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I don’t know why I think of you so much even now when you have gone so far away, when fate had decided long back that we wouldn’t be together. I remember you with every song that I hear, every breath I take and every sight I see – I still think that it would have been so lovely if you had been by my side. I whisper your name every other instant, with no particular purpose; it escapes me unconsciously just like the breath I take. I write poems thinking of you. I even dance with you in the realms of my imagination. Remember that night when we had danced secretly in the dimly lit corner of the street we lived in? I still think of that. I think of your smile, your assuring voice, your gentle gaze and feel the warmth of your grasp as vividly as I had felt it the last time you ever held my hand. I still love you for the fact that you loved me beyond my famed eccentricities.

I am lost in the past. Do you even have a clue? The world would surely see me as a lunatic – a love-lost-lunatic steeped in a past that has withered away to obscurity - if not for the effectiveness with which I cloak this supposed insanity with my role as a writer. What do they know? I live on clutching the bag of priceless memories.

I try to imagine how you would look now. But my imagination fails me miserably. My imagination, it appears, only aids the birth of the written word but not the sight of your face. It’s only memory that roars like a ferocious lion, sending imagination whimpering into a dim corner. Try how much ever, I see your face every time the way I saw it last.

Let me tell you about the biggest paradox of my life. The last time I saw you – it’s been so long; so long that a child practising counting with fingers would grow tired of counting. 27 – that was all you were when you left me. Four years– that was all the time we had lived for as a married couple. And then, you just left – left me as simply as a tender dew that slips off a blade of grass just as it is meant to do in the large framework of destiny. Well, the paradox is that my dear, with every passing minute, the years have counted up, but you have only grown closer to me and have come so close that my words fail to describe.

The truth is perhaps that you have dissolved within me as pure, unadulterated thoughts.

And for no strange reason, I want to title this untitled piece ’80 and still in love’.

Letters to Dad - 15th March 2004

Dear Pops,

I loved pouring over your letter that came in a little late. Never mind, it was worth the wait for those five pages of your still undecipherable handwriting. Dad, you really are getting old. :), and your slants are getting slightly shaky.

You know how busy life is here Pops that I had to postpone this letter by a week. It is ironic that the topic that I choose to write today is about the lives of people who are at the other extreme of those we discussed in the last letter. Yes dad, I am indeed referring to my visit to the old age home, on my birthday. While I marvel at what my son teaches me through his ways, all that was left of me after that visit was silence and a vacuum.

Many of them, Dad - a sea of faces. They were about thirty couples at Karunalaya, each and every one of them, unique. Mr.Prakasam, the one who was so particular about his fitness was the first one that we met. Clad in his starched white kurta and dhoti, he was taking his morning walk in the garden. Full of warmth, that’s how he was. Mr.Prakasam shook hands with Akash, placed his palm on my head and then on Aryan’s and mumbled a blessing. Welcome, he said, we are all expecting you. We could only smile back, gratefully.

The woman behind my success, he introduced us to his wife, who had just emerged from the puja room. Come beti, she invited me, and then it was ‘ey chotu’ to a visibly nervous Aryan. She indeed looked divine in a simple chungudi saree. How could her children leave her here? How could they do away with such sweet parents?

Dad, each of them had stories to say; some happy, some sad, some heart-wrenching, some really brave. The Subramanians have shared sixty four years of marriage between them. And the love hasn’t diminished one bit, Dad. Mrs. Subramanian could hardly hear and said a different thing while her husband spoke something else. But her better half was patient, always smiling and trying to raise his already feeble voice to as high a decibel as possible, to convey the intent. We are old, he said, and our sons are away in a foreign land. We speak to them once in six months when they call up after sending us some money, he explained, while his wife just brooded and nodded. And suddenly, she looked up and smiled, as if there was no trouble in her world. Is that the slow insanity that old age breeds into one?

Seethamma was different. She was loud, frank and full of disbelief. Her husband was timid, unobtrusive and deep into the day’s newspapers. Seethamma seethed in anger. All you children, you don’t care about your parents. Why have you come here today? You distribute sweets or serve us lunch and go away. Does our misery change after that? She glared at me. The man, lifted his head up, threw a glance our way and then a feeble smile. Commotion, it seemed, was a parcel of his life. But dad, her question fascinated me, quite.

What are we to them, other than being people merely sharing a day’s joy with them (ironically, we hardly know whether what’s happiness for us, is happiness for them as well.) and doing the disappearing act after that? But Dad, I think the solace and the answer is that, we attempt, genuinely at that, to try and bring a smile on to their faces at least for a day; to make them believe that there are people in the world who still care; to massage out the numbness of a lack of love that has clung on to their souls.

Mrs. Parvati insisted she would sit next to Aryan. He reminded her of her grandson, she said. She insisted she would feed him. I let her do it. Aryan didn’t understand, Dad. Confusion was written large on his face. His eyes brimmed with fear. That night, he was quiet and finally asked me, Mama, who are those old people? I told him. I told him, they were like his grandparents, but they stayed there because their children could not take care of them. Why, he asked me, that’s really bad. I nodded and patted his head. Mama, I will take care of you and Papa, when you grow old, he said. I cried silently. After all that claim of ‘we will stay independent in our old age’ that I and Akash so often reiterate to each other, I still seek reassurances. And damn that, from my three year old son, who is yet to see the world, in all its beauty and devilishness.

And what’s with this Indian tradition, Pa? Parents would stay with their sons, but never with their daughters. Isn’t it unjust of the society to have moulded such a strange ideology? We grow old, and children are channels through which we remain assured. At twenty nine, I am already seeking it. I wonder how it would be for you. Don’t you wish you could stay with us, but you still deny yourself the pleasure, just because we all live the Indian way?

Papa, I am serious. I really wish you and mom would consider staying with us, for some days at least. I know how it feels Dad, to be old and staying away. Mrs. Srinivasan words still ring in my ears. She is old, frail and dying. When I turned to leave that day, she held my hands and asked me when I would come back again. Do keep coming, she said, it’s not for the sweets or the food, our tongues have long last that desire to taste. It’s only love and company that we yearn for. I look beyond the gates, everyday, seeing as far as my poor vision can let me see. I imagine I see my son and his family. But they never come.

Love to you and mom,
Sumi

P.S: Keep writing.

Waiting for Grandpa

I draw lines on the canvas of dew that has settled on the window panes. I would fix them straight but they would trickle down aimlessly, beyond my control; Random, strange patterns. Try again, and again, and again. Random, strange patterns. No straight lines. They behave as they will. Does God script lines of fate similarly?

I watch through the misty glass, the pale yet unusually calm face of the man I so revered and loved – Grandpa. Yesterday was not like this. He and I had had a nice, warm chat, sitting by his bedside. And suddenly, with minimum fuss, he slipped into a coma.

Granddad was telling me about his childhood days. How he and his little friend, Somu, jumped over his neighbours’ compound wall, into their farm, to steal mangoes with great expertise. These for me were like silver screen stories in real life. Where had I ever heard of such stuff? The movies, I bet.

Ageing is such a mysterious reality, even stranger, the phenomenon of death. To me, they are frightful truths that often haunted one in the nights and quietly escaped through the backdoor as morning descended with the illusions called life’s responsibilities. Don’t we categorize them as simply, daily routine?

Coming to think of it, there is the other side. We run in a race, fast and faster, to be the first and always on top. In the process of running, many of us forget that the ultimate finishing line is the end of ourselves. I somehow, can’t subscribe to the fact, “there is only one life, live it.” We should live it, but well aware of our coordinates. We don’t live forever. Sadly, many of us either ignore death or worry too much about it. How many of us can gracefully accept that death is indeed a humbling truth?

Surprisingly, Grandpa always had a calming view of death, not the frightening undertone that it usually presented. He only dealt with it, with such elegant ease. The calm that stemmed from his subconscious glowed on his face, as if preserved till eternity.

We fear missing others, in their deaths and in our own, missing our own selves and lives, those lives, however miserable they may get. We fear death even more, because we have no conclusive control over the causative factors.

I was missing Grandpa’s toothless grin, as soft as a baby’s. I was missing his childish craving for the forbidden jalebis, his assuring talk, his strong will that beat the fragility of his physique. I was missing the complement of me, a weak young woman– he, the strong, old man. I was missing my confidant.

Is there nothing that we can do? I ask the doc, gazing at Grandpa. The doc shrugs in reply. He is deteriorating. I hold grandpa’s hand that had grown to wear the characteristic softness of old age. I will wait for you, Grandpa. Afterall, who am I to draw lines?

Confessions

The river bounces along talking sweet murmurs and deeper down, escalating to a silence, inert and cold. I sit in the muddy banks, throwing stones into the water and watch them disappear clueless into the ashen grey, like a spine chilling mystery; sucked in by an astonishing power of absorption. Isn’t it a similar kind of gravity of the past that’s drawing me inside, to my inner layers that I have been desperately hiding away from?

I am not a woman who somebody would easily want for a wife. That was my husband’s last remark, when he was my husband.
“Jane, you are just not happening! Look at you. Now, why don’t you pump some life into your being?”

Now that I think of it, this was never how things began between us. Rosy, picturesque, dainty, and smooth – made for each other, we had imagined. But what we reaped in the end was disdain, hatred, repulsion, tough luck. All those happy moments were ephemeral that evaporated without a trace, to nothingness.

“I don’t for the life of me understand what you want,” I had screamed one day. “Walk around with dipping necklines, revealing thighs, party all time and smoke cigarettes offensively into faces? Is that what life is to you?”

“Come on Jane,” he roared, “That isn’t everything. But that, is also life. Is seclusion, quiet and mute arrogance all that there is in life for you?”

Petty fights weren’t real reasons why we separated. They were trivial, invented, to force a separation. We forced flaws, sharp divisions of attitude to merely get away. We were getting unbearable to each other, so I thought. I had all these days, tried running away from that one truth: What forced us to invent reasons? Was I so incapable of sustaining a relationship? Was I the reason for him to bring up reasons?

These have been days of emotional curfew. I wouldn’t cross the disturbing line, after which I would break down. “Why should I waste my tears for a heartless man?” I used to reason, but the reality was that I was running away from identifying myself, as possibly the core of the entire fault.

Ah, the travails of a wandering mind! I struggle to place the entire relationship and the events associated with it, under a surveillance system – my conscience. Where had it been all these days? Had I just snubbed it all those times when it rose before me to warn me of a possible breakdown?

“Let’s give ourselves some more time,” he had suggested and I had flatly refused to even lend an ear. What could you expect out of a heart that was fuming red with rage and obscene hatred?

“Don’t try to patch up things, Sam. I am tired of showing up this façade of loving you and living happily with you.You hate me, accept it and get done with me!” I had yelled.

“Jane, you are not a woman that someone would easily want to have for a wife,” he had shouted and walked out of the house. And with that he drew the final between us. Rather, it was I who forced him to face the severity of a separation.

Then, I had thought heavily about not compromising on my individuality. Why should I party and mix, when I don’t have the inclination to do it? Why should I stop doing what I love to do, when he doesn’t like it? Even the disappointment on his face wasn’t remedy to the selfishness that I was cultivating inside me. I could have at least tried out that day, couldn’t I? I could have at least made an attempt to set it all right. Give it some space, like he had said. Like I have today; I have worn the skirt that he so wanted me to wear then.

My love for him seems to have been locked away in unfathomable depths and I had let silly things come in between us only to realize that the love choked and died a silent death inside me, inside him, that the damage became irreparable. God damn, my murky, obscure attitude!

The sun has turned a dense ball of orange, and the sky a backdrop of shimmering gold. The water suddenly appears dyed orange, a flowing satin of orange. Time to leave, I decide and walk back, unmindful of the soggy mud. I turn and see that I have left a track of my footprints. These, I think, will be washed out in moments. I fervently hope that the ironies of life will brush aside too. Realization in itself is a big thing and it has begun today. I know I will learn to live, someday.

Letters to Dad – 21st February 2004

Dearest Dad,

I realized it’s high time we revived a certain tradition that both of us – you, and me, by virtue of being your daughter, have held so close to our hearts. As you might have very rightly guessed, it’s about getting back to the art of writing letters – it feels like ages since I wrote something to you out of my hand. The fact that my handwriting seems utterly messy would suffice to say that I have moved distantly away from a culture that has a charm of its own and demands special prowess. Nevertheless, I shall attribute that to initial trouble and move on.


Dad, I am planning to do this thing, systematically. Let matters of daily routine rest with our usual telephonic conversations and daily mails. These letters will be different. Let me explain. Do you remember those nights when I returned home for my vacation? We used to sit in the balcony, look up at the sky and talk philosophy watching the stars! I remember how we used to glide from one topic to another and let words play, to put forth our different ideas. Discussions, they were, that taught me plenty and left me wanting for more.

Time has always ushered new things into our lives and can you believe it is seven years since you got me married? Dad, try how much ever, it’s been tough to maintain our relationship the way it had been before my marriage. However, my love and concern for you and mom, have remained unquestionably intact and isn’t it true that love grows even more splendidly in separation?

I want to begin this series of letters, with a special person who has redefined the meaning of my life and in the process, has offered me such interesting perspectives and thoughts that I haven’t really been able to identify myself with, before. Yes, I am indeed talking about the three year old brat that I have for a son and you for a grandson - Aryan. Dad, you got to tell me if I had been such a big trouble for you when I was young. This chap really gives me all the exercise I need to keep me going in my old age – very active, or more appropriately, brimming with ‘difficult-to-manage’ mischief.

I know I have shared aspects of his growing up with you and mom, over the phone. But certain observations, a few realizations, I feel I can best articulate only through writing. It so happens that when you watch your child grow up, it’s almost like looking into a mirror and seeing your own childhood. In a way, it’s an access to insights about what I might have been when I was a child and what as a parent, you would have done (leaving aside photographs) – things that I, in all realistic possibility don’t have an inkling about.

What I want to share with you is the emotional side of bringing up and being with one’s child, after having been one, to one’s parents. Aryan brings inside me a gush of feelings – love, concern, responsibility, pride and sometimes, fear.

It’s surprising as to how a fresh soul can breeze in so much of happiness into one’s life. From the day Aryan was born, I have watched every act of his, as one of divine nature and worthy of all human awe. Ah, what could be more fulfilling than watching your child toddle, seeing his teeth grow, throwing all those fond admonitions for getting his shirt dirty, or for fussing over a glass of milk or for sucking his thumb? I remember you telling me how mom used to scare me that she would tie a cockroach to my finger if I ever sucked it again. May be, it’s time for me, to use those silly tricks again and feel foolishly superior to a child, who knows no fear. Dad, didn’t you feel this way too?

I tremble with pride when he cites nursery rhymes with half audible words and syllables that are yet to find their way to perfection through that sweet tongue. In child talk lies the core of innocence and I wish I could trap that and keep it with me forever. It’s something that experience has eroded off my being and I helplessly realize, my son would be subjected to the same fate.

I feel responsible for his life and sometimes as Akash puts it, get over protective and fussy. Can’t help it, can I? It’s that being a mother, I feel insecure when the child is away from my vicinity, slowly leading to fear. When he holds my hand, I feel overjoyed and overwhelmingly safe. As your child, didn’t I redefine the outlines of your life? May be I did, from what I am learning now.

My son teaches me so many things that I ironically have forgotten; the beauty of simplicity, the power of an inquisitive mind, for example. May be as a child, I had taught you similar things – what you taught your parents and had forgotten. Suddenly, your daughter starts teaching the same things all over again! We teach lessons, to forget them, only to learn them again. Vicious cycle?

It all seems so similar and it’s just that I was a daughter to you whereas Aryan is a son to me. But, we hand down those emotions, those tricks. And those childish pranks run down unstoppably, generation after generation. The phases that we observe and admire are undoubtedly the same through years. May be you used a cassette recorder to tape my rhymes and childish chatter. But today, I do it through my digital camera and my mobile phone. There are things that do not change and there are some that change.

I am led to believe that a chain of changes dominates every generation and at the same time, there are things that are handed down to children – such is life, isn’t it? For all that there is, we have so much to learn and ponder about!


We’ll indeed talk more on anything remotely possible, in the days to come. Do write back to me.

Love to mom and messy darling doggy, Bruno!

Lots of affection,
Sumi

PS: Dad, I miss your cake and your hug. Wish me Happy Birthday!
- Sumi

Reflections

Charming yellows, soothing greens, smart reds, earthy brown, pale purple, hazy blue, icy silver – gorgeous, glamorous, picture perfect, every year. I watch the twenty seventh spring of my life, this time, a little early. I, Scarlet Wadsworth, let myself loose as the wind pulls me, swirls and rolls me down the memory lane.

When did I smell the hint of my first spring on earth? It was when Sally, my caretaker took me down the slopes near my home, and I caught the sweet scent of spring and received the first shower of dew. Then on, I have come a long way, may be far, far away from the novelty of a new born.

Isn’t it fascinating? The way we all grow up; so many changes manifesting themselves in our physical form and the nature of our being. That, what once seemed meaningful and perfectly valid becomes the ground stone of absurdity; that innocence, turns to be a paradigm so distant, and next to impossible, that we struggle to realign our focus to what we once were?

Pouring over a cup of hot chocolate, landing up with sticky fingers, sticky lips, standing in those long twirling lines in the school, waiting for a chance – to pick up a library book or to get your notebook signed, or maybe for a drill, or may be just to render a prayer with due reverence and hear boring speeches with undue disrespect. Memories – how they rustle like the falling leaves of autumn!

And what about those merry go rounds with Agnes Anderson, Hilda Osborne, Rachel Larson and Matilda Merryweather during school days at Southampton? Would I care to do that today? Come on, I just can’t afford to make a fool of myself, Can I? That’s what I think - openly. Secretly though, I wish I could call all of them to my guest room sometime and do it all over again!

Deals used to be struck those days. Rachel and I would exchange our pencils and pencil cases. Hilda would let me have her doll for a week’s time and I would give her my (much eyed) kitchen set, but mind you, only for a week. Deals often led to complaints, teaming up and pesky fights. And those were followed by courageous reconciliations, ironically through deals struck again, only different ones this time.

As children, I think we asked interesting questions, enthusiastically pondered for answers and surprised elders, out of pure naiveté. Momma, how did I come into this world? May be Momma said, from me. And then she would have gone on to say, God made you and sent you to this world, through me.
“Really, But, where did God come from?”
Silence. Period.

Today, I have changed, in so many ways. I have grown up. Yes, I have. I no longer let out a shrill cry of joy at the look of a box of toffees. I don’t sink my teeth into a pastry, unmindful of cream smeared all around my mouth and falling onto my dress. I don’t fascinate wearing all those jazzy pink ribbons and laced hair clips that I had once held with so much adoration. I live, carefully treading along the boundaries defined by the society, the world, people. I no longer ask the right questions. Even if I did, I don’t bother to struggle enough to get answers.

I bother. Oh hell, yes, I do. I care for what others would think of me. I care for not messing up.

Time changes one or one changes with Time. May be you realize that or you don’t. Years back I was a kid who ran back home after I lost something as small as my school badge or snapped up my watch strap accidentally, out of fear and agony. Today, I can’t even think of doing all that again.

What’s all that? A part of the package called ‘growing up’?

In conversation..

She caressed the delicate, bright coloured petals of the flower in her hand. Soaked in the gentleness, the flower smiled lightly, blessed the kind hearted soul for her affection.

”What bothers you, young child?” asked the flower, taking her by surprise. “Your affectionate touch does carry a strain of sadness that you are trying so hard to shield from me.”

To which she replied,”You, my fresh blossom, never lack in kindness. Tell me, do you understand this strange feeling of mine, which is even more puzzling because of its inexplicability?”

“My friend,” said the flower gently, “If speaking your heart out could relieve you of the burden that pains you so greatly, I am delighted at the very thought of being a sincere listener.”

The flower saw her face grow pale, drained of blood.
”Why do I feel so helpless when it comes to certain things?” she questioned, her eyes lowered and lost in the shadows of her long eyelashes.

Thus replied the flower swaying lightly:

“My dear child, your words flow like softest ripples down the brook. I shall refrain from making flawed assumptions. I know your difficulty in putting forth your trouble, yet, I urge you to try and speak up.”

“Kind flower,” she whispered and stayed quiet, like she was searching her soul for the right words. “I feel incomplete because I am unable to face truth. I am unable to relieve myself from the pain that torments me.”

At this the flower fell silent, lost in thought.

She drew comfort from that silence. “Flower, it’s a void, a shallowness that I experience.”

“Suffering, my child, is it!” was the flower’s erudite response.

“Yes, yes,” she whispered softly. “Why do I have to,” she sighed deeply, “suffer?”

The flower watched and listened, as her voice choked. “I cry and brood over fate. Why should I long for what’s not in my hands, despite having realised the futility of it?”



“My dear, I would call that a self imposed suffering,” said the flower.

“But, kind flower, what am I to do? Is it wrong to desire for something?”

The flower appeared calm and still, went ahead in a voice so crystal clear. “Lady, you are so child like,” It threw a radiant gaze and continued, “Realise that when a want arises, suffering finds its way.”

Her face appeared flushed. “But why on earth?” she questioned.

“Simply because achieving what you desire is influenced not just by you, but by a million factors that lie beyond your control. If all works fine, you get what you want, if they don’t, you suffer.” came the flower’s thought provoking response.

“Flower, do you mean that suffering is the direct consequence of desire? “

“Yes and No,” it said. “Yes, for the aforesaid reason and no, because suffering as a consequence, can still be averted. In simpler terms, as much as your control plays a part in achieving your desire, it plays a much bigger role in averting suffering.”

“You confuse me, my knowledgeable blossom,” she sighed.

The flower chuckled. “It simply means that most of the pain is self imposed. It means that the consequence is a matter of your choice.”

“Is that what you called self-imposed suffering?” she questioned in a tormented voice.

“Yes. Now that you give me an impression of having gained some understanding, I shall explain a little further,” said the flower and paused to throw a sideward glance to gather signs of approval.

She nodded.

“Very well,” it said, “The choice that I spoke about is what you intend to do at two levels. One is to avoid the root of all problems. You could choose to not desire for anything and lead a life of what the world calls a saint. The second is when you desire to possess something, but you prepare yourself to face the best and worst of it. Do you understand?”

“Ahem, yes, I guess so,” she said.

“I quite don’t like that trace of doubt in your voice,” the flower replied. “Let me take your case,” it said, trying to explain further, ”You said you cry and brood over something that you desired but could never achieve. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

The flower continued breathlessly, “Now dear, think about it. Didn’t life present you a big choice there? Wasn’t it you who chose to cry and brood over it?”

“Yes.”

“Sweet friend, my sincere advice to you would be to not to lose the present, pining for what’s not going to land in your lap. May be you did deserve it, yet it didn’t happen, but should you let that come in the way of the present and the future? Ponder, child, ponder.”

She remained silent.

“There are two choices. You could burn yourself down to ashes or you could rise from them like a phoenix. The choice is absolutely yours.”

“But, flower, isn’t it easier said than done?”

“True, it isn’t easy to let go but, it isn’t impossible. Time and experience perfects an individual. You will learn.”

“You are indeed kind,” she smiled, “you made me feel much better.”

“Delighted,” said the flower, “Just a word more,” it said. “I have a lesson for you from my life. I laughed and thrilled myself when the sun’s golden rays touched down on me. I bloomed and smiled my widest when he was around. Today I lie in your hands, but I don’t regret the present, nor do I desire for what went by. Tomorrow, I will be a withered flower and day after, I would be gone. But, I am glad I made the present useful, by helping you,” said the flower and smiled.

Her eyes sparkled and she took the flower close to her lips and whispered, “I will try my best, I will, I promise.”

The flower kissed her gently on her cheek.

Holding on..

"She's a tear that hangs inside my soul forever."
- Jeff Buckley

Isn't that true with places too?

The Bangalore Diary

Weekend and holiday hangovers are terrible! When I was back at Madras on Tuesday morning, it was humidity and the round the clock briskness of Central that welcomed me. I hated it, I don’t know why; I wished fervently I could run back to where I boarded the train the previous night. But there wasn’t time to even think; I had to rush to Park to catch the metro at 5:30 AM.

Park station. As I got into the metro and secured a seat for myself next to the window, it wasn’t difficult to switch to a different world. People around wouldn’t matter at all..


What do you do when a train that usually runs on time, reaches an hour late only on the day you are travelling? Well, actually, nothing. I cursed my luck and got down, when this lady about 55 years old, came up to me. “Hi, where are you going?,” she asked. “Airport Road,” I replied, very matter - of – factly. She paused for a moment and looking earnestly at me, queried, “Oh, are you travelling abroad?”. I was puzzled, for I had barely woken up and was still, very much confused.
“Uh, sorry..but?..” I muttered.
“No, are you travelling abroad? You are going to Airport road”
I realised what was going on.
“No, no. I am just going to Airport road.”
“Oh, Airport quarters?”
I sighed.
“No, Airport road is a place where there are other things other than the airport. My friend stays there. I am going over to her place.”

The metro train screeched to a halt at the next station. I caught myself smiling over the conversation. Well, why was I explaining to her so patiently about the nuances of Airport road? I mean, just why? Couple of seconds, I began swaying to the rhythmic and perfectly tuned motion of the train..

“I have to go to Vivek Nagar, are you working here?”
I didn’t know where that place was and I walked quietly.
“You look so much like my daughter. She is doing her M.com in Ethiraj College”
“Oh!” I reacted to the remark and smiled, “Ok.”
“Do you work with Wipro?”
“Man, why does she want to know that? And why Wipro?” I thought to myself.
“Ah, actually no. I am not working here now. I was working here before.”
“Why have you come here, then?”
Uh, excuse me!!
“Am here to meet all my friends,” I said hurriedly.
“Oh, that is really nice of you,” I heard her meek voice as we reached Cant’s entrance. She waited with me at the prepaid auto-rickshaw counter. The sleepy state that I was in, I was all in a mood to get into some rick and rush off. I was about to climb into the rick (My eyes and the mind were busy altering the template of a rick inside my head. Replace yellow ricks at Madras with black ones in Bangalore, replace yellow ricks at Madras with black ones in Bangalore..)
“THANK YOU..” I was jolted out of my dreamy state.
I turned and she was there.
“Oh, no problem, “ I smiled.
“It was very nice meeting you,” she said.
“No problem.”

“No problem?” Eeh..Why did I say that? I wondered. How silly of me!
I was busy fidgeting with my handbag zip. I opened it and amidst other things, I found this small piece of paper – My “to do” list, for the three days. The couple sitting opposite to me were busy moving their suitcase around and gave me a puzzled look – ME, who was looking at a crumpled sheet of paper and smiling strangely.

I landed at M’s place. She was thrilled. She had neatly laid out a bed for me next to hers. “Come, come sleep here,” she said sweetly.
I was just waiting for someone to say that, and flopped carelessly. Two minutes. M’s mobile jingled with a message, enough to begin a conversation. We began talking, went on for three whole hours. (I quite hadn’t realised that). I had made a complete schedule of whom to meet, when and where. People started messaging in, “Anu, shall we meet tomorrow?” or “I have suddenly been called for a meeting, how about after five today?”.
“After five?” I shrieked through a message. “But I have to meet J and B at Brigades”.

“Enna Bangalore poyacha?,” a friend called in to confirm.
“Hmm..yeah, I will call you tomorrow night between 9:30 and 10:15,” I answered after working out details inside my head.

I went messaging and my mobile balance dipped to a negative. A juggling of schedules till afternoon and I finally decided to drop in at Su~’s place. “Ooh..you have put on weight!” I just blurted out as soon as I got out of the rick, in front of my old office.

“Yeah, I know”. Within minutes, we were heading to her newly constructed house. “God, it has been so long no?” she said.
The house. I stared at it in awe. I had seen it as a mere plan on paper when Su~ had got it to office last year, around the same time. “Remember how you rushed to the architect’s place from office?” I asked her in a recollecting tone. “Hmm..yes”.
“Hey the garage, oh, the hall..Oh this room that you were talking about, the stairs..Geeh, Su~, I can’t believe this!”. She just smiled. I was thrilled like a little kid.
“See the window grilles,” she pointed out to one of them.
“Oh yeah. Hey, I still remember how you modified the design through MS Paint and how we went about selecting a design!!” I almost jumped.
She took me to her mom’s place. On the way back, she showed me a road, “Do you remember this place?”
“Oh yes, your in-laws place!” I said.
“No, no. It is my place also,” she replied.
“Su~!! Not bad, you do seem to have changed in ten months! So, you are making an effort to say it is your house too!!” I laughed and she joined me. I just thought, it has been so long!! :)

At her mom’s place, it was like being back to a close one’s home. Aunty was smiling and Su~’s first niece (who once used to shy away when she saw me and who remembered me as one who shared her bday!) came up to me, showing all the stuff that she did in her summer camp. Her second niece – I saw that kid when she was three days old, at the hospital, about 15 months back! Now, the kid stared at me through her innocent, big eyes and within a matter of 10 minutes, she slowly came to me and smiled showing her kutty kutty teeth. “Su~, God, I can’t believe this!!” I just knew I kept saying that. When I was about to say bye, she thrust a salwar-kameez set into my hands, “This is for you.”
“Bye Su~, I don’t know when I would see you next. Hope it is sometime soon,” and I got into a rick, to rush to Brigade road.

The train came to a screeching halt at the next station. Some people were mumbling, some were getting down and the train began on its journey yet again.

J had messaged at 4:20 itself. “Hey, I am already outside Café Coffee Day, but doesn’t matter, I’ll wait”. I dashed in at 5:15PM. “He-lll-ooo!!” I heard her voice from behind. B joined in late and we rambled on and on about our first six months of training together and about their new offices now. I carried J’s sweet red rose back home. Dinner was fun at Madhuri Grand with “long time no see” batch mates from college and M and V. I laughed like nobody else’s business and there closed the first day.

The next morning, M woke up early, made hot water ready and pushed me for a bath. By the time I was out, she was ready with a bowl of chocos. “So sweet of you,” I muttered through a spoonful of chocos and rushed to my cousin’s place. The proud father, whose kid was just a month and a half old, took me to his in-laws’ place.
“Manas kutty paapa,” he went on, holding his little daughter, Manasvini and swaying gently.
“Shhhyaaaaaaaam…adapaavi! Ennala namba mudila ya!” (I can’t believe this, again!!). I saw the transformation of this guy whom I had known from when I was a child, now playing the role of a father! Time has flown. Oh dear, ain’t I getting old too? My cousin was nice enough to dispel that feeling. “Kozhandai, romba naal kazhichu vandurukka!” (Kid, you have come in after a long time), he said and pampered me with lots and lots of bar chocolates. Ah, ah, I am not that old!! :))

DD was excited when she caught me near BTM bus stand. We had decided to go to our hostel together and give a surprise to people there. I landed at my hostel and An~ was shocked. “HOW AND WHEN DID YOU LAND UP HERE LADY?” she jumped. Mi~ was busy getting ready (as ever). “Edi, Anu kutty!” she shrieked in that heavy mallu tone so characteristic of her. I went to MY room, sat on MY bed and went non stop for almost four hours to An~ and DD. “I almost feel like we have gone back to our days together here. I am so glad you came,” said An~ thoughtfully. “I feel you have come back and you are never going to go back again”. I walked away thinking how true that was. For sometime, I almost lost myself in space and time. I never thought I was going back. DD and I went to Forum (the much hyped up Forum and the PVR cinemas in Koramangala), roamed around for sometime.

The girl sitting next to me was squirming. I wondered why she couldn’t sit peacefully. My mobile was totally shut off. It looked like a dead, good for nothing instrument then.

I messaged M from DD’s mobile, sitting at Forum. “I will come there by 7:30PM, is it ok?”.
“Dear, we are supposed to meet V at 6, do you remember?”, she messaged back.
“I know, What do I do?:(”
I rushed to Raaga on CMH road, landing half an hour late. “Sorry, sorry!” I began even before I got out. M and V had the patience to wait! We went ordering; V watched us with amusement, as M and I argued as to who ate better. “I am caught with two mad girls,” he said with that silly smile on his face. M protested. “Don’t say I eat as badly as she does!”. I wouldn’t open my mouth; I knew the truth. I am sure they would have pounced on me, if I had said I ate well.
“So madam, I don’t know when I would see you next, all the best!” That was V. I said bye, left with a heavy heart. I rushed to the already closing STD booth to call up A~, whom I had promised. Boy! He didn’t pick the phone!!

Back at M’s place, Sw~ and Rag~ arrived in their new Santro. M and I sat inside the car with them, chatting up till 12:30 into the night. “Do make it to the wedding girlie, “ Sw~ said, Rag~ was already dozing and just nodded, “Yeah, please do!”. Oh well, I only wish I could..”I will try my best!” I muttered, as I said goodbye.

The next station had arrived. I had mentally counted the number of stations. One more station and I had to get down. I gathered my bags together and kept them ready. The train slowly pulled out of the station.
Monday morning, I woke up at 10. M was busy inside the kitchen. We had great plans – movie, meet Ru~, shopping, Corner House Ice cream. Movie got dropped, thanks to me, I got up late. We met Ru~ at her office, had lunch at Pizza Hut. Ru~ spoke of how south Indian marriages were lot of fun. We left Pizza hut, went to her office, stood outside and kept talking. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing Ru~ atleast in the next two years. Bye dearie, good luck! M and I took a rick to Shoppers Stop, half way through felt we were tired, and diverted the rick to Airport road. We watched Baazigar (of all movies), Ra~ landed up in the evening, for about 15 minutes, told about his new play, novel and movie. I looked at this extremely creative friend of mine, in awe. I wished all came out well for him.

M put me into a rick at 9:45 in the night. Back at Cant. I waited for my train that was supposed to come at 11. I got into the train, loaded with memories. I carried back with me the pleasure of having relived a lost relationship with that place. The weight had surely increased!

The metro stopped at my station. I got down still dazed and walked back home. Amma and Appa were awake. “Enna kanna, tired aa irukka?” I just nodded and collapsed into the sofa. It was time to alter templates again..Replace black ricks at Banglore with yellow ones in Madras.. Replace black ricks at Banglore with yellow ones in Madras..R-e-p-l-a-c-e..
This post is a record of memories..

Clippings

I begin typing this post. Snap! There is a power cut! I decide to write nevertheless. I am too much in a mood for it today. I pull out one of my old notebooks from my messed up cupboard, frantically flip through the pages and see some empty sheets to my great relief..

Our balcony is Paradise. I cosily seat myself in a chair. The sweltering heat that baked me up a few days back has now given way to a subtle, gentle weather. The Tulsi plant next to me sways quietly and the tender breeze casually turns the pages of this book..
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How have the last few days been?

I haven’t been blogging to say the least. But, that apart, every day has been packed, that time just seemed to tick away, as I helplessly saw it happen. “No time”, “I am busy”, “Chalo, I shall get back to work now”, I seemed to keep saying them repeatedly and quite unconsciously. Vani would land up for a chat and I would just ask her to go away, “No, no time now.”

I would come back late in the night, curl up on the sofa, when amma would effortlessly lift my head, place it on her lap, and gently stroke my hair. I would hold on to her sari and blissfully doze off, wondering why mothers were so adorable and why their love was so comforting and incomparable. Love you amma..

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Why are people the way they are?

I spent close to a week touching different points in Madras, driving on the maddening roads, as the scorching sun stared down mockingly, “Hey you silly girl, on a puny vehicle!!”. I had to argue and convince my life out to men and women (my sources), to open their god damned mouths and reveal a bit of info. I witnessed the unsatisfied ego of certain people, who would assume an air of importance and shell it out all at two college girls! All this for a project!! By the end of it, I had an answer – people are the way they are and sometimes (or rather most of the times), one had no choice but to accept them that way!

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What is this world without friends?

My close pals land up. “Every time that I call you up, you are in college. What is this??!!”, one of them jumps on me. The other comes up with an idea to meet up at 7:30 PM on a Saturday night and tells me that at 6:50 PM, when I am still at college. A flurry of phone calls. “Guys, please understand, Am tired!!” “Ok, ok. Tomorrow 4:30 PM, fine?”, they say. Agreed. We catch up at Barista, and I listen to them go on and on, as I take sips of yummy hot chocolate. We laugh like nuts over crazy things..Boy, what is this world without friends? M and V, I am glad you guys are around..

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And then..

I welcome a new friend into my small world and with it joy and chuckles.

I wonder at the triviality of life, at the loss of a dear soul. I experience the gloom that surrounds it all.

And.. I see my usually silent walks in the nights, being accompanied by a distant voice now..

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Did you know, Vadumangai is back at Madras??

I was overjoyed to see amma empty “pathu padi” (a measure) of Vadumangai into a tub of water. I couldn’t resist my temptation and grabbed one of them for a quick bite. (yum!) With every passing day, I would eye that jar, which saw the Vadumangais transforming into tastier versions..

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So, what the hell am I doing now?

Today, I stand at the brink of yet another transition – ending a phase and moving on to the next. Yesterday and the day before, people at college walked into the lab, hugged me and said adieu. I was filling others’ address books and getting mine filled too. Ten months is not too long to miss a place (and also because, I am not the sorts who would miss something that easily) but it sure is long enough, to leave behind a vacuum, for all the hectic activity that made up the days.

My locker at college needs to be cleared up – a few film rolls, snaps clicked during photo journalism class, negatives, pens that no longer write, chocolate wrappers, chips packets etc etc. I need to hand over the locker key, get the “no dues” signed and I am almost (almost) saying good bye to this place that changed the course of my life in a short time..

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And after all that, I remembered something. My blog. I really need to dust it up. I can already see cobwebs settling all over. Tcch.. I am so careless..:)

The poetic spirit of Bharathi

(Backgrounder, in case I am losing someone on what I am talking about - Mahakavi Bharathiyar, popularly known as Bharathi, is one of the most talented poetic minds that Tamil Nadu has ever produced. Bharathiyar kavidaigal (poems of Bharathi) span a wide variety of topics and are especially famous for its spirit of freedom. Bharathi didn’t live long, but his poems continue to ring in our lives, in different forms.)

Tamil, as a language, is something I feel extremely passionate about. Well written Tamil pieces – essays or stories and poems, or for that matter, well written lyrics in movie songs, find a great fan in me. That way, Bharathi’s Tamil has been a source of inspiration, a wonderful means of relaxation for me and I possess this small book of Bharathiyar kavidaigal that I keep going back to, whenever I find the time.

Most of my exposure to his poems, have been through film songs. Nevertheless, I have heard many of his songs being sung by the all time great Carnatic singer, Late M.S. Subulakshmi. I haven’t read all of his works but certain lines amaze me because of their simple yet powerful construction.

Many of his poems carry a burning desire to see a free India, as in,
“Endru thaniyum indha sudhandhira dhaagam?
Endru madiyum engal adimayin mogam?”

Or cases where he would describe the pride of being an Indian, “Paarukulley nalla naadu, engal bharatha naadu”.Powerful words of his would inspire anybody to fight for what one truly deserved.

A set of Bharathi’s songs are entirely dedicated to Goddess Shakthi, on whom he bestows a beautiful form, completely through his poetic prowess. Shakthi for him is “Nitya Kalyani”, also the destroyer of evil, and one who could bless our lives with goodness – “Thunbamiladha nilaye Shakthi; thookam illa kan vizhipey Shakthi” and there are many, many more.

Bharathi was a visionary. He wanted a whole new, free world for women. “Pen Vidhuthalai vendum” he said years and years ago. “Manadhil Urudhi Vendum, Vakkiniley Inimai Vendum”, he wrote on the need for courage in one’s mind also emphasising that politeness should mark one’s speech. A brilliant piece and one of my personal favourites.

Bharati’s sense of romance is mind blowing. Kannama figures as the fictitious lover in many of his poems. The passion with which he describes Kannama and the love for her is exceptional in, “Suttum Vizhi chuddar thaan kannama, suriyar chandirano?”. If that sounded familiar, this is the song sung by Hariharan, in Kandukonden kandukonden. Again, one of my favourites. “Chinanjiru Kiliye Kannama..”, she is the little girl here. “..selva Kalanjiyame” talks about the sweet little darling that she is.

His poems also bear a testimony to the deep thinker that he was. “Nirpadhuvey, Nadapadhuvey, Parapadhuvey..Neengal ellam kanalin neero, pala thotra mayakangalo?” he questions the reality of what we see around us. Are they Maya, mere illusions? My third favourite piece, and it features as a song in the movie “Bharathi”, the song being sung by Harish Raghavendra.

And that just isn’t all about Bharathi. There is much more to him than what I know. As someone, who has begun reading and interpreting him more seriously, I recognize that his poems are a journey into realising certain truths of life. Bharathiyin thamizhil moozhguvadhai kaatilum perinbamum uundo? Reading and comprehending him is truly a matter of pleasure. He IS marvellous.

(if I sent people mad, with all those tamil quotes, am sorry, but if you could understand them, they are a real treat! I consciously refrained from translating them, because it would do utter damage to the beauty of his work.)

Marriage talk..

I have never seen myself hitting such high pressure peaks in my life. My temper soars high, words just fly out of my mouth, sometimes its hot anger that leaves me fuming in silence – well, I never knew it took so much to get married to someone, through an arranged, parents settled proposal. While the alliance seeking process goes on in full swing at my place, I am finding it increasingly hard to digest certain shortcomings of arranged marriages.

Before I say anything else, let me make it clear that I am not against arranged marriages. All the business of horoscope matching and knowing the family well and all that is definitely worthwhile and something that is unique to the Indian society. But what I look for is a change, to suit the present generation. Things are not the same as it were, some 30 years ago, when my parents got married.

Now, the scene at home. My mom has registered my name and horoscope with at least three places, hmm..let me recollect – Taamras, Sringeri mutt and Mahalingapuram chart (well, all that is what I found out hearsay)..and you would see her settling down with the classifieds of The Hindu on Sunday and dutifully ticking and sorting out the vadamas and ashtasahasraams and brihacharanaams..Man, and what happens to the other charts? They send you piles and piles of computer generated sheets that list endlessly, a record of prospective grooms.

The Taamras thing really sends me into fits of rage. The ‘wonderful’ software actually matches your profile to all the other such groom profiles based on gothram, nakshatram and all the nuances of zodiac. When my mom told me this for the first time, I was shocked. Shocked. And I just yelled, “you trust a computer, but not me??”

And how could I forget tamil matrimony in between all this? It lines up in my dad’s inbox so obediently , “Tamil Matrimony.com – matches on 12/02/2005” and so on and so forth. The mechanised messages read “Dear Member M123456, Congratulations!! (Well?) you have received a message from profile id MXXXXX” and probably ends with a good luck. And Imagine, for once I regretted having been in software, for I had to sincerely open my dad’s inbox everyday and show them the mail. Since, my parents didn’t understand the complicated working mechanism of the colourful site, they would make me do all the messaging part of it, while I sat and cursed my luck.

I would sit and wonder, how I would ever find the man of my lifetime there. Ah, no offence meant to the people who got married that way, but it’s all a question of choice or one’s individual way of looking at things. My biggest problem is that I need the time to know a guy before I married him. But as my mom reasoned it out two days ago (during yet another fight) that time constraints are high in an arranged marriage, I just wondered why a small accommodation like this couldn’t be made. After all, even mothers work these days and they would be more outgoing.

Girls today are more independent, much more educated than before, and hence wouldn’t just give into a relationship after a one time meeting with the person, whom you are expected to spend a lifetime with. At least, I wouldn’t. while I continue to ask for time, my parents insist that the family is good and the guy ought to be good. Fair enough, he might be a good guy but the question is, do I get along well with him? Do we really “click”?

Frustrated parents and relatives would immediately say, Ok, if you have someone in mind, let us know, we will get you married to him! And whenever, someone said that, I would question, “Then, would you drop the gothram and nakshatram business?”.Once my mom said, let me give you the list of nakshatrams, you shortlist based on that. Fantastic!! Might as well go for an arranged marriage.

My stand is probably confusing to many or may be everyone. But all that I am asking for is, a little bit of flexibility. Some bending of rules. Honestly speaking, I wouldn’t easily settle for someone, even if I tried looking for somebody, all by myself. That is the way we (I add my sis here too!) have been brought up. But if I did find someone, good enough, I would just wish my parents would accommodate, without all these lengthy rituals, trusting me! Even if it’s somebody whom they see for me, all I want would be some time to know the guy!

All said and done, last year, at the marina beach, I tried my hand at “killi josiyam” and the parrot, that spelt out my fate, took a card, which the guy described to me. “while you and your parents have different things in mind about your marriage, you would get married to a guy whom you like and who suits your parents wishes too,” he predicted. And what do I do now? I only continue to hope that what he said would be true! Then, I would thank him and his cutie parrot!