My Dad: The Designer !

 Today, 3rd May, 2025, marks six long years since my father's passing. Much water has passed under the bridge and much has happened in these six years... My then young adult daughter is now a seasoned adult and a working doctor too, licensed in both the United Kingdom and in Kenya. My then young teen son is now a young adult, a Finance major and an intern as well, is on his University cricket team, and on the verge of completing his undergraduate degree. His mannerisms and expressions grow more like my father's every passing day. My Dad would have been so happy and proud to see these two hardworking and honest humans, with a work ethic that so closely mirrors his. My husband has switched jobs in Kenya, we have moved houses, our canine kid continues to bring us untold joy and my online Academy is thriving and has grown in leaps and bounds. Time and tide wait for no man or woman is something I have seen first hand in these six years since my father's departure to more salubrious climes...

As always, my mind, at this time of the year, dwells in the past and so many memories surface like everything happened yesterday. It is the wedding season in India and there is much brouhaha over the best designers, be it for clothes, jewellery or footwear. Few people know that my Dad too was a designer in his own right. It all started when we were living Mhow in Madhya Pradesh and my father had got posted to Jodhpur in Rajasthan. My parents had begun the arduous process of winding up our house and packing our lives into the ubiquitous black, metal trunks.  My Dad began packing everyone's woolens in a trunk and the process took a few days with piles being added as and when he got time. Finally the trunk was sealed shut, stencilled with his rank, name, place of departure and the place of the new posting. ( Many of my fellow Defence Forces brats will identify with this unfailing ritual which took place every two or, if you were lucky, three years). Then, it was sent, along with all the other trunks, to be unpacked at our destination, which in this case was Jodhpur. 

If the process of packing is difficult, the process of unpacking is even harder, especially as the initial accommodation is always temporary. When my parents finally popped open the trunk containing all our woolens, they got a nasty shock! At some point, over the days of packing and then locking the trunk, a mouse or a family of mice had got in and had chewed up some of the coats, shawls and even blankets! I well remember my mother was especially upset over a beautiful, soft, deep pistachio green over coat. It must have been particularly tasty because chunks had been bitten off from various areas, rendering it quite unusable. Those were not the days when we could just replace things by ordering them online or get rid of them by simply trashing them. Officers of the Indian Army then, unlike today, had smart but not deep pockets on their uniforms...

My father did the next best thing he could. He sent many of the items to the Army Unit tailor to get them darned (the vernacular word 'rafu' was a common word in Defense circles then!). But this particular coat was beyond repair and so the designer in my Dad kicked in just then! He marched ( pun unintended!) a nearly six year old me to the tailor. I was measured from top to nearly toe, the usable part of the coat fabric was measured too. The tailor pronounced it sufficient for a long sleeved, warm dress for me and a couple of quick sketches by my Dad ensured the design of my new dress was ready! 

The dress was stitched and when I saw it, I fell in love with it. My Dad had asked the tailor to add white trim to the collar and had designed heart shaped pockets, again with white trim scalloped around the upper edges of the pocket. It fell to nearly mid calf, much longer than the short frocks I usually wore, making me feel very grown up. I proudly wore it to my school, St.Patrick's Vidya Bhavan, Jodhpur, on my 6th birthday and have never felt smarter than I did in that particular dress, as I went around the class, distributing sweets to my class mates. It was the perfect dress for a cold January morning and my hands felt extra warm and toasty, as I kept them jammed in the heart shaped pockets! It remains one of my favourite outfits to date and now that I think back, the colour matched the green of my Dad's eyes too, though I did not realize it then ...

The officers of the Indian Army are, more often than not, in uniform. From the white shorts and T shirt for exercise early in the morning,  to the regular Olive Green uniform, to the camouflage uniform during special training, to the shorts again for evening Physical Training and so on...Even the formal Galas have dress codes, which are strictly adhered to. The result of all this was that in the early 80s, my Dad was the proud owner of three or four shirt pieces that he did not think he would ever get stitched. (My maternal grandparents used to gift him shirt fabric at least once a year!)  Yes, in those pre Loius Phillippe, Allen Solly and their ilk days, all Indian men got their shirts stitched from their friendly neighbourhood tailor or in our case, from the Army Unit tailor. 
Waste not, want not ! So what could be done with the shirt fabrics? The designer gears in my Dad's miles- ahead - of - everyone -else brain, whirred until he had the perfect idea! He would design dresses for my sister and me, using that fabric. It did not matter to him that the fabric was not floral or pastel and not very flattering for young girls of four and six... Off we marched to the tailor again, this time with my little sister in tow. We were measured, more designs were sketched and my Dad explained to the tailor how he had to contrast the bottle green fabric with the white one and the dark brown fabric had to be used in contrast with the white too. He wanted buttons all down the front to give it a tunic like look....I may have been only six, but I was skeptical of using the dull - looking shirt fabric, until I saw the results ! When our dresses were delivered, they were like no other frocks we had ever seen. Well cut, smart, beautifully contrasted as envisioned by my Dad and they fit us like gloves. We both had exactly the same frocks, as was often the trend then... I remember  using both mine for a few years until I completely outgrew them and I well remember the compliments that flowed when we wore them. Not a frill, a flower or a flounce was in sight but we looked like the most smartly turned out little girls for miles around ! 

Here is my sister wearing one of the dresses. At this point, she had outgrown hers and I had outgrown mine, which she then fit into ! Those were the days.
 Pic Courtesy : A very dear friend of my Dad's, taken on the occasion of his son's birthday...You can see the smart cut and fit of this dress and the bottle green and white contrast in the picture, which is more than forty years old...

These days, much ado is made of designer footwear too. Cristian Louboutin and Jimmy Choo may be laughing all the way to the bank many times a year, thanks to enthralled customers but for my sister and myself, for a few years during our school days, wearing designer shoes was all in a ( school ) day's work. When my father was posted to Gauhati in the North Eastern part of India, he had to travel to Rajasthan a Western border state, once a year for Army exercises. Rajasthan is well known for its hand tooled leather goods. My Dad would get four pieces of blank paper and then meticulously trace both my feet on two sheets and then would do the same for my sister. Then he would tuck the sheets away in his suitcase, promising to get us new shoes when he was back. So in the midst of all the tears and goodbyes, there would be an undercurrent of excitement in our hearts, regarding our new shoes. 

My Dad, a designer at heart, be it for electronic equipment, exotic food or music or photography related items, would not just give the shoe maker, whom he had painstakingly sourced in Bikaner, Rajasthan, our shoe sizes. He would always add a touch of whimsy to our hand crafted leather shoes ( today I refrain from using leather goods , but we were not this environmentally conscious back then). One year it was a tiny bow stitched onto the top surface of the shoe and one year it was a tiny oblong piece with three dots on it. It is a good thing that the Nuns in our Convent school in Gauhati did not look too closely at our shoes or else they would have realized they were not the standard 'Bata' black school shoes but especially designed and perfectly executed masterpieces, courtesy of my Dad! These shoes were well made, roomy and comfortable and over the years we outgrew them but the shoes did not wear out!

Today, on his 6th death anniversary, I made smoked, baked cauliflower in white sauce to honour his expertise in continental cuisine.. It looked and tasted flawless and would definitely have appealed to my Dad's designer heart ! 

We Don't Deserve Our Trees, Beasts, Birds And Bees

 

My spiced tea on the gas stove did simmer,

The freshly made Indian breakfast on my plate did glimmer,

I was all set to sit on our porch,

And was prepared to extinguish hunger's torch.


Before I am submerged in my students' work on my phone,

For my day, I have to set a refreshing tone.

My favourite view of a forest, in myriad hues of green,

Every morning, by my eager eyes, is seen.

Then suddenly I heard a shrill, high pitched electric saw,

What I saw next made me drop my jaw.

Tall and stately trees, had, like criminals, been chained and roped,

All around agitatedly chirping birds, the destruction of their nests, moped. 

Someone had decided to clear their plot,

For the trees, beasts and birds, they didn't spare a thought.

The sabre toothed saw began doing its deadly job,

Where, when needed, was the protesting mob?

I watched, helpless, frozen in time,

Just as the trees began to crash down, in a line. 

My heart screamed, "Stop! A tree takes time to grow,

It's a process that's rather slow."

Then my tears began to flow,

Of 'development' what did I know?

Unable to do anything to save the trees, from my porch, I fled,

But my heart, like sap from the fallen trees, truly bled. 

The electric saw continued to relentlessly purr,

For me, the rest of the day was a tear stained blur.

This is how, inch by inch, bit by bit, Earth we have destroyed, 

With Nature's balance, we have badly toyed. 

Floods, fires, unrest and destruction rages,

Humankind, as Earth's worst enemy, is duly noted in History's pages.

Maya Angelou spoke of " When Great Trees Fall".

I would add, "They ring the death knell for us all." 

                          The gaps and the red soil is visible from where the trees were destroyed. 

                                                Wonder when these beauties will be 'cleared'?

When The Bells Tinkle...

 

At first, it's a gentle, little tinkle,

The prancing wind chime, with the breeze does mingle.

One barely pays much heed,

One doesn't even realize there is, of intervention, a need. 

Then the breeze does become strong, 

A child is caught in the bullying throng.

The wind chime does then madly jangle,

Often the rods and strings, in each other tangle.

But we, in our little cocoon of bliss,

So often, do the warning signs miss.

Then the danger bells begin to madly ring,

The voices in a child's head do begin to sing. 

But we, as adults, barely hear a ping. 

Then is heard the loud sound of a gong,

But life, we think, will surely move along.

The wind chime tinkles, then it jangles, 

The bell furiously rings, the gong gravely does us warn, 

But we, deaf, mute, blind, are of reason shorn.

The child is stuck in, of emotions, a roller coaster,

But such mixed feelings, we do not bother to foster.

Until, in the dead of the night,

When a full moon was shining bright,

The death knell has been rung. 

In deep shame, we, the so called 'educators' have our heads hung. 

Dedicated to all those students in India, whom we, in a bid to push them towards a brighter future, have ended up robbing them of any future they might have had...

Spare A Thought, Say A Prayer

 As August does into September meld,

Goodbye parties and last-minute shopping sprees are held.

Be sure that much in advance you have booked your ticket,

Else your university will start, and you will be on sticky wicket.

With much excitement, subjects for the new academic year are chosen,

But spare a thought for those students, who, in time are frozen.

My Facebook feed is filled with pictures of the 'First Day',

To all these dear students, my best regards I do pay.

But pause a while, spare a thought for those parents too,

Whose children departed and their souls to heaven flew.

No bags are packed, no flights booked, excitement does not reign.

Just heavy hearts, of grandparents, parents and siblings, full of pain.

In those houses, that particular child will never graduate,

No cap or gown or degree, for him or her await. 

Call it God's will or call it Fate,

Every such student's absence on my heart does grate.

So, in the midst of your own excitement and joy,

Spare a thought for that particular girl or boy.

 Even better, say a deeply heartfelt prayer, 

Around parental grief, it will become a protective layer.

The Old Order Falls

 The Old Order Falls.

Collapses, crumbles, gives rise to the New.
The last bastions, (and we, sadly, have a bird's eye view),
Seem to totter on their wrinkled and quivery legs,
Before they give up, of their lives, the last dregs.

They had watched over us, self appointed guardians humble,
When we as toddlers, took a tumble.
And they were just shooting the breeze,
When we, as children, scrambled up and down various trees.
At a later time, they watched us like a 'hooded hawk',
At our shortening hemlines, they would often gawk!

They witnessed our first crushes ,
And, of our youth, the first flushes,
In those days, we had fewer words and more blushes.
Unlike Gen Z, who, on the 'Gram' gushes.

As teens, we acted in plays at society functions and sang,
Decorated pandals, danced, gave speeches with a tang!
They encouraged us, feted and felicitated us, even fed us,
Gave us a sense of self worth, sweetly, of us, made a fuss.

And much like their ordinary bungalows and bowers,

Born of their blood, sweat, toil and tears,

Are now being bull-dozed into oblivion,

So also, this old upright order faces Armageddon.

Swanky buildings, thinly disguised as 'a bungalow',

Take up the maximum square footage allowed,

Who needs trees around a home, who needs Nature's rules followed,

When ritzy, fuel guzzling monsters, make a better show?

I try to hold on, with a tear in my eye. Oh, saudade!

To those nostalgic moments of my childhood and teenage,

But every time the news of the death of a childhood father/ mother figure, 

Is shared by my  mother,

I feel 'The Old Order Falls.'

Collapses, crumbles, as it is meant to, as it must.

But for me, yet another precious memory turns to dust,

As yet another 'old school' person's soul in heaven does rest.
One mustn't forget, each one of us, on earth, is a mere guest. 

                                                    They once proudly walked these lanes.

         

       Picture Credits: My Dad, late Col. Ajay Ukidve, clicked on a rainy Monsoon Day in Pune.

My Dad : The Father

                                                    

                         His eyes matched his uniform! So glad I donated them after he was gone! 

 3rd May 2024, it has been five whole years today since life, as we knew it, changed forever. We lost our Dad on 3rd May, 2019. Recently, a childhood friend from our Army Air Force days lost her mother and then she mentioned on our WhatsApp group that she now realized what many of us had gone through over the years, as we lost either one or both parents...

But my sister and I were still fortunate enough to have had my Dad around as long as we did, given the fact that he had been in the Indian Army and had often been in life threatening situations. I have young students who have lost their fathers as a result of the Covid pandemic or due to sudden cardiac arrests... As they cope with their loss in a stoic manner and stand tall and strong for their mothers, I admire them with all my heart. As I told a student of mine recently, listen when your father or mother tell you something, for only those who have lost a parent, no matter what our age may be, would give anything to hear that parental voice giving 'gyaan' ( imparting knowledge) one more time...

Every year I mark my Dad's anniversary with a blog post ( and a donation in his memory ) and over the last five years I have shared my earliest memories of him, his cooking skills and then his engineering and photography skills. Last year, I was unable to write anything as I was travelling across the Unites States and Canada on his death anniversary. As paranoid as he was about flying, I know he would have spent sleepless nights at the very thought of the long hours I spent aboard multiple planes, during this particular trip and crossing the Atlantic to boot! His favourite grouse was, " You people spend bl**dy too many hours flying!" Yes, I have quoted him to a T, including the forbidden swear word. After all, the colonialists handed down many defense 'traditions' to the officers of the Indian Army...

As I look back over the years, my Dad's generosity stands out more than anything else. He never really cared much about money or about materialistic things. He bought things aplenty, but could just as easily sell them off or just give or lend them to anyone he thought needed them. He could safely be called extravagant ( that's actually a euphemism for being financially imprudent, I can SEE him glaring down at me!) not only towards us, his daughters but also towards just about anyone in need, especially towards those who could not afford academic fees. Many a young girl is standing firmly on her feet today, only due to my my parents' unflinching financial support. In addition, my mother imparted English language skills to many young girls and both my parents provided emotional support too.

A very early memory stands out. The month was July, the year 1986. After a two year stint in Pune, my Dad had been posted to Gauhati, Assam. It was a long journey by train. Army Officers and their families, in those days, did not fly at the drop of a hat, the way they do now. So here we were,  travelling across the breadth of India, on a journey that spanned four days and three nights. The train halted at Patna, Bihar, which is a state in India. We were naturally wary, for many years ago, my maternal grandfather, enroute to his first job in the late 1940s, post a Masters In Business Administration from the United States, had been royally robbed on the train, in this very state. Pun intended, as my maternal grandmother was from the royal family of Aundh and was carrying most of her silver ware, as she never ate or drank from any other metal. The shock of the robbery ensured my grandfather's hands trembled from the minute he signed the police complaint, till the day he passed away, many decades later. My dad disembarked from the train to refill water in our 'surai' ( an earthenware pot designed for travel.) Remember we had no bottled water in India in those days and 'Sit On It' water campers were introduced into the army canteen just a few years later. . When he reentered our First Class compartment, oh yes, the Indian Army ensured its officers travelled only by First Class, there was a lady and a little boy accompanying him. The lady wore a 'mangalsutra', traditionally worn by married women in my home state and spoke in our mother tongue Marathi. The little boy remained mute, which raised my mother's suspicions. My Dad explained to us that the lady had approached him and had begun speaking in Marathi. She had told him that she and her son had been stranded at Patna Junction as they had been robbed. She needed some money to return home and she faithfully promised to return it. My mother was very skeptical as was my Dad. The whole story smacked of a con game and Mom said as much... But my Dad argued with us (in English) and asked what if the story was true. What if it was one of us in such a situation? (These were, of course,  pre ATM and pre cell phone and UPI payments days..). So my Dad generously decided to give the lady the benefit of doubt and bestowed on her the princely sum of Rs.500, from the money he was carrying to start us off in Gauhati, until he had a new bank account and the Controller Of Defence Accounts, Officers, deemed it fit to transfer his salary into this new account. This could take anywhere from a month or more, so imagine my mother's feelings! Rs.500 in those days could buy us groceries for more than a month....So the lady pocketed the money and diligently noted down our Pune address where my paternal grandmother resided. "I will send a money order", she said. And that was the last we saw of the Rs. 500! But to date, I myself find it hard to refuse people in need, especially if the need revolves around education and is within my financial capacity....We are more like our parents than we realize, admit or acknowledge.

The year was 1990 and ways were being devised to keep us army brats busy during the hot North Indian summer. Someone in the higher command had the brilliant idea of teaching us to drive an Army Jeep on an empty army ground and as we were all under age, the less I say the better it is! Today, this would be unthinkable and no one should even dream of driving until they get their license. But those were different times and we were strictly supervised by a battalion of army drivers and only drove on the ground. Anyway, all of us bonded well over these driving lessons and we decided to cycle down and watch the latest Bollywood Blockbuster in a tiny single screen theatre in Jallundhar Cantonment. I was thrilled, as I had never been to a civilian movie theatre without adult supervision.

 It was my mother who handed out pocket money to my sister and me each month and it was more than enough for our school-girl expenses. But going for a movie meant I needed more money and I approached my dad. I hesitantly asked for Rs.10 but my Dad simply dived into his pocket ( he never carried a wallet and would just stuff notes, and much later his debit and credit cards, into his trouser or shirt pockets!) and pulled out Rs.30 which he promptly handed over to me, no questions asked! I was dazed at the thought of getting so much money to spend in a day and once again I admired his generous soul. Needless to say, I had a field day at the movie theatre. Over the years, as I got married and then began teaching in colleges and at the university and subsequently launched my own academy, a lot more money, in different currencies like the Russian Rouble, the American Dollar, both the Tanzanian and Kenyan shillings and of course the Indian rupee, was to come my way, but those three notes of Rs.10 remain to date the most valuable sum I have ever held in my hands. 

The year was 1992. My Dad had been transferred to Na**t* up further north, from Jallundhar in Punjab and he had come to Pune in between on leave. My mother, my sister and I were in Pune as both of us were studying there. All too soon it was time for him to wind up and leave for N****t*. I was watching him pack. On an impulse, I suddenly asked him to give me his precious, fancy sunglasses. I used to commute to college on a two wheeler moped and the sun often hit me in the eye. Or maybe because my Dad was being posted to a new city, I just wanted to hold on to a part of him, as we did not know when we would see him next, or, and this dark thought always lurked in our minds until he retired, if we would see him ever again at all. Without a second thought, my ever generous Dad whipped out the sunglasses from his packed suitcase and handed them over to me. My heart rejoiced! "Had they been mine", the teenage me thought to myself , "I would never have given them to anyone!" It was on that very train journey that my Dad and three other army officers were robbed in the middle of the night from a First Class Train compartment and my Dad lost all his personal belongings and literally got down at N****t* station in his nightwear and bathroom slippers. He was also robbed of his Identity Card. All that was left of his belongings were the sunglasses he had given me at the last minute. Today, I own multiple pairs of sunglasses to match different outfits, which are coordinated with even my hand bags and my foot wear but none are as close to my heart as the ones that my Dad had given me on that day so long ago. Even more precious, is the thought that most parents never think of their own needs first, it is always the children who come first and this is something I wish many of my students would realize sooner than later. 

If you grew up in the India of my teenage, you would know that eve teasing was a reality and something that most of us faced in our college years. I too faced a horrifying incident where the boy in question, drunk on too many Bollywood movies, accosted me on the road and thrust a letter in my hand, just as I had slowed down my two wheeler to turns towards our Army Quarters. I glanced down and saw the letter had been written in what I thought then was red ink, but later realized was blood! I raced home, jumped off my bike and began screaming for my Dad. He was home on his annual vacation from N****t*and he came running down the stairs. I narrated the incident to him. My parents were already aware that I was being harassed by this person. Harassment, in the pre internet days in India,  meant getting anonymous phone calls and being followed as one went to college or coaching classes. But now this person had taken things to a different level and my Dad immediately filed a police complaint. 

Now remember this was an era where such incidents, unlike in the India of today, were brushed under the carpet, as everyone wanted to 'protect' the girl. My Dad was firm that a complaint was the best form of protection and he let the law take its course! This was the best possible example he could set for us, that we should never bow down in the face of wrong and being girls did not mean that we could not act against the opposite gender. I wish more Indian women had been taught this lesson by their parents..... The boy was arrested and firmly chastised by the police, taken to court and then later let off on the promise that he would stay miles away from the female gender, until he completed his education and went back to his home town! I have not seen him since but the way my parents handled the situation shines like a beacon of light for me, even today. 

Today, I am in Kenya, my sister is in Singapore, my mother is currently in India but our thoughts are with the one person who set so many examples for both of us and who played a huge role in making me the person I am today....my generous, rather hot tempered, lavishly extravagant Dad! 

                                     

                                           As a newly commissioned officer 

                                                                  My parents

Where Have All The Faces Gone?

 The months of August and September,

Bring with them sullen clouds and fat, cheerful raindrops. 

Either month also brings with it, 

One of the many Gods in our pantheon,

My home state's especially beloved God, 

Lord Ganesha, the Elephant God.

After thirteen long years, I happen to be in my hometown, 

In our housing colony, and cannot help but recall and reminiscence.

The nostalgia, the memories, sometimes threaten to overwhelm...

My mother and I, we enter the venue on the dot, 

Only to be greeted by an empty hall.

The God there by himself, in isolation,

The guard tells us the ceremony 'is pushed by an hour'.

Our immediate neighbours trail in, shake their heads at the blatant exhibition

 Of Indian Standard Time and leave, saying they would be back.

Meanwhile, I take in the 'hastily cobbled together' decor.

The guard helpfully tells me he helped put it up mere minutes ago...

Time was when we, the young teens of the society, stayed up until midnight,

Decorating the Lord's pandal, hanging up streamers, sticking buntings.

The camaraderie, the chatter, the fun , the laughter,

Where have all the faces gone?

When the time came to worship our beloved God,

A dull, tired, tarnished copper plate was produced,

I could hear our God laughing at the farce. 

Then someone ran home and brought a bright, sparkling silver one, fit for the Gods.

And the worship commenced , pushed by more than an hour...

The lamp was lit, incense burned, prayers were chanted by a handful of motley folk,

So many voices who would, in years past, their timbre add, now missing...

Where have all the faces and the voices gone?

Time was when after the 'Aarti' , we would line up like little dominoes,

( Had never heard of the pizza brand then.) 

Arms outstretched, our well scrubbed steel plates clutched tightly in our hands,

Waiting eagerly to receive the venerated food offering. 

Different families would cater each day for five days ,

And we would willingly partake of the blessed food.

It cannot be denied, we had our favourites.

And the 'store bought' sweets were placed a notch above the ones

Made by harried but willing hands at home.

Today, I craved the human touch, a home made dish, 

Not the caterer's impeccable offering, but there was none.

Where have all the faces, the voices and the skilled hands gone?

No performances marked the post worship eve, 

Time was when 'entertainment ' would stretch long into the night.

Even though as a child and then a teen, I would often doze off,

Today I longed to watch a dance, a play or listen to a talk or some songs.

But everyone present  hurried home, 

They have all the entertainment they need, in their hand held device. 

Where have the all the faces, the voices, the skilled hands and the talented personalities gone?

The God and I face each other .

I ask : Where have all the faces gone?

Why does the celebration lack heart and mind and body and soul?

He seems to look back at me with a twinkle in his eye,

And says, " The Faces, the Voices, the Skilled Hands, the Talented Personalities.

Are in YOUR mind, in YOUR soul, in YOUR heart and in YOUR recollections,

Through YOU they live on,

Those faces, those voices, those skilled hands, those talented personalities have never gone...