Book Review: Porridge and I: Growing Up With India

Review By Anita Panda

Porridge and I: Growing Up With India
Author: Roopali Sircar Gaur
Publisher: Authors Press
Year of Publication: 2024
Pages: 284
Price: ₹ 695 on Amazon.in

ISBN: 978-93-6095-696-7
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Authored by academician, poet, educator, and social justice activist Roopali Sircar Gaur, Porridge and I presents a brilliant, compelling, and riveting journey through a rapidly evolving post-colonial India at a critical juncture in its modern history. This captivating and multi-layered narrative grips readers and, to quote novelist Azam Gill, “gets into your head and stays there creating magic.”

This compelling work offers a powerful record of a newly independent, postcolonial India as seen through the eyes of an innocent, young but astute girl child. The narrative sweeps readers across the vibrant and shifting landscape of India from the enchanting Blue Mountains to the scorching desert across its diverse terrain. Gaur offers a vivid glimpse into an era of transition, chronicling the complexities of a nation reborn with its rich cultural heritage and new identity, capturing humour and heartache, laughter, longing, and the scars of partition poignantly. Throughout, readers remain engaged with this journey of growth, resilience, and the joys of sisterhood. 

The opening line, “Miss Doris is English. That is why her skin is so white”—is immediately gripping. Disarmingly innocent yet cleverly exposing the racial bias and Indian fetish with ‘gora’ skin, Gaur rips apart racism from the perspective of childhood observation. The author's vivid language and imagery reflect her creative genius through a child's eyes, as when the narrator describes: “Mother is a real fairy princess. Stars shine in her eyes and red blood-looking jewels hang from her neck.”

Stinging satire and humour are cleverly woven into the narrative highlighting racism, gender bias, and the submission of Indian women to patriarchy.

The author delivers sharp criticism through a child's innocent but keen sarcasm: “Babloo is a boy and therefore, God's special creation. He is a son after all.” The book boldly challenges gender stereotypes with observations such as- “A good woman must die before her husband to get a good funeral” and “What are girls supposed to do? Cook of course and look after babies.”

Anita Panda

The book serves as an unapologetic assertion of the author's unique stamp of feminism and boldness. This is exemplified in scenes such as: “They were not expecting to see the terrifying sight of Mother...a sickle in her hand—"Don't you dare step forward,” she had warned.” Education emerges as vital to female empowerment, with Mother as a constant and strong influence:
“My girls will have real education...only if girls are educated and earning their own living can dowry be forgotten.” The celebration of feminine power is evident in references to goddess figures: “Like Athene of the flashing eyes, Goddess Durga rides the big-faced lion with eyes like big blue lakes...she pierces the evil heart of Mahishasur.”

The author’s use of vivid imagery and metaphors through changing landscapes and varied people reflect her creative genius, brilliant perception and insightfulness through a child's perspective. Food becomes an emotion in descriptions such as: “The black earthen pot which sits still on the fire, is full of the most delicious curry...the mouths suck out the curry-filled intestines and the happy teeth chew the pieces.”

The delightful mix of English, Hindi, and colloquial dialects reflects India’s diversity, with hilarious twists in pronunciation and spelling— “Phitte mooh twada” and “Aiyo aiyo, see who's talking”—adding sparkle, flavour and dynamism to the narrative. The humour keeps readers entertained throughout, as with the parrot Gangaram who shrieks all day: “pata nahin, pata nahin, pata nahin. After which it lets out a long shrill whistle. The security guard does it at night.”

The book presents an engrossing tale of childhood memories through myriad interactions and interpretations. Gaur doesn’t shy away from difficult topics, addressing the challenges, lurking dangers and sexual exploitation that can surface even in a child's protected environment: “Kundanlal Mali...stops me and puts my hand in between his legs...groans saying “ahhhh bahut accha.”

The narrative pulsates with robust patriotism that gives readers goosebumps, with staunch assertions of newfound Indian independence: “Women left chapatis to burn on the fire as they ran to greet the men ready to die...and never dare to sneak back again into our beautiful country again.” The assertive tone of a proud and patriotic Indian is evident despite lingering colonial influences: “The good old days are over. They were only for you ‘goras’, you white guys...I am an officer in the Indian Army which is no longer the King’s army...I am free to wear anything. I live in my own country.”

The book ends poetically, almost lyrically, on a beautiful, lingering, and proud note of Indianness, with the child narrator revealing: “My name? My name is Parijat, the immortal Indian tree in Heaven which blossoms flowers that look like stars.” The closing sentiment – “The English with their porridge and rosy-red cheeks were gone for good. India was now free”—encapsulates the book’s central theme of independence and identity.

Porridge and I presents a captivating and poignant kaleidoscope of a vibrant new postcolonial India at a landmark phase in its history, ingeniously captured through a child's eyes and the author's unique narrative style. The work remains relevant for all times, offering an emotion and narrative few can resist. This gripping work is a must-read and has the potential to be a bestseller. Highly recommended for readers interested in postcolonial literature, Indian history, gender studies, and coming-of-age narratives. The book offers valuable insights for academics, students, and general readers alike.

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Reviewer’s Bio: Anita Panda is a passionate bilingual author-poet, nature lover, spiritualist and an aspiring TEDx speaker.  She wrote ‘GENESIS’ in 2021, in honour of her Late soldier brother and debuted with her own book in 2023 ‘SONGS OF MY SOUL’. 

She is a prolific writer with her work finding space in various prestigious national and International Anthologies & notable publications- TOI, eShe & Mumbai Mirror.  She challenges social stigmas in a still patriarchal India and crusades for women’s empowerment.

A dynamic poet-performer on global stages, Anita is currently crafting her debut Hindi-Urdu book set for release soon.

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Setu, August 2025

Roopali Sircar Gaur (Diaspora Dual Identities)

Roopali Sircar Gaur

The Album Parent

 

 

With loving fingers the album turns its pages .

Dawn wakes up Satyajit just as the Sun touches the dark green mango leaves.

The long verandah with its Roman pillars

reminder of an elegant past, full of memories, of child laughter of teenage banter and arguments.

Now as the merry birds chirp only photographs of

Shantanu at Princeton, Shantanu on a European holiday, Shantanu at his graduation, smiling Shantanu in his office.

Sometimes the phone rings and Baba Kaymon accho? It’s Shantanu.

Each sunrise since then seems like a long time ago.

 

 

Dear Amma And Appa

 

Like a colourful kite flying in the sky their happiness soared. They read the letter again and again.

 

Singing a lullaby Amma wrapped avaakai pickle, masala papadams and sambhar powder.

 

Winging over oceans, mountains, across continents to the joyous birthing of a grandchild.

They wanted to shout and tell everybody.

 

Now silence quietly joined them.

Tennis shoes peeped from under the Kanchipuram orange and blue sari.

In Govindaswamy’s ears the harsh echo did not still .

 

Amma no sambhar or pickle! The smell will linger. Rina gets nauseous.

And Appa no incense burning here please .You should have left your God behind in Villupuram!

This is the United States of America. Why can’t you eat civilised food!

 

Six exhausted and craving babysitting months later they were returning to their many benevolent gods and the tucked away taste of home.

 

Savitri lit the diya.

Murukaṉ eṉ kuḻantaikaḷai ācīrvatippārāka!

Lord Murugan bless our children.

She whispered in Tamil.

 

 

For A Few Dollars More*

 

In the heartland of Telangana stands the ancient temple of Sri Chilkur Balaji God of Visa.

In the sanctum sanctorum lies the promise of prosperity.

A visa to the land of milk and honey

where the roads we know are paved in gold and all pockets are full of money.

Eleven times around the temple I pleaded and a 108 times when the visa was stamped.

The dreamland is the land you dream of and the Statue of Liberty is ready to embrace the tired, the poor and the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.*

How I had longed to be in that land of the brave and the free.

Now each night greets me with raucous laughter and the plaintive crooner, the clattering of plates and cutlery

the smoke from cigars and the scattered cans of beer and the reluctant tips.

 

I had left behind the ripening wheat fields and white egrets riding on Buffalo backs, the steaming rice and lentils from Amma’s kitchen only for a few dollars more.

 

*Inscription at the base of the Statue of Liberty New York harbour penned by Emma Lazarus 1883.

 

*1965 Western movie starring Clint Eastwood

 

 

Prof Roopali Sircar Gaur is a published bilingual poet ,novelist, travel writer, conservationist and social justice activist. Coeditor of 14 international poetry anthologies. She is author of a novel Porridge and I: Growing Up With India and a significant compilation entitled 70 Carats and More: Memoirs of Indian Women.

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Setu, April 2025

The Olive Green Gypsy Trail: Displacement and Relocation

Roopali Sircar Gaur

“I have received my Movement Order,” Dad declared. Mother looked panic-stricken. “Start packing! We are leaving in 15 days.”

Soon those boxes made from wooden crates would begin getting a new coat of black paint again.

And slowly the mind would begin to dismantle itself.

Time to get moving.

New home, new school, new friends.

A train would take us away from all that which was familiar. The unfamiliar was exciting and full of anticipation too.

The temporary accommodation had predictably remained temporary for two years. The boxes never opened. Except the one that said “kitchen”. We seldom ever made it to the so-called “permanent” housing. It was a sort of cheat word. A year and a half later or, if you were lucky, two years later that “movement order” would become a reality.

I am an army brat and an army spouse. So, I have never ever had a forever home. A permanent impermanence and dislocation stalk us military families. Yet we learn to rejoice in this continual displacement. Perhaps it’s embedded in our psyche or, as some say, in our DNA.

The boxes mark a soldier’s life journey. Stencilled in white, every box sets up a trail. Emblazoned with the development of a career. From the small precious tin trunk, marked “Cadet” “Number” “Indian Military Academy” to Captain to Major to Lieutenant Colonel to Colonel to Brigadier and on and on. Travel details etched in white paint and in our memories. Bangalore to Dehradun, Jaipur to Kolkata, Srinagar to Thiruvananthapuram, Bhuj to Kohima. The promise of all journeys spawned by the small tin trunk, long ago, marked “Cadet”.

We often travelled to our destination on military trains. These trains carried troops and vehicles and weapons and all the property of the unit or regiment. And some animals too. Chickens and goats. Rescued animals and birds that became regimental mascots. The Military Train always took a special route and stopped for a long time in the non-commercial parts of the main station. Food would be cooked and served by the Officers’ Mess cooks. Hot meals, as we impatiently waited. Security checks had to be done. Only when the bugle sounded could the train leave the station. Admittedly, that part was quite thrilling!

 As the train rumbled by, catching speed, children waved and random adults watched in awe as soldiers sat atop battle tanks, loaded on the train, their long guns covered with tarpaulin. We felt a strange sense of adventure and pride. Trains that left from big stations and sometimes from small military zones were accompanied by nimbu paani (lemonade), cucumber sandwiches and packed lunches. A happy pipe band offered a farewell tune. Saying goodbye through train windows decorated with marigold flowers was always painful. Well wishes would pour in for services rendered. Who knew when we would meet again!

We travelled all over India, and lived in homes that didn’t let us feel homeless. Even if it was just one room with no kitchen, sending us off to the Officers’ Mess for every meal. Each time, properly dressed to eat only with a fork and spoon. Tired of this ritual, we sometimes sneakily cooked a meal in our tiny dark storeroom. The travel trunks covered with shawls from the great Indian states of Manipur and Nagaland made up for furniture. If you walk into a military home in India, you will at once know where the family has lived. The garden umbrella from Pipli in Orissa; the decorative spear from Nagaland; the carved furniture from Rajasthan; the embroidered curtains from Jammu and Kashmir; and the carved sandalwood Shiva from Karnataka.

Other times we lay on cotton mattresses in the back of a truck known as a “three-tonne” as part of a military convoy that took us from Bangalore to the salubrious town of Wellington in the Nilgiri mountains. This was another one of Dad’s famous movement orders. We would stop at resthouses along the way. A hot meal here, a cool drink there. Surprised city slickers in their cars or on foot would stare and we would happily wave to them.

We were growing away and growing up on these many journeys. Military families are different. We are pan-Indian. Our fathers’, brothers’, and husband’s ranks, and more recently, our mothers’, sisters’, wives’ ranks were only for the office or the field. They did not apply at home. But the military work never stopped. Sometimes the dislocation was acute and the displacement traumatic. Everything was unreachable, incommunicable.

School break meant going to remote places named Aishmukam, or Tangdhar, Pedong, Dulabari, Zero, Churachandpur, Ganganagar, Dras, or Kargil. That depended on permission from higher authorities. Up, up in the mountains we went up winding roads where soldiers stand precariously plastered against the craggy face of the mountains. We looked up and shouted, “Thank You!”.

As we travelled across this vast country of ours crisscrossed with rivers and deserts, forests and lakes, mountains and villages, towns and cities, we imbibed its beauty and natural grandeur, and its people became part of the commonality of humankind. We erased all the divisive forces of caste, community, colour, food and religion.

Moving from one place to another was at times heartbreaking. A surprise awaited in the meeting new people, local cultural exchange, learning of languages, inculcating new food habits, and more. The frequent displacement of military life makes for the becoming of a composite culturally sensitive person. If you visit the home of a soldier from Rajasthan, his wife will happily feed you authentic South Indian delicacies! I own exquisite sarees from every state of India because we travelled miles into the interiors of these regions and bought them from the weaver. How else could we afford it?

Then one day, years later, travelling in a rattle-trap military “Jonga” jeep-like vehicle, I found myself being followed by a cheeky guy in a fancy car looking at me disdainfully and honking away. “I could easily buy a car like yours, buddy,” I thought bemusedly. “But you can never ride in an olive green Jonga. For that you must pay with your blood. Not with your cash.”

The painted black boxes carry a part of soldiers and their families’ lives. If you see such boxes at a railway station, telling you where they are going and who they belong to, please thank the soldier and wish him/her Bon Voyage!

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Setu, July 2024

A Multi-Cultural Christmas Party: Roopali Sircar Gaur

Roopali Sircar Gaur

The festive season always begins with the joyous tradition of setting up the Christmas tree. At The Hermitage in Meerut, we uphold a special practise – no tree or branch is cut; they are carefully grown in pots for use during the festive month of December.

In the recent week leading up to Christmas, our home buzzed with the creative energy of Mannan Ali, Hannan Ali, and Ifza – a trio of imaginative siblings whose passion for decorating the tree is truly captivating. Their focused efforts set the stage for a magical Christmas atmosphere.

Adding to the festive spirit was the enthusiastic tree lighting organized by Sonu, a Sikh boy, showcasing the beauty of unity in diversity. In an increasingly divisive world, such moments become beacons of hope, and it's heartening to witness our children embracing the season with such fervour.

Christmas at our home is always a blend of fun and frolic, with our children freely inviting their friends to join the celebrations. One such special guest is Jingle Baba! Guddu, a 7-year-old Hindu boy who eagerly persuades his mum every Christmas to get him a Santa outfit. With a bell in hand, he goes door to door, distributing sweets to other children, spreading infectious joy and enthusiasm.

The atmosphere inside The Hermitage becomes electric with music, dance, and art, captivating the young ones and igniting their spirits with excitement. Our recent celebration on Christmas Day 2023 was no exception. Our heritage home, nestled in the cantonment, has seen four generations serve in the armed forces, adding a unique historical touch to the festivities. Meerut, with its rich history and numerous churches in the cantonment where the British once lived, provided a picturesque backdrop for our celebration.

On this special day, nearly 50 children from various faiths gathered at The Hermitage dressed in their Sunday best. It was a heartwarming sight to see these young minds, aged 2 to 16, excitedly introducing themselves and forming bonds that transcended cultural and religious differences. 

The focal point of unity was our resplendent Christmas tree, which stood tall and proud, symbolizing the inclusivity that the season brings. I took the opportunity to share the story of baby Jesus and the three kings who followed the guiding star, and the children listened with rapt attention.

The day continued with Christmas music and dance taking center stage, creating an atmosphere of joy and celebration. A festive spread of cake, orange juice, hard boiled eggs, cookies, vegetable puffs, and take-home packets of Maggi Noodles added to the excitement. It was a very happy Christmas for all of us, and in a small way, we fulfilled the spirit of Christmas.

Children bring joy into our lives. Their eagerness, simplicity, their inclusive friendships, and their love for music, dance, art, sports, and other fun activities are abundant. All we need is to invite their exuberance into our lives through small acts that involve their participation. I started Mera Kitab Ghar: The Backyard Book Club in 2014 to organise book reading and festivities which grew out of children’s need for story books. All books are donated by children for children. Authors who publish children’s books also send a few copies for their reading pleasure. All occasions merit artwork, poetry recitation, and book reading. Leftover stationery, school bags, sparingly used shoes and clothes are stored and distributed for use. But most of all, they love story books.

As we bid farewell to another festive season, carrying with us the warmth and joy that the laughter of children brings, let us embrace the coming year with open hearts and hopeful spirits. May the New Year unfold a tapestry of blessings, love, and shared moments of happiness for all, transcending boundaries and fostering a sense of unity that lasts throughout the seasons. Wishing everyone a joyous and prosperous New Year!

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Setu, January 2024

The Naked Fakir (Gandhian Philosophy)

Roopali Sircar Gaur

Kings and queens 

burdened with crowns 

studded with diamonds 

Covered in ermine fur and velvet walked slowly into the room. 

Their cloaks lined with gold and pearls lifted by many hands.

He walked with great speed this bony bodied man in a hurry. 

Dark skinned with a toothless smile

With just a strip of white cotton cloth to just cover his naked body.

You are a Naked Fakir

shrieked kings and queens and courtiers.

They who could not walk without help.

They who needed help to hold 

on their empty heads those crowns over loaded with jewels .

In Ahmedabad in the ashram on the banks of the river Sabarmati

 I stood staring at those spectacles and that roughhewn stick 

he had used to walk his frail body.

Those miles he walked to Dandi where the heaps of salt they churned.

Those men he led those sticks which rained down on his back 

that bone breaking pain which flailed him down 

now made the tears roll down my face my flesh throbbed with pain. 

Just this stick and these spectacles and the bare bodied man in a loin cloth? 

That is truly all that one needed

 to say 

“Enough no more. “This is our country. 

You Must Go!

That stick stirred a revolution 

and those who held the flag 

to their bullet ridden chests 

charged at the gun wielding brutes.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t break those frail bones. 

You see with him came the satyagrahis more and more and more.

One by one they fell on the ground till a mound of women and men and a pen for a room. 

The hands of violence that wielded cannons and guns now exhausted in silence fell. 

With folded hands they begged to be released. 

Let us go they cried.

Cunning enemy decided

to unleash violence

They cut our people in two

and left it to bleed forever. 

Let us not remain strangers forever .Let us bind and heal the wounds

Let us follow the Mahatma’s path

Let us work for Peace!

Bio: Dr Roopali Sircar Gaur is a bi- lingual widely published poet, author, travel writer, editor and social justice and animal activist. Founder President of YUVATI a not for profit organization, she runs a special initiative called Mera Kitab Ghar. 

She taught English Literature in Delhi University and Creative Writing for IGNOU. 

Passionate about ecology, recycling and composting she lives in Meerut with her veteran husband and three rescued dogs.

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Setu, October 2023 :: Gandhian Philosophy

Roopali Sircar Gaur (Towards Visibility)

Roopali Sircar Gaur

I Lost Her Name

 

I lost her name somewhere, from where I can’t get there.

Her name I have lost, but not memories of her. Can you tell me her name?

I met her in a rusty dusty bus on the highway from somewhere to nowhere.

We had sat sulky quite unknowingly, and then at a roadside cafe we spoke.

Later as evening fell, she told me a story...

She told me her teen twins died on their birthday in a car crash,

all she had hugged was a handful of ash.

A long grief filled year passed before she let him know

she was afraid he too would die all alone in a foreign land.

Do you think that's why I lost her name, never ever to find it again?

I remember her story but can’t remember her name,

Each winter I hug the maroon velvet abaya she brought for me from faraway Libya.

You see she remembered my name and had found me.

Somewhere else away from bleeding memories she felt free,

she said she was happy there, she helped women give birth in her care,

Sometimes when they were twins she blessed them from her heart.

If you remember her name, tell me even if the night is dark and the moon has hidden its face.

Some nights sleep eludes me, “You,” she had said, holding my hand to her heart, “are my only friend.” I don’t remember her name. 

Only that dusty rusty bus which goes from somewhere to nowhere.

 

 

I Am Ardhanarishwar

 

Neelkantha hear our prayers.

“Grant us a boy not another girl.”

Pain pushed me into a spiralling tunnel,

I saw the light and I cried out aloud.

Soon jingling singing feet arrived clapping,

a raucous joyous laughter rent the sky,

“Not a boy! not a girl, He is both, She is both.”

Take this vile creature away.

Have mercy on my child.

Thank you for this gift mother.

Those voices never leave me.

Anklets on my feet I dance on the street,

the umbilical chord severed,

I am feared and revered.

I'm Ayappa, Brihnala, Shikhandi, and Tiresias,

I am Prakriti, I am Ardhanarishwar,

I am You.

 

 

A Transiting Passenger

 

I had fallen like Icarus out of the grey sky.

A loose brick plummeted me to the stone strewn ground far below. 

Since then I have surrendered myself to a different life journey.

I see more of others as I watch keenly while waiting in the wheelchair.

I am a lone flower on a tall stalk, I have learned another path to walk.

No eyes can see no muscles can feel my broken pain prone body.

And that is when I am alone. 

 

I was nobody without my passport, my purse, my phone, and my laptop.

I am seized with panic and can feel the grumpy looks lining up behind me. 

The wheelchair pusher helped me stand up. The security officer looked grim.

I can feel the heat of the sun. My wings are dripping wax. 

The 26 throbbing titanium nails strung up an orchestra loud and clear.

They quickly surrounded and secluded me. Leaving me bruised in heart, 

with my body and mind in acute pain they let me go without a goodbye. 

I am still human, my pain palpable. The anxious wheelchair pusher looks sadly at me. I think she understands my pain.

 

All day on a hungry stomach she pushes people like me past the aroma of freshly ground coffee, perfumes, Cinderella gowns and pashmina scarves. 

Unseen her body must ache too. A comradeship of pain holds us together. 

She is my witness. And I, hers. Both, transiting passengers.

Not everything in life is Duty Free.

 

Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a poet performer, writer, animal rights and social justice activist, gardener and recyclist. She served as Associate Professor of English at Delhi University and taught Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. Her research interests are in gender, ageing, war, disability, and post-colonial literature. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature is a seminal text on these subjects. She has co-edited several poetry anthologies including most recently Angst: Of Belonging and Not Belonging, Manushatvam: We Rise by Lifting Others, The Force is With Us, Poetry on a Plate with Spicy Mango Pickle, In All the Spaces-Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, Earth Fire Water Wind. Her first novel is forthcoming. Roopali is the head of the Mentorship Program, Consultant Editor and columnist at Different Truths, and Arts and Poetry Editor for the AWS Ezine. Her poetry is also archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives.
 

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Setu, September 2023 :: Towards Visibility

Roopali Sircar Gaur

Roopali Sircar Gaur

Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. served as   Associate Professor of English, Delhi University and Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. 

Widely published, her poetry is archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives. Roopali is editor of a number of prestigious writing forums and has edited six international poetry anthologies.  As the Founder President of YUVATI a not for profit organisation for girls she runs a special initiative called Mera Kitab Ghar: The Backyard Book Club. 

She has travelled extensively and is passionate about the welfare of military families. She lives in Meerut, India with her veteran husband and their three rescued dogs.

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Setu, March 2023

The tree in heaven…. my sister Parijat

Roopali Sircar Gaur

This is the exceptional story of an exceptional only sibling my sister Parijat. 

Our Anglo-Indian Nanny Doris who insisted she was English christened her Porridge. That stuck to her. And some rude kids would ask her “tumhara jaat pari hai?”

Some middle-aged neighbourhood aunts would call her pari meaning fairy, later her friends in college called her Paari and her students called her Paari Madam. 

Mom called us both doshoos. Bengali for dasyu. Meaning devils. I guess we bothered mom a great deal. So, we called each other doshoo. Sometimes when we were all loving we would call each other Gujju. This was mostly when we wanted to gang up against the parents or wheedle something from each other. 

Dad said he named her Parijat after a brilliant lady he had briefly met. It remained a mystery. Perhaps a girlfriend? Our parents chose not to have children after I was born. A second daughter. No amount of coaxing by friends and relatives to “try” for a boy was acceptable. At least not to mom. 

She was the decision maker. It was her womb after all! “My daughters will be like sons.” She would declare. And that’s what happened. We became Tom Boys. There was nothing we couldn’t do and wouldn’t stop at doing. Why else do you think mom called us doshoos?

We were inseparable. My sister Porridge and I. Many believed we were twins. We wore similar clothes. We were best friends.  I was just a year and a half younger. She was the boss in all activities. We were home schooled. 

You see we were sent to school. But we didn’t like it. Not the best of schools. And then dad believed if a kid didn’t want to go to school it meant the school was not good. So, we stayed home with a black board set up and mom taught and dad taught. And we roamed all day in the sun under trees poking around with sticks discovering snake eggs bluish in colour or nursed an injured squirrel or a dead bird which needed an elaborate burial. 

Porridge wanted to be a doctor. So, she set up clinics here, there and everywhere. Empty Listerine bottles filled with coloured water extracted from kites! You see mom was a big kite flyer. Besides getting her hair permed at AN John the posh hair dressing salon she did plenty of other stuff. Roof top gardening, volunteering 

Dad was in the army, so she had to dress up like a Memsahib.  Safety pins were sterilised with bunting candles and I was scratch vaccinated! 

Finally, we went to school. The dissection of a frog in the lab and its tortuous death put paid to her doctor aspirations. Now she was madly in love with the actor Dev Anand. She spent time preening in front of the mirror. 

My sister was the kindest person in the whole world. Not an ant could be squished, not a lame dog was ignored, not a chicken to be looked at with greedy eyes. Tadpoles were lovingly nurtured to turn into frogs. Snails had hillocks made and herbs planted. 

Her children inherited her love for all creatures big and small. Nothing changed as she grew up. One summer vacation I was greeted by two monkeys Lara and Baba Yaga and a Python called Zeenat.

Married to an army officer she was nearly always on the verge of being divorced!

“You have turned the house into a zoo?” He would shout in a parade ground commanding voice. She never reacted. She would continue to comb the mane of her eleven Pomeranians! He soon realised he was married to an exceptional woman. One who would take the gold chain off her neck and gift it to a needy friend. 

She lived what Coleridge wrote in his epic poem the Ancient Mariner, “He prayeth best who liveth best all man and bird and beast.” When she decided to become a teacher, she collected every degree in Education she could. She was like the Pied Piper of Hamlin. A group of students would follow her home each day. There was laughter and jokes all the time. She loved to wear wonderful clothes, especially sarees. 

Then one day on her 49th birthday she was detected with the big C. For someone who loved life not only her own it was curtain closing time. No efforts, no prayers, nothing in medical science not even her own wish to live let her stay. She reluctantly left a world she loved. 

I recall here William Shakespeare in King Lear, “men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither… ripeness is all”. 

Maurice Sendak, children’s book author, explains these lines as savouring one’s life and making the most of every moment until the end. 

And that is what my sister Parijat did. 

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Bio: Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. served as   Associate Professor of English, Delhi University and Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. 

Widely published, her poetry is archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives. Roopali is editor of a number of prestigious writing forums and has edited six international poetry anthologies.  As the Founder President of YUVATI a not for profit organisation for girls she runs a special initiative called Mera Kitab Ghar: The Backyard Book Club. 

She has travelled extensively and is passionate about the welfare of military families. She lives in Meerut, India with her veteran husband and their three rescued dogs.

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Setu, March 2023

Roopali Sircar Gaur (Children's World)

Roopali Sircar Gaur

Dangle Wangle the Grasshopper

 

Dangle Wangle the Green Grasshopper

Jumps and hops on the clean green grass

His legs are long his eyes are sharp

He loves to play and sing with a harp.

 

To hop and jump

Jump and romp

He needs a lot of space.

He jumps and hops

Hops and jumps

a bright smile on his face.

 

Ant Andy saves

some Candy

for a rainy day

slow and steady

slow and steady

he walks all the way.

Dangle wangle laughs

and shouts

It’s the month of May

It won’t rain

You work in vain

Why should you

Take so much pain.

Ant Andy

there’s plenty of candy

Why do you

store for more?

Ant Andy you’re a fool.

I don’t follow any rule

I don’t even go to school.

 

When thunder shouted

oh so loud

drops of rain fell

from the cloud

Drip drop drip drop drip drip drop

Dangle Wangle got so wet

He did not have a place to stop

He could not just jump or hop

Ant Andy stayed at home

he did not want to roam

He stretched his little feet

On a bag of candy sweet.

Outside the rain went

Drip drop drip drop drip drip drip.

 

Wet and hungry

Dangle wangle

learnt the rule

and when the rain

and thunder stopped

Dangle wangle

to school he hopped

now the Lazy

Green Grasshopper

worked like Andy for his candy

And soon became the class topper.

 

Porky the Porcupine

Porky porcupine

Shakes his quills

Down his spine

Like needles of pine

His nose can smell

and he can tell

carrots potatoes

turnip and roots

under the ground

Looking for shoots

If he is found

He quickly moves

making a rackety

tackety sound

the quills shiver

Like arrows in a quiver.

 

Bio Note: Roopali Sircar Gaur

Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a poet, writer, and social justice activist. She was Associate Professor of English at Delhi University and taught Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature is a seminal text on gender, ageing, war, disability, and post-colonial literature. Her poetry is included in several international anthologies and is archived in the Stanford University Pandemic digital archives. Since 2020 she has co-edited four international poetry anthologies. She is Consultant Editor and columnist at Different Truths, a global participatory social journalism platform; and Poetry Editor for the AWS Ezine.  

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Setu, December 2022 :: Children's World 2023

Roopali Sircar Gaur: Poetry (Life, Cognition and Creativity)

Roopali Sircar Gaur

Travelling Tales

I am a snail....

slow moving with antennas on my head. 

I carry my home on my back 

travelling quietly place to place. 

When evening falls 

a car honks 

I just curl up inside.

I am not homeless...

You see I carry my home on my back. 

You can call me anytime anywhere 

I won't take up your place 

I have my own home on my back. 

I did once think I was without a home

I did believe I had nowhere to go

And then it dawned upon me one morn

I carried on my back my own home.

The home on my back never burdens me.

It never asks me to leave. 

I don't fear harsh voices

The night always is tranquil.

For a long time 

I did not know 

I carried my home on my back.  

***

The Mango Tree

Silent and still 

Its heady fragrance mocked my arrogance.

The dark green leafy coffer

could no longer hold its pink and gold offer.

Something deep inside the nectar filled tree 

compelled it to give. 

It seemed to know to give 

Is the only way to live.

Give me shade. I will hide my spade

Give me fruits. I will not cut your roots.

Give me rain. My skin burns with hot pain. 

I had bargained. 

Now as I greedily sucked the juicy gold 

I too could not hold

Gratitude filling my stilling heart .

I knew like the mango tree 

I too must give 

Or else how will I live?

Can one alone suck life’s sweetness

And not care to share?

***

Looking at the Guava Tree on a Humid August Morning

Before the rains go away

Don’t forget to plant a Guava tree

The golden fruits are for free.

While the green thick leaves hide

And you can your time bide

You will see 

green red beaked 

Parrots on a spree

check check check

peck peck peck 

Butterflies stick 

some pollen 

On the fruit fallen 

While merry Worms 

crawl into its sweet belly

Full of pulpy jelly.

Black birds, hungry birds 

and fast moving squirrels, 

They would all rather

on your Guava tree gather.

Chirps and squeals

Shrill fills and sharp bills

Sudden bursts of quarrel

And then a harmonious still

Grand display of a strong will.

Don’t forget to plant 

that Guava tree,the one that gives you 

Golden yellow 

Fruits for free.

***

 
Bio: Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a retired English professor (Sri Venkateswara college, University of Delhi), and Founder President of YUVATI, a nonprofit organisation working for adolescent girls and boys across India. Sircar Gaur also works with children from underserved communities in what she calls Mera Kitab Ghar: The Backyard Book Club she established as a pop-up book club. She also taught Creative Writing at IGNOU for many years. Sircar Gaur is a widely published columnist and writer, who has written for peer-reviewed journals, and presented papers and served on academic conference panels at Universities in the United Kingdom, Europe, the United States, Canada and India. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature is a seminal text on those subjects. She is also the co-editor (with Anita Nahal) of the anthology, In All The Spaces-Diverse Voices In Global Women’s Poetry (2020). Sircar Gaur has traveled the world, and now lives in Meerut, India with her retired military spouse and their three dogs.

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Life, Cognition and Creativity :: Setu, December 2020

Hyphenated Identities: Roopali Sircar Gaur

Roopali Sircar Gaur

Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a retired English professor (Sri Venkateswara college, University of Delhi), and Founder President of YUVATI, a nonprofit organisation working for adolescent girls and boys across India.  Sircar Gaur also works with children from underserved communities in what she calls Mera Kitab Ghar: The Backyard Book Club she established as a pop-up book club. She also taught Creative Writing at IGNOU for many years. Sircar Gaur is a widely published columnist and writer, who has written for peer-reviewed journals, and presented papers and served on academic conference panels at Universities in the United Kingdom, Europe, the United States, Canada and India. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature is a seminal text on those subjects. She is also the co-editor (with Anita Nahal) of the anthology, In All The Spaces-Diverse Voices In Global Women’s Poetry (2020). Sircar Gaur has traveled the world, and now lives in Meerut, India with her retired military spouse and their three dogs.

Travelling Tales 1

I am Janus...The Roman God. Like the month of January named after me I look back and I look ahead. Journeys are like that. They begin in memories of other places and other times. Somewhere on our journeys, we catch up with places and people who had journeyed ahead of you.

In South Florida I caught up on one such friend who had left the adjoining village to the shores of the United States of America. How deep and beautiful that connection, unravelled itself in memories of each and every word we had once exchanged. He was the young physician next door who was aspiring to go to the US: Those were heady days and he left one day.

But before he did, we friends got together to bid him farewell. After all the dancing and singing was over he sang a most poignant song…a song about never saying goodbye. The song  echoed over the decades that we did not and could not meet.

Last night as I walked into his incredibly palatial home, a movie star home with the who’s who in the neighborhood, I knew my friend had arrived. His long journey from next door physician to reputed celebrity cardiologist had happened.

My heart swelled with pride. The chandeliers twinkled and tinkled with the wine glasses as we raised a toast to this eventful journey. His and mine. To sit and talk about my father and my family and my father’s home where we all hung out was incredibly satisfying.

The dinner was thoughtfully curated. It was all Hyderabadi cuisine. We Hyderabadis just sat down and ate, swallowing our tears and our memories.

We forgot Florida.

When it was time to go, the cardiologist broke my heart. ❤️

He picked up the karaoke mic and sang the song he sang in 1977 before he left home...

Kabhi alvida na kehena

Never say goodbye.

The heart travels too.

Travelling Tales 2

Travelling is not always about places it is about people who live in those places. I am particularly interested in human behaviour especially of people known and unknown.  Coming from environs where the neighbour hood is no longer neighbourly I am charmed by the friendly hi and hello from anybody and everybody I encounter. Be it the postman, the janitor, the dog walking neighbour or the helmet wearing young cyclist. It has made me a friendly person too. I feel less conscious about the exotic ethnicity that I think I exude. 

The super expensive only high end shopping mall called Tyson Galleria with its quietly boasting Omega, Yeves St Lauren's, Gucchi, Saks of Fifth Avenue, Chanel, Armani, Michael Kors , and the shining sleek  Maserati  cars , Calvin Klein , Ralph Lauren had  just a handful of people window shopping. If I were to buy these I would have to move into a mansion in a new neighbour hood. The neighbours may not be as friendly.

What kind of people bought a handbag that cost $3000? Or a suit that cost seven thousand! Or a man perfume for $ 2,350!!!  Couldn't be very nice people.

Thinking my thoughts, I headed towards the exit. A huge glass door barred my way and a gentleman with salt and pepper hair, dressed immaculately in a suit (Armani?) stepped aside holding the door ajar for me, as I stepped out, he ran and opened the second huge glass door smiling. I was overwhelmed. "Thank you thank you " I gushed. " i have not met anybody like you!"  He smiled the handsomest smile I had seen! "I am the last of the American gentlemen left! " he laughed "oh I am joking". " you deserve a hug" I said. It was followed by a big hug, a kiss on my cheek and a, “I am always ready to hug a beautiful woman". I saw the flash of an Omega watch and smelt the whiff of Clive Christian no 1…

People who shop here aren't bad at all. Just different. The heart travels everywhere.

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Hyphenated Identities :: Setu, August 2020