hope--whatever the old year may have been, the new one is always full of promise. The wonderful thing is most of us like to believe that this is our wish fulfillment year. New Year's day arches like a brilliant rainbow and we can just about catch the glimmer of the pot of gold at the other end. The amazing thing is that the promise of this elusive pot of gold keeps us going, year after hopeful year. At least, it has kept me going.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to find it soon!

Another birthday! Whew!!! A friend called to wish me early in the morning and asked this challenging question--'What are your thoughts?' I replied , 'Another year gone!' The truth was was lolling comfortably in bed right then (it was my birthday, I had a cold etc. etc.) It was too private a time to share my real thoughts. I was not in the mood to tell her that I was silently celebrating the fact that I had been born and lived this long, that I had already received so many greetings and gifts. The house was full of flowers and more cakes than we could eat, even a bottle of wine--from my husband, daughters and brother. True, I was another year older. But very thankful that I'd been born in a family that believed in birthdays. At least once a year you had a day that was uniquely yours and yours alone. I was of the loved ones who had already wished me, would wish me, also of those who would not and those who could not--my loving parents and much loved older sister who passed away so many years ago. As a writer, I was assessing my achievements--two books in the past year, an award received but also ruing the fact that I was perhaps letting some dreams slide into that ominous black hole which consumes such aspirations. A sure sign of advancing age, too much contentment--or worse ennui?
I could not help recalling birthdays from the past too, the ones that stood out in my memory for different reasons. The growing up birthday--my 14th, which went without a party because a relative had recently died. I was still childish enough to be disappointed! My 18th--when I got my first sari as a gift. It took a couple of years to learn how to wear it properly, though! My 21st was a particularly sad one--my father who always made birthdays special, had passed away just a few months back. Also another birthday (I will not specify which one!) that was totally forgotten by those closest to me! And another made special by my daughter Sonali's thoughtfulness. I had no help and as usual--not being domestically inclined--had been grumbling and grumbling. I woke up to find that breakfast was already being prepared. That day I feasted on baked eggs and toast with tea served in a silver plated tea set, the best we owned at the time! After that I was ordered to take off for the beauty parlour--all the household chores would be taken care of! One of the best birthday presents I ever received.
This year I felt privileged because my daughter Garima was visiting and making me feel cherished. Last year I felt privileged too, celebrating my special day in New York soon after my grandson Kartik was born, with better-half Dilip, Sonali and her husband James and his mother Nancy, and my brother Sumant and his wife Renu and daughter Meera.
The day passed by with sporadic greetings from friends and relatives and each made me feel more and more special. When the day reached its grand finale--dinner with Dilip and two daughters, Garima and Geetika and two sons-in-law, Pranav and Ashutosh and one much adored grandchild Adya, I felt really blessed. I had cut four cakes--a couple are featured here--and there was nothing more I could really ask for. Of course, being human, before I went to bed I couldn't help thinking of the ones who hadn't wished me, particularly those whose birthdays I always remembered. Maybe that was good too, because I could magnanimously forgive them and feel one up!

Receiving the IBBY Honour List diploma for Caravan to Tibet at the 2008 IBBY Congress Copenhagen was a thrilling moment! Here I am with Patricia Aldana, the IBBY President.

What can be a better space for a writer than a library? Over the years some libraries have beckoned like havens, while other have left me feeling distressed and dissatisfied. During my school days the library was a place to discover the world through National Geographic and Time magazine--our book reading was restricted to the classics--to enable us to develop a 'proper' style. I'm not sure if it really worked. As a 22 year old college lecturer pounding the Delhi pavements, trying to kill time in the heat of April, the American library was the best shelter. I could pursue my somewhat futile study of Steinbeck in air-conditioned comfort or try to get a better understanding of Faulkner who had left me completely foxed in my M.A. I expanded my horizons to the British Council Library, then located at AIFACS and wandered confused through the art galleries downstairs. The membership was a life saver when as a marooned housewife I searched desperately for reading matter. During the time I was working on my M.Phil (left incomplete) the Sahitya Akdemi library with its dozy, dim lit stacks made me feel like a furtive searcher. Still does--people tend to fling curious, sizing up glances when you try to locate a vacant space in the reading room. The India Habitat Centre library is my favourite right now. The calm is conducive to thought, there are not too many people and there's free coffee. I wish I could move in there!
So many libraries--such different libraries. The library in my daughter's neighbourhood in Queens bustles with energy. And among libraries where I've had the opportunity to present my work two libraries in Cape Town have left vivid impressions. The Rylands community library, a cheerful Indian space in a multicultural city. The overwhelmingly warm welcome, which included a Bharat Natyam performance and a scrumptious array of eats. Thanks so much Nazma for having me over! The second one, in a poor neighbourhood made my eyes pop. Why can't we have such libraries in our country? This library was actually a haven for kids for whom home was a dangerous space. They even served soup to hungry kids and gave them baths when needed.
I could go on forever. The charming spaces in some school libraries and the depressing lack of books in others. And the public libraries that are slowly losing their stock to termites and other such creatures with no one to care. The books locked up and kept out of reach from prospective
readers and the libraries that refuse to let you enter their hallowed portals. Never mind, the determined reader will always find a way. Happy reading!

Nana had an extra special birthday yesterday. Adya and Kartik wished him in their own way. Early in the morning he got a surprise call from an FM RJ who played a birthday song for him, and Baby came on the line and wished him. More greetings, gifts and bouquets followed. The partying went on till midnight when he cut a raspberry cheesecake at 11.59 pm!

This Caravan is on the move...Debu's journey has taken him to Korea this time. I hope he has many exciting adventures there and makes lots of new friends.

But I really think it may be time for him to revisit his friend the little lama--maybe catch up with Nangbo--for all you know the robber chief has given up his wild ways and settled down to herding cattle and raising a family. But will his captive spirit let him rest? Surely magic cannot be buried forever. We hear of it being buried for centuries but some day it has to burst out of its confines. Will Nangbo's dormant powers seek a new master? Could it be Debu? Maybe in his next journey he'll find out...

It's rather late to be looking back towards 2007, but January allows you this. A wonderful year--two grandchildren both girl and boy, a book published and awarded. What else can a writer want except more and more books published and more awards and of course, some money in the kitty!

Now where's that coming from? Hope springs eternal...I even dare to dream it'll come from books!

Nothing more fulfilling than being a granny. I grew in status when Adya arrived on the scene in August and now I await a second coming, most likely within the next month.

At least I've lived to see this.

Some guilt pangs though--I haven't knitted anything so far though the draft of a poem lies in my diary waiting to be completed.

Adya, the first, born to the youngest will be celebrated in verse and hopefully receive a pair of hand knitted booties soon!

A Poem for the New Year

Cocooned in the silk of memory
the old year winds itself away
The lights go out
turn on again
we wake to find ourselves
New
opening a different
Pandora’s box
Out of which fly
Joy, dreams fulfilled, love renewed,
the twenty-league boots
of hope
wearing which
we stride into wonderland...

Now that the New Year's almost here what can one do but look ahead!

Of course, it's tempting to look back too, but I cannot help being reminded of those two famous lookers-back--Lot's wife and Orpheus.

So I keep my eyes firmly and hopefully fixed ahead.