Unlike most people who fuss over kids, I have this huge soft corner for oldies. My heart goes out to the aged on the planet, especially India and especially my parents (Ok, I'm in confession mode).

I hate to see old men toiling on the roads or their privileged brethren living in denial after retirement. I hate to see old arthritic women being womanhandled by daughters-in-law AFTER they have been rendered feeble.

I feel perpetually guilty about not being able to spend enough time with my parents and more each time I read these emotional accounts about how somebody did not find the time for them and how we should pay heed to them lest we regret.

I don't know about other parents but let me tell you about mine. My mother was a homemaker who devoted her entire life to her three headstrong children, me being the most difficult. She was no whine baby though, having carved out an independent identity through her phenomenal social work. A huge fan of Mahatma Gandhi-- which explains my inclination too, she has a very strong sense of right and wrong-- which, I tell myself, explains my behaviour on this blog too! :-)
During the milliseconds she got to spare, she participated actively against all kinds of unfair practices -- animal slaughter, injustice to women, care for the elderly, poor kids, exploitation of labour; wrote copiously and intelligently on Gandhi, Jainism and other issues. Her abridged version of one of the most complicated texts on Jainism is highly recommended by Jain scholars, no less.

Hers was not reactionary activism (no `anti-dam till I die'); she always proposed a constructive way out of issues by spreading awareness, collecting public opinion, and was forever striving for a more human existence for the underprivileged. It could mean serving water, and sometimes snacks, to the thirsty municipal kids near our school at an inconvenient 10 am and a highly inconvenient 3 pm everyday; it could mean buying and carrying rations to her home for a poor, old lady who was ill-treated by her bahu; it could mean worrying the night away about a bird trapped in a jammed window or caring for the neighbour who has recently lost her son.

Iraq distressed her a lot. The day US attacked that country, she would update herself every hour on that ghastly assertion of power. She spent nights listlessly, mourning for the dead and feeling agitated at the mounting toll. ``Who is the terrorist here,'' she wanted to know.

To some measure, the three of us have inherited her compassion and a highly evolved sense of justice (Or so we happily believe.) but I cannot see myself going to her lengths to ease someone's pain. The other day I found her sitting on the bed after a bath looking pensive and staring into space. I asked her what the matter was. With a pained look, she told me, ``Look at those workers in the building compound (redoing the flooring). They have to work so hard. It's terrible.''

From then on, I would see each of these five workers peeling a mango at lunchtime and fiddling with a Rs 5 coin given for `tea'. I did not ask about their donor. No, we were not crorepatis. But my parents have always had this idea that what we had, we had to share.

With the result that though we were reasonably well-off (my dad was the first in our large extended family to go abroad in the 1960s) , we never over-indulged. We were given everything in pairs so that we could not want more, but as we grew up, we imbibed simplicity and did not covet material pleasures-- first, because we knew we could afford them and second, because we did not need them.

Her simplicity startled everyone. ``A Gujju and doesn't deck up or want to flaunt?'' everyone wanted to know. She was more into thought and effective action than appearance, I would tell them then (and tell them now about myself hoping they believe me). If the world saw a stunner in her, the fact was coincidental and incidental.

For a woman whose world was confined to running around her children, she is not just bright but extremely sharp. I have never been able to defeat her at chess, or beat her at multiplication even with a calculator. I have seen philanthropists scratching their heads over accounts and my mum giving them the answer in a blink. Her wit still has most of us rolling on the side for days.

So, what kind of a mum is she? As independent as her personality is, she is a world class care giver. Our friends were totally floored by her-they admired her intellect, flawless looks--classical beauty, glowing skin, and a disarming smile, her unassuming nature and humaneness. In the seventies, she was the first to introduce the world we knew to Chinese and Italian dishes much before they became a household name. She baked eggless cakes and biscuits that became a rage at a time nobody baked at home

She suffers me gladly. I don't remember a single occasion when she hollered at me or beat the hell out of me though I have given and give her ample occasions to. She taught by setting an example.

Each day, you'd find her waiting at the door at 10 am when I came home during school break. If I was late by five whole minutes, you'd find her at my neighbour's place inquiring if I'd been there. Ditto for 1 pm, when I arrived home.

Instead of forbidding us from eating outside food, she patiently explained to us the merits of home-cooked food and demerits of rekdis and stalls. Unlike other friends therefore, I was rarely tempted to eat out. It's the unattainable that has an irresistible lure, remember? It helped that she was a great cook and took serious pains to indulge us all --cooking potato poha for me and watana poha for my sister as one wouldn't have the other. Just for the record, she cooked four times a day, never recycling the morning breakfast for lunch and so on. What was left over was simply given away.

On the single occasion, I'd borrowed money from a friend for a rotten rasta ka kulfi, I was plagued by guilt. More so, because I repaid the friend after taking money from my mum's cupboard which was always unlocked. The same afternoon, I confessed. What did she do? She smiled, patted my head, hugged me and simply said, ``It's ok,'' aware that the message had gone home. No `why did you do that? you don't know what's good for you.'

She's always encouraged us to make our own decisions- even at the cost of going against her judgment. And for some baffling reason, she's always right even on trivia -- like pressure cooking is not good for health as research is NOW showing, like til oil is a a better cooking medium than groundnut as we all know NOW, or that allopathic drugs can have strong side effects which we have grown wiser about.

Her intuition is fine-tuned to our frequencies so much so that she can tell from our voice if we are feeling low, ill or plain bored. A fiercely independent person, at the age of 70, she ensures we are kept in the dark when she falls ill. She would rather struggle with the help of a paid nurse rather than call us to nurse her to health. But God forbid if any of her children fall ill. She paces the floor day and night, frets and fusses over us and ensures she's got rid of everything that dares to come between us and out well-being. She treated me for typhoid when doctors' prescriptions did not work.

My father is this unassuming person whom one's tempted to underestimate because he's so easy-going. All my childhood, I've helped myself to his umbrella when it rains, and lost it. On average, I have lost about two of HIS umbrellas every season. Usually, he comes to know when he hunts for it and doesn't find it. On his inquiry, I casually let on that I had taken it the previous day and forgot it in the train, cab or college. He nods and walks out in the pouring rain without any shield without so much as a ``Why?''. And, I wait till he buys a new one.

A wiz at biz, his extended family of grandkids call him, conceding his superiority. As for his tech skills, he surpasses all I know. I can decode routine SMSes from this 76-year-old man with stuff like, ``Rlx. m fine. tmrw going to off.'' But some fox me with their exaggeratedly abbreviated lingo and I need to call for help from my teenage neighbour who gasps,``He is too good!'' and rushes off to use it on others.

Like my mum, Dad is a man of few needs and an extremely pleasant temperament. His wardrobe comprises about five shirts and kurtas in all. But tell him about a needy soul, and he digs into his wallet generously. At a puja held at our home the other day, he realised that the soft drinks that had been ordered may not be enough to serve two of the carpenters at work. He promptly put on his cap, walked out to the store and came back hugging five bottles to his chest. I asked why. So he said, ``Let's them enjoy two each. Poor guys! They have been hard at work!''

Clearly, there is some discreet contest between man and wife who've spent 50 years together on who's a better sharer.