YEH DIL MANGE MORE..AHA..

Being married to an officer with an all- India transferable job has its own advantages. The wife, (read ‘me’) can have the good fortune of living in a variety of cities at the expense of the office and enjoy the varied exposure. On the other hand, she can have an emotional edge over the husband what with occasional taunts like - ‘your job is putting me to so much trouble’ or ‘because of you, I became a rolling stone all over the country’ or ‘how can you or your bosses understand the numerous problems faced by a housewife by a sudden transfer’ - so on and so forth. I can indeed supply a bulky volume of similar gems if anybody is interested.

As my father was not in a transferable job and as ours was a secluded family for various reasons, I never had the opportunity to visit any place other than my hometown during my childhood. I used to envy my friends when they described their summer trips. I wished with all my heart to get a chance to travel the length and breadth of the country at least after my marriage. Perhaps my humble prayers evoked enough sympathy in the God Almighty to oblige. True to the saying, when He chose to rain, it poured. Thus started our tryst with transfers which sometimes made our friends to wonder whether our initial ‘M’ stands for ‘Mobile’! or ‘Moving’! My husband underwent eleven transfers in his long career of forty years and we followed him wherever he took us.

Initially, I used to feel terribly out of place whenever I was driven to a completely strange city as a result of yet another transfer. But I must admit that each transfer had its own interesting moments, adding to my memories - both pleasant as well as otherwise. It helped to enrich my knowledge of languages, geography, sociology, etc. For instance, I learnt that coconut oil and mustard oil are also used for cooking in certain parts of the country instead of til oil - the only oil known to me; that there are languages called Haryanvi, Dogri, etc., not to mention the various forms of Hindi like Awadhi, Bhojpuri, etc.; that there are Punjabi Hindus also contrary to my belief that the term Punjabi refers to only a Sardarji with a colourful turban; that our brethren from North term all South Indians collectively as Madrasis; that there are seven sister states in the North East with distinct cultures and traditions exploring which is quite fascinating; that there are more than one different Bihu festivals celebrated in Assam, that there are separate queues for women drivers of two wheelers at the petrol pumps in Manipur; that in parts of Kerala matriarchial system is in vogue; and many such amazing facts!

We took advantage of each transfer to tour the nearby places. Thus, we had chance to visit Kashmir to Kanyakumari, Shillong to Amritsar, Nashik to Puri - to cite a few. But for my husband’s transfers, I would not have been able to visit all those lovely places of tourist interest.

But life does not mean only visiting places, I agree. I encountered a lot of problems and inconveniences too - the barriers of language being the most prominent one. Somehow, my ignorance of the local language and unfamiliarity with the place often made our friends and neighbours develop a soft corner for me. People always used to ‘bechari-fy’ me and were head over heels to lend a helping hand. Of course, I cannot say the same thing about vendors and shopkeepers, though I needed that more.

It is a fact that human relationships are quite complex in nature. The various manifestations of the same can create confusion now and then. I think ‘mother’ is the only person to be addressed more or less similarly in different languages. From ‘maa’ to ‘amma’, it is only a slight phonetic variation. But it is not so in some other cases.

Many of our non-Telugu speaking friends used to think that my daughter’s name is ‘Akka’ - which means elder sister in Telugu - because my son calls her so. She used to feel offended when the Oriya children called her ‘naani1 with reverence. Yes, ‘naani’ in Oriya means elder sister whereas in Hindi it means grandma. When I addressed my father as ‘Nanna’ in Telugu, my neighbours used to wonder why my mother looked almost as old as her father, having confused that with the Hindi word ‘nana’ meaning maternal grandfather. Whereas ‘dada’ is an elder brother for some, he is paternal grandfather for some others.

I was often worried about the problems our kids might face. Fortunately, our children, true to their genes, always adjusted well to the frequent changes of schools and environment. To their credit, they came out with flying colours. While making umpteen rounds of the schools seeking their admission, one thing used to bug me. Quite often, I came across an ominous notice in the schools, declaring that the parents need not meet the principal to speak about the admissions. I never could fathom that one! Why would any parent wish to meet any principal if not about admissions? Surely we do not discuss the country’s foreign policy or the prevailing drought situation with a distinguished principal of a reputed educational institution. Do we? Anyway we simply used to ignore that and get our work done.

Long back, watching me pack our things on the eve of a transfer, my three-year old son wondered “But, Mummy, how will you pack our house?” I explained to him that we will have another house in the new place. He was pleased at the prospect. For a long time afterwards he kept counting and updating the latest total of the houses we ‘have’ at different places. But gradually he lost track. Quite understandable for the little one as we averaged three years in one center. And adding to the total number of our ‘houses’, in places where we exceeded three years, we were forced by different circumstances to change house at least, from one locality to some other. That itself in big cities amounted to as good as a transfer.

During the last phase of my husband’s career, we crossed the record and for the last ten years of his service, we stayed put in one city. To compensate that I had to satisfy myself with three shiftings of residence - albeit in the same apartment  building. The novelty never wears off.

All this was before the advent of satellite TV, internet, etc., which seems to shrink the world a lot - and at a time when there were no STD or e-mail facilities. Being far away from hometown, we had to depend on erratic postal services or delayed telegrams or undependable trunk calls from sporadic post offices to send and receive news to and from our dear ones.

As there was no computerised train reservation system and as air travel was out of reach of salaried employees and their families like us, our journeys sometimes used to get bungled up.

I clearly remember that whenever we planned a journey home from Chandigarh, we had to go all the way to Delhi for booking the tickets - that too almost two months in advance. If, for any reason, the programme was changed, again we had to go to Delhi to cancel them. Added to that, to get a ticket for any alternate subsequent date at a short notice was also impossible. So to be on the safe side, we used to book 2 or 3 sets of tickets for different dates. Whenever we had to go home from either Trivandrum or Bombay, the journey involved a change of train on the way. Onward booking always used to be a problem. We had to request the booking office to send a telegram to the concerned intermediate station and we had to inquire the fate almost on a daily basis. Again, as we were not sure of the availability, we used to purchase 2 or 3 sets of tickets. I am sure we must have paid the Indian Railways much bigger amount by way of cancellations than the fares of the actual journeys undertaken.

Still with all these ups and downs, in retrospect, I feel that all the trouble is worth my while. Now I frequently come across a number of friends from all corners of the country - Punjab da Puttars, Ahomese, Babu Moshais, Maharashtrakars - oh, the list is endless. Isn’t it quite thrilling to have such a variety of friends?

But of late, I have a feeling that the younger generation has a totally different perspective. Year after year, whenever the transfer season arrives, I hear more and more grumbles and complaints. I come across many a wife voicing resentment about even the first transfer!

Recently when I was trying to convince a younger friend of mine to come to terms with her husband’s impending transfer to a place barely 200 Kms away, she gave me a murderous look and hissed “It is very easy to speak. If you are in my position and faced with a transfer, then only you will realise the problem”.

I smiled and enlightened her on the subject. She gasped and shrieked “Oh, so many transfers! How could you cope up? You must be feeling quite relieved now that you are comparatively static as your husband retired. Aren’t you?”

I shook my head. “No, dear. On the other hand, I miss the fun and excitement. To tell the truth, even now - Yeh dil maange more”

She rolled her eyes and sighed - “Aaha!”