Kindly read about how Ahmedabad blast accused tried to break out of Sabarmati Central Jail in Ahmedabad before proceeding to read the post. In case you don’t know about it, here’s the link
One of my aunt is particularly fond of the bhajiyas prepared by the inmates of the Sabarmati Central Jail (kindly google – and if the aunt is to be believed, the bhajiyas are quite awesome, but I’m wary of eating them – jails are not particularly known for the hygiene standards, you see, what if the inmates don’t even *ahem* wash their hands?) It is a running joke in the family that if any of us gets convicted of any crime and is lodged at central jail, the said aunt will definitely come and pay us a visit.
The Central Jail also holds historical significance because if Gujarat State Education Board history books are to be believed, when Gandhiji was living at Sabarmati Ashram during the Indian Independence movement, he had famously said that the Ashram is strategically located for him. One side is the Central Jail, other side is the smashaan (crematorium) and that when he leaves the place, he will go to either of the two places.
The Mehtas are particularly eccentric people. According to my mother, her genes have played the balancing factor in sister and me, and that we should be grateful to her for not letting the Mehta genes take over us completely. (Father, of course, begs to differ, and says the scariest gene we should be afraid of is the Joshi gene which comes from the Naani). I digress. Coming back, the swing is the family’s favourite spot.
This afternoon, the three of us (the parents and self) were having our cup of tea. As soon as I went to sit next to the father on the swing, he faked his displeasure of seeing me. Now, if you have never played, ‘not touching, not touching’ while taking your finger as near as possible to the other person, just to irritate the hell out of him/her, then you have not lived your life well. So I pretended to lean on dad. I leaned as close to him as I could, while mom tried to control her laughter (almost choking on her tea) and kept saying, ‘I’m feeling so sleeeeeeepy’. And that is when, for the first time in my life, the father ‘slapped’ me. [no, before yougaiz clap gleefully, he did not slap me hard, he didnt even hurt me, so chill]
“I’m totally going to call up the Satellite Police Station. Domestic violence”, I said.
“Humaari jail mein suranngggg”, said the father. In his mind, he had already been convicted and jailed and was already planning an escape route.
“Yes, then C foi (foi is Gujarati for aunt (dad’s sister, the aforementioned aunt who’s fond of Jail Bhajiyas)) will come and meet you”, I said.
“I will then come out of the gutter at their place and her husband will say, “arre, bhai toh idhar se nikle” and C will immediately sing a poem for me”. (inside joke here, because the said aunt thinks she’s a poet and more often than not writes poems for us, latest being the one for my birthday, which was on the tune of a nursery rhyme, shhh, no one should know about it – ok, you guys should probably meet the family to actually see why this is so funny)
Mom and I laughed and I gently patted the father’s back. That seemed to have woken him up from his jail break dream, and he tells me, “don’t touch me, your nails hurt me (I cut them today morning) and I’ll get you booked under 302. Culpable homicide.”
To which I again roared with laughter and well, I got called a raakshas. So, dear Amdavadis, at around 5:30 pm IST, if you thought you felt tremors, it was not a meteor, but laughter of 3 people just high on tea.
But the best thing about people having legal background in the family – we can quote correct sections when we want to give threats to each other.
ps: I insist that neither me nor my father nor my extended family had anything to do with the Sabarmati Jail break. Ok, I cannot say for sure about some of the extended family I don’t like. I find them shady anyway.