Bits and Pieces

Not Just Another Day

2011-04-24T13:30:00.002+05:30

They had to shield their eyes from the scorching sun as they walked out of the college building. They headed towards the bus stop. It had become their latest hangout place.
“I’m not hungry.” She said as she tried to prop herself up on to the railing of the bus stop. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit. But it gave shelter from the sun and it was breezier than the stuffy canteen they had just walked out of. There were trees all along that side-walk that swayed in the hot summer breeze.
“When did you eat last?” He took her hand and helped her on to the railing. She noticed beads of sweat outlining his face and realised she was sweating too. Her hair was frizzy and unkempt because of the humid weather.
“Do you want to go sit inside? It’s really hot here. You’re sweating like hell!”
“I’m fine. You tell me why you’re not eating anything!”
“Arey baba, I ate a lot in the morning. Plus, it’s really hot! I don’t feel like eating now.”
They looked at each other and grinned. The sun was burning down on the street. The recess bell hadn’t rung yet, so there weren’t many people outside the college. He kept his bag between them on the railing and held it there with one hand.
“Do you want to eat my dabba?” he asked.
She threw her head back and laughed, “So this is what this is all about! You don’t want to eat your dabba so you want me to finish it, so that you can take home an empty dabba.” She wagged a finger at him and smiled mischievously.
“No, re! I’m just saying I have my dabba, so we can just sit and eat here. We don’t need to go anywhere. And also, yeah, mom will yell at me if I don’t eat it all.”
“And why can’t you eat it all?” She asked rolling her eyes at him, giggling all the while. She couldn’t stop shaking with mirth. It’s really not that funny! She told herself, stop giggling!
“Because it’s too hot. Ok? There. I said it. Now you can stop laughing.” They gave each other a knowing look and started laughing again. They laughed together till they were both breathless.
“You’re so stupid!” She said, punching him on the arm.
“Hey, I made you laugh. Is that so bad?”
She smiled, “Yeah. It’s horrible. You crack the world’s silliest jokes and I don’t understand how I can laugh at them.”
He smiled at her, bearing all his teeth and blinked at her innocently. He thinks he’s so cute.
“But I make you laugh no? That’s enough.” He said.
“Randolph! What you got in dabba today? I’ve got super boring cabbage bhaji yaar.” A thin voice emerged from behind them, along with a strong scent of perfume. “Hey, Kriti, you didn’t attend Maths this morning?”
“I was sitting right behind you, Pooja” replied Kriti, with a hint of malice in her voice.
“Oh right! Yeah, I forgot.” Pooja turned to Randolph and said, “Anyway, so show na, your dabba!”
Randolph looked at Kriti and shrugged. He took out the dabba from his bag and opened it up.
“Bhindi! You didn’t tell me you’ve got bhindi. Now I want to eat.” Said Kriti. Without waiting for a response, she reached into the dabba and picked two rotis.
“I didn’t know you liked bhindi” said Randolph. He was a little taken aback and yet amused at the sudden hunger Kriti had developed. She polished off the two rotis and half of the bhindi before Pooja had the time to settle down and open her dabba.
When she noticed Kriti gulping down the food, she commented, “Whoa! That’s fast. When was the last meal you ate, Kriti? Last month?” Pooja and Randolph laughed together as Kriti chewed on a mouthful.
She struggled to swallow as she tried to smile and seem aloof. But alas! All that food, all too quickly caused her to get hiccups. She tried to hide it, but it was too strong. This only gave Pooja more reason laugh and Randolph joined in. Kriti glared at him.
“OK, sorry... sorry. That’s not funny” Said Randolph. He looked at her with his eyes wide and said, “Water?”
“Yes” she said, trying not to sound too upset.
He held out his bottle for her with one hand and his dabba for Pooja with the other. Kriti quickly drank some water and returned the bottle to him. She watched as Pooja ate out of his dabba. She was sure Pooja had a crush on him. She was just that type. She smiles too much, Kriti thought. And she pouted too much. I mean, we all know you wear lip gloss everyday to college. You don’t need to take such trouble to show it off.
“Last bite, you want?” Randolph asked Kriti as he offered the dabba to her. She directed her attention back to Randolph. He was holding out his dabba to her. She smiled and reached out. Just as her fingers reached the dabba, Randloph’s finger slipped, inadvertently closing the lid on Kriti’s finger. She pulled it back, instinctively. Randolph stood up in fright.
A small scratch appeared on her finger. He took her finger and examined it, holding it close to his face. “I’m so sorry. Does it hurt?” He pressed the finger, to check if it bled. When a tiny dash of red appeared, he panicked. He involuntarily drew in his breath. She was a little shocked at this reaction and pulled her finger away to examine it herself.
She shook her head and smiled as she looked at it, “It’s just a small cut.” She blew on her finger. “May be I’ll go hold it under water or something. It’s burning a little bit.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Oh don’t fuss over it so much, Kriti. It’s not such a big wound.” Pooja looked a little disgruntled.
“It’s burning a little bit, especially because it’s just below the cuticle.”
“Yeah, you should hold it under water in the basin.” Randolph picked up his bag and took Kriti by one arm and started walking towards the canteen. Kriti did not resist and went along with him.
After she had held her finger under the faucet for a while, she said “I think it’s ok now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll bleed to death.” She said, and laughed.
Randolph wasn’t amused. “Ok, if you say so. But listen,”
“What?”
“I’m really sorry.”
She looked into his eyes and smiled. He was so tense. He looked at her with big, concerned, light brown eyes. She felt a warm thrill run down her spine. The recess bell rang and suddenly there was commotion in the canteen. They stood there in silence. Kriti tried to suppress the thrill she felt, as she took a deep breath and said with a slight shrug,
“It’s ok.”

(1)

2011-04-22T17:23:00.004+05:30

He had a cold, the day he died.

The night before, he had felt a little itch on the roof of his mouth, and an irritation in the throat. It’s time I took a day off, he had told himself. He hadn’t had good sleep. He woke up thrice during the night feeling thirsty. And in the morning, he woke up with a heavy head and a runny nose.
“Cad you please bake be somb strog coffee?” he asked his wife “I have ad imported meetig today.”
He liked the way she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead before she got out of bed.

He noticed a light red stain on his left cuff and remembered how he had got it. He was having lunch with his colleagues when the new employee had decided to introduce herself to them. He had unwittingly tilted his plate as he got up to introduce himself. The red oil of the subzi had soaked into his left cuff. He tried not to think of the neckline of her kurta as she leaned across the table to shake his hand. He sniffed hard. He had tears in his eyes. He wished he could take the day off. But he picked up his bag and went in search of his wife.
“I’ve made strong black coffee for you. Also, have that pill before you go.” She was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper.
“Will you be late cobig homb today?” He asked
“I don’t know depends on my boss’ mood” she said and turned to him with a smile.
He picked up his coffee and ignored the pill.
“I wish I could take the day off.”
One of the things he loved about her was her smile. She was spare with her emotions usually. But her smile said everything.
“You’ll be fine. Just don’t work too hard. And come back home early and sleep.”

He wiped his nose thoroughly while he waited for the signal to turn green. He hated driving to work in the morning. Luckily, he didn’t have to do it every day. He carpooled with his three friends from work. They were waiting for him just across the signal. He looked at his watch. He was only 10 minutes late today. He grinned. He started up the car when the people in front of him started up their cars. He put it into gear when he saw some of the cars moving ahead. But as he stepped on the accelerator, he sneezed. It was a loud, energy consuming, nerve shattering sneeze. He lost control of the steering wheel for a split second. It was lucky that he was on the left hand corner of the road. He would only have hit the pavement, if at all. But he didn’t. He gained control again and drove past the signal and stopped at his friend’s gate.
“You’re in no condition to drive today. Chal, I’ll drive.” Good friends they were. He put up no resistance and quietly moved to the passenger’s seat.
As they pulled up at the office building, they noticed a large crowd gathered around the gate. He cleared his throat and sniffed. He wished he had had that pill. Someone came to the car and said, “There was a fire last night. Nothing very big, but the electricity to one side of the building is completely shut.” They parked the car and joined the crowd.
“You look terrible” said his boss, who walked up to him from the crowd. The parking area was empty except a couple of cars, including his own.
“I developed a cold last night.”
“Why don’t you take the day off? Anyway I don’t think the meeting will happen today. Our floor has no electricity.”
“Are you sure? I mbeed I’d really appreciate it.” He couldn’t believe his luck.
“Go home. Get well soon” said the boss. He was grinning and shaking his head as he ran back to the crowd.

May be he will make some nice hot soup for himself, when he reaches home. The traffic was very light on this side of the road. He was going against the rush hour traffic. He was thrilled at how scarcely he used the brake. It would take only half as much time as it took to go to work.

It was almost noon when he reached back. It was scorching hot when he got out of his car but he couldn’t stop sniffling. He walked into the building, barely noticing the watchman who was fast asleep, or the third floor aunty who waved at him, or the two men who seemed to be looking for someone. The lift wasn’t working again. He had to drag himself up the stairs. His head seemed to get heavier and he felt feverish. He pulled up his bag and held it to his chest and sniffed hard. His head was pounding. I think I will take that pill after all, he decided.

If he wasn’t so drowsy with cold he would have noticed the two men walking up the stairs behind him. He would have realised they were stopping on his floor. He would have turned to them and asked them who they were looking for. He would have noticed that one of them was holding something behind his back. As he opened the door to his house, the men pushed past him into the house and kicked the door shut. One held his arms behind his back as the other cupped his mouth and pulled out a knife. Before he had time to react, he felt his flesh being sliced through. A searing pain rose from his gut and into his chest. He felt the cold blade inside his stomach twisting and then being pulled out. He tried to wriggle his hands free. A second later, he was let go. He tried to make some sound but instead, he vomited blood. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore. His knees buckled and let his head fall to one side.

He thought of his wife and then he thought of his soft bed. His head started spinning, and he started losing consciousness. The floor was covered with blood and the two men had disappeared. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He dialled his wife’s number and then he let himself sink. He was dying. He coughed and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He sniffed and felt blood in his nose.

A Book Upon the Sand

2010-11-16T00:18:00.001+05:30

Those last rays that struggle to survive, that cool breeze at half past five,
Roasted corn and salted nuts, balloon monkeys, were all alive.

Broken toys and chattering children, frozen hearts and gossiping women
Swollen eyes and the setting summer; over all these passed a breeze silken.

There lay a book upon the sand, a little tattered, scribbled by hand;
It’s leaves fluttering hopeful and exhausted, but on a new page the moon did land.

The Big Uncle with the Big Moustache

2010-08-08T23:42:00.003+05:30

I was the first one to call him the Big Uncle. I was afraid of him as a child because of this one incident that had occurred when I was seven years old.

I had developed a boil on my right arm which hurt terribly. Everybody had said that the only thing to be done is to burst it. But nobody had the guts to actually do it. Even my mother refused to do it because it was too gruesome for her. Big Uncle stepped in to do the job. He saw me writhing with pain and knew something should be done about it. He came to me and said, “All it will take is one minute of pain, I promise. After that you will feel nothing. This thing will be gone.”

“What will you do?” I asked him, cautiously.

“Nothing, only burst it.” The thought left me shaking with fear. But Big Uncle said it so cheerfully that I was confused for a minute. I ran, not knowing what else to do.

The sun burnt down on me with a vengeance as I held on to my right elbow tightly. I was running away from the big uncle with the big moustache. My mother insisted that it is for my own good, but my seven year old self refused to believe that a man willing to twist my arm is trying to do me any good. I held on to my right elbow for dear life. The boil that had developed on it the day before, now was the size of a 25 Paise coin and was oozing menacingly. Wedding preparations were going on in Painkulam and there were enough people to hide a little girl like me. I quietly found a little corner in the veranda and sat there for a while.

“I told you, you cannot hide from me!” the voice made me tremble uncontrollably. I knew who it was before I recognized the big moustache among all the million faces swimming above me. His smile looked so endearing yet so frightening! “I’m telling you it will not take more than a minute. You will just feel a prick, that’s all. I promise.” I shook my head wildly. “Come on. I’ll give you lots of chocolate after that.”

I felt my eyes watering. I wanted to be brave and fight him. But I could see him losing patience by the minute. “Come quickly or I’ll have to take your hand forcibly” he said ominously. I shut my eyes and told myself, maybe he isn’t that bad. May be my mother is right, is it for my own good. The gigantic boil on my hand is not going to get any better. Might as well let him do whatever he wants with it. So, I gingerly stretched out my right arm. Instantly he grabbed it and twisted it in order to take a better look at the boil.

As if this wasn’t frightening enough, he took the boil between index finger and thumb and squeezed it hard. The pain was excruciating. I screamed so loud that the entire veranda went silent. It was over in a second. But the memory of the pain is still vivid in my mind.

My hand healed quickly after that and Big Uncle gave me goodies to eat afterwards; for being brave. I would take the jackfruit jams and the juicy mangoes and ignore whatever he said. I was still soar from the pain he had inflicted upon me.

Now when I look back on that day I realize, he was the bravest of all that day. Nobody else could muster up the courage to get rid of that awful boil and make me better. Not even my mother could stand touching the thing. I did not speak to Big Uncle for the rest of my stay at Painkulam that year. It took me a while to get over my fear of him. But I learnt quite quickly that, although he caused me some grief, it was for my own good. Over time, I have grown very fond of the Big Uncle with the Big Moustache and a Bigger Smile.

2010-05-05T22:23:00.004+05:30

Forgive me for this post. Out of boredom and ennui, it came... but enjoy

It’s a purple room. But the paint has faded and it looks more like a very light shade of baby pink under the white light. The elongated table in the far corner of the elongated room is animated. The giant computer screen occupies half the space making the other residents of the table press together in the other half. The stacked up cds in one corner is headed by the queen cd holder with a golden crown over her. There is a little stuffed lion hiding, behind a mug pretending to be a pen-stand. The mug is efficient, because it holds several pens without ink, unsharpened pencils some candle sticks and some nail-files.

The lion is now peeping over at the new comers, a stack of papers a colourful book, an empty pouch and a headphone. As if this table top was not crowded enough! The empty plastic bottle doesn’t seem to be pleased about being shoved to the edge. The large green file is also annoyed at being side-lined in this clumsy manner. A little wooden urn, another pouch and some other smaller things wish they had a say in the matter.

But we all know; it is a power struggle. The bigger, the more influential...
Or that’s what you may think, if you don’t notice the carefully placed little box at the centre of the table with a pair of silver earrings awaiting to be worn.

Who’s table is this?

That first time again

2009-12-03T20:31:00.001+05:30

This was it. I had to do this. It has been a while, and I might sound like a horse, but I need to do this. For my self. For my peace of mind. For me to know, that I can do this. I squatted on the floor, placed my hands on my lap, straightened my back, closed my eyes and took a slow deep breath. As I breathed in I took in the ring of the electronic shruti. The amalgam of three basic notes. I separated them, unconsciously and chose my note. And synced my voice with the shruti and sang my first note after a long time. I felt my vocal cords vibrate and my voice surrounded me. I felt myself swaying as if I was swimming in the tone of my note. I was almost out of breath but I held on until the end. Then I took another slow deep breath. The silence was deafening. I sang the next note until my breath gave way. Then the third, and the fourth and the fifth. I was singing again.

Strangers

2009-12-03T20:13:00.000+05:30

A single drop of sweat ran down her temple and into the shallow cave under her jaw. The orange street light and the white light inside the bus reflected against that single line of sweat, accentuating her slender, oval face. An angry finger wiped it off clumsily. Little fringes of her hair stuck to her forehead, undisturbed by the rhythmic bobbing of her head. I couldn’t help being thankful for the humidity that day.

I was on my way back from work. On an impulse I had stopped for pani puri at the roadside chaat stall outside my office. Sairam’s stall was as usual swarming with young professionals refreshing themselves from a hard Monday’s work. I had to squeeze and push my way through to reach the panipuri wala. But I was in no hurry to leave. The traffic on the road didn’t encourage me to add my bike to it. I was rolling up my sleeves when the BEST bus came to a halt in front of the stall. It was so close to the pavement that the tires almost brushed against the concrete bricks. The bus was packed with the rush hour crowd. With every lurch of the bus, the crowd inside moved in inertia like a tribal dance.

She was a peculiar sight. I don’t know what was peculiar about her but there was something about her that caught my attention. She was seated in the front of the bus at a window seat. She had earphones on and an elbow stuck out of the window. She had long wavy hair that was tied in a pony tail at the nape of her neck. Tiny fringes of curly hair sprung out on her forehead. She was fair. There was a slight unconscious smile lingering on her lips. I couldn’t tell what her eyes looked like because they were hidden behind fat rimmed glasses. She was singing along with the music playing in her ears. I could see her only between a thickening layer of heads. But I saw that her eyes were shut, her head bobbed and her fingers tapped together in rhythm –

tap – tap tap – tap
tap – tap tap – tap

I suddenly lost my appetite. I asked for a glass of water instead. When the man gave it to me, I made my way out of the crowd around the stall. She had opened her eyes, and looked at the traffic jam ahead as if she had just noticed it. Silly girl, I said in my mind and shook my head as I poured some water into my cupped hand and splashed it across my face. I needed to cool my face badly. As I opened my eyes and looked up at the bus, still stationary. I noticed she was looking at me. She was longingly looking at the steel tumbler in my hand. Her eyes slowly shifted to my face and suddenly my face felt very hot. She looked at me with piteous eyes as if to ask something of me. A strange energy rose up in my stomach, past my chest. But as it reached my throat it came out in a sudden laugh.

I panicked. I knew that was the wrong reaction. And it wasn’t even what I wanted to do. I waited for her reaction. She looked at me one long second and giggled under her breath, a little embarrassed. I relaxed. The bus lurched further and suddenly I realized the bus was going to move. For the wildest second I considered getting on the bus. But I didn’t. And walked to my bike. And left.

The Addiction

2009-11-27T00:29:00.000+05:30

A low beep was heard at the end of the room. The silence that followed was tantalizing. They looked at each other. They both knew what it meant. The elder leapt at the sound and ran across the room to grab the coveted seat. The other was left groping at her dress in order to prevent the inevitable. It was a matter of seconds, everything was a blur. All they could see was the cursed seat. Then there was that music, that evil music that can enchant, enthrall and captivate. It lasts for not more than 5 seconds, but it is a clear sign of the pleasures that await as the computer comes alive.

The elder had long seated herself, while the younger stood by the seat sulking.

“Why must you always sit at the computer when I turn it on to do my work?”

The elder gives a gleeful laugh, “Because I’m addicted. Don’t you know that?”

“Mom, come on! Haven’t you played Solitaire enough already!”

Sunday Morning

2009-11-07T12:43:00.000+05:30

“There's someone at the door.”

“I’ll get it. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Early on a Sunday morning, fresh sun was streaming in through the open windows in the living room. It brightened up the whole house. The air was cool. She wanted to turn down the fan. Winter was on its way. Not yet, she thought, and pulled up the blanket around her. But sleep had left her. She stared blankly at the curtained window, tracing the yellow lines of the embroidered flowers on the red cloth. She could hear him talking to someone at the door. She wondered who it could be. What time was it? The clock was on the wall above her head. She would have to get up. She groped around the bed for her cell phone. She couldn’t find it. So she gave up and buried herself under the blanket again.

“Its 3 AM. I thought they were going to stay over.”

“What a mess! Come help me clean up.”

“It can wait.”

She smiled at the memory of how his voice tickled her ear. She turned over and closed her eyes. She felt his fingers run down her spine, her skin tingled. She felt him blow a strand of hair away from her face. She took a deep breath in. Last night was the best. She heard the door close in the hall. He was coming. They had slept may be an hour ago. But she didn’t feel sleepy. She felt restless. She wanted to get up and do something. But her body wouldn’t move.

“Bloody milk man. 7 AM on a Sunday! Do these people have no scruples?”

She sat up on the bed, “I’m not sleepy. Do you want some coffee?”

“Arey! You haven’t slept at all last night. Come, get some sleep.”

She didn’t want to resist when his hands pulled her down on the bed. His hands automatically circled her waist and her legs automatically intertwined with his.

“You have to call mom.”

“Shut up” he whispered back.

“We should wake up before noon, I’m not sure when your parents said they were going to come.”

“Will you please shut up and go to sleep?”

The temple bells were ringing for the morning aarti. The sun was trying to peep through the curtains that were fluttering in the wind. She breathed in the comfort and closed her eyes.

“Shall we just order for lunch? I don’t want to cook.”

“hmm”

“I hope my parents won’t land before 4 or something. This place is a mess.”

“hmm”

“Last night, the guys were just...”

“hmm”

He looked over at her face, “You’re asleep aren’t you?”

“hmm”

Home is where the Heart is

2009-08-18T05:05:00.000+05:30

The wind was beginning to blow and the air was getting cooler. So, I picked up my sweater and took some money in order to buy coffee. On my way out I looked out the window to check if there was light enough outside to read. It was about 7 pm/ 19 hours and the sun was just beginning to kiss the trees good bye. I quickly made my way out of the dorm, bought a cup of coffee from the kiosk and headed for the little park next to my dorm that had been teasing my imagination for a while. It was a quiet little place, unkempt and ignored. Nobody seemed to go there. I saw a couple of rabbits hopping around nibbling. I tried to approach them but they ran away. So I left them alone.

I found a seat perfectly situated in the corner of the park but with decent sunlight still streaming in from the gaps in the trees. I took out my book and began to read. A little while later I felt a sudden movement under the bench, when I looked behind it was one of the rabbits that had just brushed past my legs. I was amazed. Within just a few minutes the rabbits had gotten used to my presence so much that they didn’t mind hopping past me. I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I sipped my coffee and went to my book.

I felt comfortable. The air was getting chillier by the minute and the light was quietly fading out, but I felt comfortable. As if, I was one of the bushes in the corner, or one of the rabbits. It smelt of damp earth. With the taste of strong German coffee swirling in my Indian mouth, the soft warmth it brought inside me against the chilly wind around me, it felt like home.

Dead Branches

2009-03-21T10:57:00.000+05:30

He was sitting on a pile of bricks in a corner, while the others were busy making arrangements for the night. Today, this was their home. A thin wall divided their world from the noisy railway station behind. The make-shift tent with two staffs and a large black plastic sheet was now put up. The woman dragged a small portable stove and some utensils under the tent and began to prepare dinner. A man joined her under the tent and began stitching a tear in his pant.

Trains kept passing by, ruffling the plastic sheet. It created a huge racket but nobody seemed to notice it. He sat on the pile of bricks because every time a local train passed, it made the wind rush over him. It made his long brown curls fly back. It thrilled him. There was a pile of dead branches that lay ahead. He noticed that if he could get on top of those branches he would almost be able to touch the trains that pass by. He jumped off his seat and walked towards the branches. The tar road under his bare feet was hot in the afternoon sun. Nobody saw him walk up to the branches. He made sure he did not catch their attention.

He gripped the nearest branch and shook it. Satisfied with its strength, he reached out for another branch a little further up. He looked towards the man and the woman. They were not looking. He gingerly placed a foot on a thick twig. It bent a little under the weight of his leg but he didn’t notice. He picked up the other leg and was about to place it on one of the branches, when suddenly the twig gave way and his leg got caught among the branches. In a state of panic he let both his hands go and fell backwards on the ground. He felt the twig cut open his skin and he saw the blood oozing out. Before the sense of pain could set in, he felt a cold chill run up his spine. He couldn’t open his eyes because of the sun blazing above him and the searing pain from his leg made it difficult to breathe. Both his legs were up in the air. One stuck between the branches and the other dangling over another branch.

It wasn’t until the woman came to examine the scene that he realized that he was screaming his lungs out. He had never felt such pain in all of his five years of life. He held his hands up hoping his mother would taking him into her arms and make the pain go away. Instead she pulled him up by one hand and disentangled his leg from the twigs with the other. Once he was on his feet, she slapped him hard across his face and yelled at him for making mischief. She then left him to tend to his wound and went back under the plastic sheet.

The child learnt an important lesson that day: Never cry for help if you get in to trouble.

The Truth

2009-02-04T23:39:00.000+05:30

The string tied to her index finger,
She draws it out of the spool at her will.
She loops it, folds it, stretches it, breaks it,
Then fastens it again to her finger.

I came and she placed me gently
On the wobbly string.
I wobbled. Adjusted. Made my niche,
And then, grew too big for the string.

Now I stand beside her,
Plucking the string she preserves,
Pulling the string from her,
Forcing my will upon it.

And yet the string is not mine
Nor hers, we both know.
But it lies there between us,
Forcing us to hurt each other.

Just Another Day

2009-01-22T00:25:00.000+05:30

Rickshaw-walas can be a rather entertaining bunch of people when you are in need of a mood-lift. They drive around their little bug-like vehicles and stop at the wave of a hand and like to think of themselves as the kings of the road. Andheri station is one of those places were they do tend to assume a certain kind of authority. Commuters don’t tell the rickshaw-walas where to go; they go where the rickshaw-wala takes them.

Now, after a killing shopping excursion in Colaba, when one is made to stand in a crowded train from Churchgate to Andheri, one is entitled to be grumpy and have a strong desire to rest the rear end wherever possible. So, when a rickshaw-wala standing right outside the station readily accepts to take you to your destination, you will only thank good heavens for the little mercies He grants.

So here I was walking out of Andheri station, tired as hell with sore feet and having to go to Prithvi Theatre for yet another errand. And there I see a rickshaw-wala waiting for me; who doesn’t hesitate to take me to my destination. I waste no time in bundling into the rickshaw. Rickshaw-wala also sits, turns to me and asks if I could wait for a little while so he can get another passenger. This has now become a common practice in Andheri station, by the way. Now, I know it is rather unlikely that someone who wanted to go to Juhu would be at Andheri station because it is closer to Vile Parle (why was I there? I took a fast train so that I need stand for a smaller time period).

So I tell the rickshaw-wala, “haan haan, theek hai theek hai as long as you let me sit in your rickshaw.” Now, we are waiting for another passenger and to pass the time he asks if I’m an actress because I want to go to Prithvi. I said, ‘No no. I’m only going there to meet someone.”

I don’t think he heard what I said, because he next tells me his brother is also into script writing. “TV ke liye likhta hai. Voh SAB TV hai na? Uske saare shows ke liye mera bhai hi likhta hai.”

I admit it. I’m a sucker for rickshaw stories these days and a brother of a television script writer, who drives rickshaw really caught my attention.

“You know? My sister-in-law – bhai ki biwi… she is a reporter. She comes on TV as that journalist hota hai na? All this News channels na? She comes in them.”

I asked him in Hindi, “Saare News channels ke liye kaam karti hai?”

He insists on speaking in his version of the English language, “Yes! (eyes pop out and lips take on a grave downward curve) She reporter for all.”

I nod, imitating the grave downward curve of the lips. At this point, a couple of younger colleagues of his looked in to the rickshaw and asked him what he was doing.

“Just waiting for somebody else who wants to go to Prithvi Theatre” he replies in Hindi. The two smile at him and look at me with caution in their eyes. They turn to themselves and say ‘Buddha fir shuru ho gaya.’ I smiled.

“I also sing”, he popped. This caught my interest again. “You hear name of Asan some-thing-or-other? Your genrashun don’t know. Ask your mother father” gives me a pitiable look and continues, “You hear movie, Paras Mani?” I shake my head. “Gana toh suna hoga, ‘Hasta hua noorani chehra…’?” Who hasn’t heard ‘Hasta hua noorani Chehra…’! I got very excited.

“My father write that song. He was big song writer in Bollywood.”

It didn’t matter whether he was saying the truth or not. In a city like ours, it is, after all, possible that the son of a song writer, brother of a script-writer and brother-in-law of a TV reporter, could be a rickshaw-wala. I humoured him on. He looked like a middle-aged man with an incredible imagination. He had few teeth, all of which had deep dark paan stains on them. His speech was a little slurred which I attributed to the lack of adequate number of teeth.

It had been a good 10 minutes waiting for another passenger, so I told him to start the rickshaw. He was kind enough to inform me that the ride will be costly and that I wouldn’t be able to bear it entirely. I insisted on going and said I don’t mind paying. He started the rickshaw and we crawled through the heavy rush-hour traffic.

Only after a little distance did I noticed that he had not pulled the meter down. And only after I asked him to pull it down did he care to mention that his meter was was not working and that however long it takes, I may pay him Rs. 50 for the ride. The ease and confidence with which he seemed to state this and all his eccentricities before, should have put me on alert. But I was still nursing my sore feet and Rs. 50 in the kind of traffic we were in seemed like a steal to me. So I agreed.

He was a very good driver. He knew how to weave his way between large vehicles and cleverly change lanes to get ahead. He even managed to avoid a verbal battle with a rather burly and short-tempered young man in another rickshaw. Half way to my destination I realized he had had two large bottles of water in the rickshaw filled to the brim at the beginning of the ride which where both half empty by now. And I also noticed the impossible angle he stretched to, to take swigs from the bottle. But it was not until he asked me for the third time where it was that I wanted to go, that I realized that there was something wrong. Then he began to take me in the wrong direction and told me I am wrong when I gave him the right direction. He did realize he was going the wrong way and corrected himself. He then looked back at me and laughed and only then did I realize that the man was drunk.

I calmed myself and then I calmly told him, with a dry throat, to please stop the rickshaw. He said, “But this is not Prithvi Theatre.” I said, “Don’t worry. Just drop me here and I will go on my own.”

He took offense, stopped the rickshaw, turned to me and said, “No no baby, I know the way. I will drop you.”

I said, “No no uncle, here is your Rs.30 for bringing me this far now I’m going to get off.”

“Paise ki baath nahi hai, beta. Mein chhod doonga. Paise nahi chahiye.”

I placed the Rs. 30 on the seat, got off the rickshaw and said, “Agli baar thoda kam piyoge toh achha hoga” and walked off. I crossed the road and started walking. But I noticed that son of song writer of ‘Hasta Hua Noorani Chehra’ was taking a U-turn to follow me. My hasta hua chehra lost all its noor and I ran to the nearest corner and hid myself. The rickshaw-wala drove past me, waited for a few minutes at the corner of the road and then rode away. Only then did I come out of my hiding place. There was a shorter way to my destination from where I was and so I walked the rest of the way.

Ever since this encounter, there has only been one thing eating in to my peace of mind. Who after all is the song writer for the song ‘Hasta hua noorani chehra…’? It is a great song.

2009-01-11T16:02:00.000+05:30

There was a slight chill in the air. A light breeze kept tugging at her dress. The concrete bench at the park felt colder and harder. It was a small park that not many knew of. There was an old couple sitting at another end of the park watching their three grandchildren play in the grass. A boy was walking his dog and a man who sold chana chor garam on the streets was sitting in a corner and counting his day’s earning. She sat at her bench looking at them, her mind somewhere else. Somewhere, in a restaurant, her mind saw him again. He was staring in to the eyes of someone else and he had the smile that used to be reserved for her. They were holding hands.

Her greatest fears had been realized: she felt nothing.

She walked away from the restaurant, feeling nothing. And now here she was, sitting in the park. Why did she feel nothing? The peaceful atmosphere teased her temples. They tortured her ears with happy sounds. She pinched herself, to make herself cry. But her eyes remained dry. She became angry with herself. The wind screamed in her ears. It felt stronger than a storm. She hated herself. She got up with a start and stomped her way towards the gates. She fixedly gazed in to the far distance and told herself that she was lying to herself and him. There was obviously no love between them. She marched along the road and suddenly stopped dead in her track.

“Where are you going? I was just coming to meet you at the park.”

She stuttered and walked a few steps back. She couldn’t think. The world had come to a full-stop. She looked at the woman with him; the same one from the restaurant. She did not know what to do.

“I came to the restaurant” was all she could manage to say.

“You did? What were you doing there?”

“Someone told me they saw you there and I thought I’d come there instead of waiting for you at the park”

“Yeah, we were at the restaurant. Didn’t you see us?”

She didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even seem to care that she had found them!

“Well, we were sitting in a corner. So it’s no wonder you didn’t. Anyway, this is my cousin, Shaila. Shaila, this is my girlfriend, Prachi”

Prachi could barely stretch her hands and shake Shaila’s. She wondered if Shaila noticed how sweaty her hands were or how her legs were shaking. She was sure she was blushing. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

“What happened? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing…” She turned to Shaila and said, “It’s good to meet you.”

Shaila did not miss the embarrassment on her face. She tossed her head to one side and replied, “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”

Prachi blushed again and buried her face in her hands. It is only then that she felt the little drops of tears hanging from her eye lids.

Im a fan of Suniti

2008-12-16T20:24:00.000+05:30

From The Blue Donkey Fables
By Suniti Namjoshi

A Love Story

One day, as you walked outdoors, you found a stone. At first you thought that it might be a toad; but it was not warm, it was not slimy, and it did not quiver as you held it in your hand. You left it in your pocket. it occupied space. It had mass. But it was not abrasive or obtrusive stone. You were not troubled; and the stone, in turn, was probably content. When you came home that night and undressed for bed, you took the stone out and set it on the dresser. It is possible, of course, that the stone watched you all night long. But then it must be remembered that the stone had no eyes. It is much more likely that it merely sat. It was contiguous in space. It was, if you like, a contemporary of yours. The following morning you lost the stone. You may have noticed its absence in your pocket. the stone may have sensed the increased distance from a source of warmth. But that was all. It is not conceivable that naything else could possibly have been felt. I conjecture, ofcourse. The tale is, after all, a fanciful invention, a playful variation, on a species of love.

For those who did not understand the relevence,
Replace the stone with a person and read the story again.

Very few stories ring so true

2008-12-07T23:35:00.000+05:30

From The Blue Donkey Fables
By Suniti Namjoshi

Crow and the Starling

Once upon a time there was an idiot crow. She was sensible enough most of the time, but utterly foolish when she fell in love or fancied anybody. Now, it so happened that she met a starling. The starling was charming, the crow was charmed, but she decided that for once she was going to be sensible. She was calm, dispassionate and moderately friendly. At last one day they met again. Crow had pined and repined dreadfully, but in accordance with her decision to do nothing foolish, she had done nothing. Once again Starling and Crow were very sensible and reasonably friendly. Soon they began to meet often. They continued calm, quiet and friendly. It became a habit. They got used to it. So that it was only occasionally that Crow tore her feathers and cursed her wisdom and her folly.

The Great Depression Part II?

2008-10-20T12:22:00.000+05:30

Prithvi Nagar was a quaint little village. It was a self-sufficient village and hence isolated. They grew everything they wanted and sold the surplus to their neighbours. They had carpenters, blacksmiths, tailors, goldsmiths and everybody had cattle. They even had a school for the children. Uttam Singh Allahabadi was a wealthy moneylender in this village. He was a very jovial man and enjoyed company all the time. There never was a time when Uttam Singh’s huge mansion did not have several guests.

There were other money lenders in the town but Uttam Singh was the most popular. He kept good relations with every one in the village. He was especially good with his debtors. He often advised them on personal matters. Sometimes these debtors were bothered by his interference but being the money lender, they could neither offend him nor ignore his advice. The other money lenders always had a grudge against him, as he took away their debtors but his popularity required them to give him due respect and would only gossip about him behind his back.

Many of the townspeople thought Uttam Singh was loud, arrogant and extravagant, but most admired his strength, wisdom and his general way of life. So much so that many people began to imitate his way of life. Luxurious goods that they could not afford such as silk curtains, ornaments of gold and regular visits to the cinema hall became a necessity. This only increased the number of debtors in Uttam Singh’s directory. One thing he noticed was that the people who borrowed the money were farmers, blacksmiths, and other people with low income and never the landowners or panchayat leaders. He wondered how his debtors were planning to repay him but pushed away the thought; ‘That’s their problem. Why should I worry about it?’ Other moneylenders were more careful about lending money to such people who they called ‘sub-prime loans’. They even warned Uttam Singh but he would hear none of it.

Soon there came a time when Uttam Singh’s debtors could no longer afford to repay him. They sold any thing in the house that they could sell and still they were short of money. Much as he threatened and blackmailed them, they did not have any more money to give. Uttam Singh soon began to lose all his money. He stopped lending. A few years passed in this way. In the beginning the other money lenders of the village gloated at Uttam Singh’s plight. Little did they know that this was soon to affect their lives as well! The farmers were unable to buy fertilizers and gave up using water pumps to save electricity. This led to a shortage of surplus grains to sell; eventually leading to a shortage of food in the village. The landowners no longer profited from their lands. Schools shut down because children stopped going to school so that they could help their parents on the field. Thus, the school teachers were jobless. The carpenters, blacksmiths and others no longer had anything to do. Many lost their jobs and everybody was unhappy.

Uttam Singh went into depression. He could not handle the guilt of having ruined the lives of so many people. Many tried to console him and told him that it would be alright. But he could only hear his own conscience, reminding him of a story his father told him.

“Have you forgotten how your grandfather lost all his money by interfering in other people’s matters? They had called his depression the Great Depression of teh '30s. Have you not learnt from your ancestors’ mistakes, you fool?”

I Object

2008-08-11T23:50:00.000+05:30

“80% is not bad at all. What are you going to do?”
“I want to take up Arts.”
“Arts? Why? You could easily get into a nearby college for science.”

“First year B.A., is it? Good, good. You must study hard. What are your subjects?”
“English Literature, Psychology and Sociology.”
“Oh that is excellent. Psychology has a lot of scope abroad these days. They need it too. Everybody is mad these days. Hahaha”

“You took up Literature? But you were interested in Psychology.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Oh, but Psychology had so much scope. What will you do after your graduation?”
“I want to teach.”
“You are going to be a teacher, huh? That’s nice.”

“M.A. Literature is it? That’s heavy. What are you going to do after this; become a teacher?Hahahaha”
“Yes.”
“You want to be a teacher? But you are intelligent? You could easily clear an IAS or something.”

“M.A. in literature must be very difficult, no? I don’t know why you girls like to study so much these days. Well, I guess it’s better than becoming a doctor or an engineer; or the new trend is to get into ‘PR’ or a reporter like that Barkha Dutt, or make advertisements. All such shameless jobs I tell you. You will become a teacher, I suppose. It’s the proper job for girls. No late night working; very light job. Career ka career and you get enough time for your family also, once you are married.”

When Jane Austen began writing novels, she did not consider it a job that will allow her to have a family life.

Aristotle was not just a teacher.

A successful teacher is one who is able to bring about a change in the students perception.

So, I am not just another girl with average intelligence, who did B.A., M.A. Literature and is going to become a teacher.

One Rainy Day

2008-07-31T00:38:00.000+05:30

Some days are tailor-made for your comfort; others, not so much.

“Menaka, its 8:30 already, why are you still in the bathroom?”

The sheer power of her voice made me wonder why she never learnt to sing. My family breeds singers, but none of us have the rich thickness of voice that made the shivers run down my spine. Or may be the shivers were because the heater had given up and I had to bathe in cold water.

The thick sheet of rain outside my window and a sky which looked like blackcurrant and vanilla ice cream confirmed that today will be a repetition of the 26/ 7 deluge. But that wouldn’t stop my mother from going to work or making me go to college. We left late that day because mom couldn’t find her umbrella. And to make things worse the pitiless rickshaw-walas completely ignored our prayers with joint hands to drop us to the railway station. I can’t blame them. S. V. road, Andheri at 9 O’clock is a sea of vehicles inching their way to poverty at a maximum of 20kmph, if you’re lucky. Petrol prices aren’t reducing, you know. One very generous rickshaw-wala agreed to drop us half way, we graciously accepted and thanked him for his kindness. We then trundled our way through puddles, hawkers and other slaves of time with umbrellas in one hand and attaches/ pulled up sarees/ handbags/ other people holding on for dear life, in the other hand.

My mother clinging on to my hand had trouble keeping her sandals on. “I bought them because the vendor said it would work well in the rains. The cheat!” Things like ‘scum of the first order’ and ‘spineless thieving pig’ followed. And in answer to her abuses, her sandal broke. Consequently, the volume in which she said ‘devilish prick’ and ‘may you rot in hell’ were much higher and must have offended fellow commuters around.

It was the scene at the railway station that took my breath away. Every platform was packed with colours. Men and women of every shape and size, wearing every imaginable colour were all sparkling wet. It was only then that I understood the true meaning of the cliché - India is a nation of colours. We are diverse in every aspect. But what unites us all is the single goal of squeezing our way through various obstacles and making our way in to the train. Some are successful; others wait for the next train. But the struggle never ends. Even inside the train, you have to strive to reach the seats, just so you do not get thrown out at the next station. You will not get to sit inside the train. Those seats are reserved for those who have truly attained salvation. And ultimately, when you do reach your destination, you need to have the grit to continue struggling through the day. This is the philosophy of life. Or the philosophy of life in Mumbai.

Memory

2008-06-28T13:02:00.000+05:30

January 28, 2007

The blue gates, the front drive-way, the marble step leading onto the porch, were all too familiar. I rang the bell out of curiosity. A beautiful young woman with curly hair flowing down to her waist opened the door. “Good evening.” I said. The woman’s reaction was rather uncanny. Her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped.

“Where have you been? We were worried sick about you. Vikas has gone out searching for you, right now” Thus saying she pulled me into the house. I didn’t resist. The house looked nice and cozy. I’ve been to this place before.

“Your sandals look like they have been through muck. Did you go to the fields again, papa?”

“No. I was on my way back home from the court, actually.” I replied to her question. “It has been quite a tiring day. You couldn’t make a cup of tea, could you?”

The woman sighed, closed the door behind me and went into the kitchen. I heard clattering vessels, running water and the gas stove turned on. But the cup of tea never came.

A man opened the front door and entered the house looking very worried. But as soon as he saw me, he relaxed. He took a few steps towards me, as if to ask a question, but instead he sighed, shook his head and settled himself on the sofa next to me, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

“How was court today?” he asked.

“Criminal law is very tiring, young man. This Kurian case is a tricky one too. And these bloody journalists! They are capable of sucking the blood out of you, I tell you. They will do anything for a juicy story.”

March 4, 2007

She keeps feeding me. She only wants to feed me all the time. Sometimes it’s good food. I like sambar and rice with mango pickle. I don’t like fancy food, unhealthy food. My mother made the best sambar. I still remember the taste.

“Can I have some tea? I’m really thirsty… It was the closing today. That man must learn how to curb his anger in court… So that settles it. That is how we come to the conclusion that… is that tea I can smell?”

Next case begins day after. The court has finally announced the dates. Mr. Kurian will finally be happy. The papers are all ready. But I’m feeling a little uncomfortable. I’m an old man now. My memory is failing me. I’m not sure I will be as sharp as I used to be. This case is big. I must not lose it.

May 25, 2008

Little Tarini is quite a handful. She never wants me to get out of the house. I myself am quite attached to her. She loves coming to my office and playing around with my associates. After all it’s just the other room that she needs to crawl into. It’s quite a relief for Lalita. She feels the burden of becoming a mother at 35, sometimes.

“Papa, it’s time for your medicine. Come, get up.” This lady is quite a nuisance. “You can continue writing after you have had your medicine. Now come on, papa. Besides you should not be lying on your stomach and writing.”

“Amma, please don’t bother me. I’m studying now. I will have my medicine later. Just keep it on my study table.”

“Tarini, what is all that noise?” It’s that man again. He keeps calling me papa. But I have no son. Only one daughter, isn’t it? I do have a daughter, don’t I? I wonder where she is.

“You go tend to Appu. He says he has finished studying. Come, papa. I brought you some tea.”

“I may not be as old as you, sir. But I’m old enough to know that what you have in your hand is not tea but the medicine the other lady wants me to have.”

He is laughing. But the laughter sounds sad.

“So, now you’re not as old as me, is it? There was a time when you were against my marrying your daughter because I was too young.”

“My daughter is barely one year old. You can’t get married to my daughter.”

August 30, 2008

“Papa, what are you doing? You will catch a cold. Please, come in. All that dirty water will have insects that will bite you. No, no, don’t do that you will fall.”

“Rain is so beautiful, isn’t it? I like getting drenched in the rain. Ho! Hahaha!”

I don’t like this woman. I was having so much fun in the rain. Amma never stopped me from playing.

“Amma! This woman won’t let me play in the rain.”

Amma is too busy. She won’t hear me in all the bustling inside. The preparation for Onam has begun. My distant relatives have all poured in to my house. Now there is no chance I am going to be able to study. The last room on the left of the floor above used to be my only respite, during the festival, for any privacy. But now that is filled with big wooden boxes. And my foolish cousins will not let go of me.

August 30, 2009

I have a beevy hed. Think me sick. Want slip. Newspaper say I be wrong.

“Papa, come have lunch.”

“I object. That was completely uncalled for. What do we gulp?”

“Papa, what are you saying? I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

“That’s that... I shall bring the flowers for you to examine.”

“Papa, do you remember Vikas’s parents? They are here to see you. Yes, come shake their hand. Now come, lets all have lunch.”

“It has bing good doing bigness with you, sir. Very happy. This table is gigantic. All can sit on it and eat. All very happy and gay. Very nice.”

“That’s the best papa can do to express his happiness at seeing you. The doctor says this is the beginning of moderate dementia. It’s the second stage of Alzheimer’s. Speech and writing skills are slowly being forgotten. It’s only a matter of time that he will lose all ability to communicate. He can still speak. But what he says can be barely understood. They say he was the most articulate among other lawyers at the high court. He earned such reputation for his precision and aggression in court. Now, all you see of it are these writings. He writes all day long. He will never go anywhere without his little diary and that pen. We have never had the heart to see what he writes. But slowly he is even losing his ability to grip the pen in his hand. He is losing everything day by day.”

Women cry lots of tim. Quietness is silent when peeple talk not. Case closed in due tim. Woman stop crying.

'Thats Hardly Surprising.'

2008-06-19T23:41:00.000+05:30

Tanur Station is one of the smaller stations in the state. It wakes up a little before 6 am and sleeps by 11 pm. Shops open, commuters begin to mill in, coolies have their day’s first cup of tea, hawkers set up; all around the same time. Office-goers and business men and mothers going to meet their ever-busy sons in the city and old women in brand new sarees with their purses tucked in their armpits on their way to a far-off temple. It is not because they are afraid of the rush-hour crowd that they start so early. They are the rush-hour crowd. They simply have the habit of getting an early start. There is all the time in the world for them to reach their destination and even if the next train to their destination is half an hour after the one on the platform leaves, there is no hurry at all. Life goes on in slow-motion here. Time seems to go on forever. Here, people do not sit idle to while away their time. It is as if time sits idle instead to give people a unique sense of freedom.

Shekharan is a misfit here. He is hefty and of average height. He is dark and his lips are black. He is partially bald and has a well-trimmed mustache. The scanty salt-pepper hair on his head and his thin line of salt-pepper mustache are the only indications of his middle age. He begins his day at the railway station; like every other rickshawwala in the town. He was the most enthusiastic of the lot when we approached, to take us to our destination. So we got in and off we went, leaving the wind behind. The panoramic view of gods own country swooshed past us like a blur. The wind beat against our ears so that we couldn’t hear anything else. Suddenly, without a warning, Shekharan pulled the rickshaw to a stop, right in the middle of a newly tarred road. It was only then that I heard a strange polyphonic version of Beethoven’s Fur Elise somewhere in the vicinity. Shekharan apologized profusely as he reached into his pocket and took out the source of the unearthly music. As he answered the call, he took out a small notepad from his pocket. Shekharan jotted down a date and time while he mumbled something about not being able to make it for the wedding because he was busy with election work. He hurriedly cut the call and started the engine again. He apologized again and zoomed on.

“You see, I’ve been waiting for this call since last night.” He said in Malayalam. “I need to look into the registration of this marriage. It’s a long story.” He turned to see if he had any audience. My father look intrigued, so he went on.

“I also teach at the local school. I’m a physical trainer. Children around here have enough exercise walking miles from their homes to school as it is. But they have no stamina. No food, no proper supply of water, you see. This little village is quite lucky though. It comes under the municipality of the city near-by. You people look like you yourself have come from a big city. What business brings you here?”

“We have family here” replied my father.

“I see. Who is it may I know? I might know them. I’ve been to almost every house in the area because of the election campaign.”

“They live in the large house next to the river.”

“Oh. Then I might not know them. I still haven’t covered that part. You see, I’m the Municipal Advisor. Any problem people have around here, they come to me to get it solved. Usually, they do not rely on the municipality, but sometimes when there are legal matters involved, then I have to look into it. That is how I know almost everybody around here.

“I’m also part of a local political organization. I garner the votes for my party in this area. That is why with the elections coming, I’ve been having a very hectic month. I start out with my rickshaw at 6 in the morning. School starts at about 8 am, but I go there only by 11 am. I get free from there by 3 pm. That is when I go to the party office. If there is much work then there is no chance of earning anymore money driving the rickshaw for that day. But, with only a wife and a child to look after, I get by quite comfortably.”

We had reached a little grocer’s shop, where we halted so my father could buy some snacks to give to our relatives. An old man in checkered lungi and a long white beard passed us by. Shekharan called out to him and the old man looked back.

“How are the preparations for the wedding, Mommad kaka?”

“Everything is going fine, Inshallah. How is little, Aadirakutti? And, son, I still haven’t received word from them about the water supply to my land. I’m giving that place as Chandni’s dowry. You know how important it is to me.”

“Don’t worry, Mommad kaka, I’ll make sure you receive it in time. I shall leave now, I have passengers. But don’t worry, it will be done.” He touched the old man’s feet, returned to his seat and sped on, once again.

After my father had paid him off, he handed my father his visiting-card, in case we ever needed his services again. The card read:

Shekharan Thampi

B.A., L.L.B

Municipal Advisor, Physical trainer, Rickshaw driver, Member of Communist Party of Kerala – Thrissur chapter.

Broken

2008-04-27T22:50:00.001+05:30

The noise was tremendous. In a split second everything was shattered. It was done. She looked at the destruction she had caused and felt her stomach turn. She ran backwards until her back touched the wall. She spread her palm on the wall and slowly slid away from the wreck. They had warned her. They threatened her. But she didn’t listen. She had her chance of playing safe but she didn’t. Repercussions were inevitable. Now she stood in the corner of the room with her hands to her side, unable to move anymore. She pulled her eyes down to her feet and let the stray strands of hair partially hide her vision. She didn’t realize her mouth was slightly open. The noise brought the maid into the room. Looking at the mess the maid shot a flaming glare towards the little pink bundle now sitting in the corner quietly sobbing. Two teary eyes and a tiny voice came out of the bundle, “I broke mama’s pretty plates.”

The Bench

2008-04-25T01:13:00.000+05:30

At the very top of the hill sat a little bench for lovers, alone among trees with thick branches and dense leaves. The wooden bench was a little rickety and sat hidden from sight. Its ancient brown paint was almost hidden with the yellow dead leaves from the trees. But at its feet were little bushes that bore little flowers sometimes. The purple flowers were vibrant and always livened up the place. They would wither off only to be replaced by another set of wild delights.

The breeze is light today but the leaves are excited. They gossip about the much anticipated arrival. The breeze carries the gossip on to the little stream that was playing with its pebbles. The stream delivers it at the banks of the river. The scorching sun hides behind stray wisps of cloud and peeps once in a while. But all that can be heard are footsteps.

In my mind

2008-03-24T18:21:00.000+05:30

Lacking my love, I go from place to place,
Like a young fawn that late hath lost the hind;
And seek eachwhere, where last I saw her face,
Whose image yet I carry fresh in mind.

I seek the fields with her late footing signed;
I seek her bower with her late presence decked;
Yet nor in field nor bower I her can find,
Yet field and bower are full of her aspect.

But when mine eyes I thereunto direct,
They idly back return to me again;
And when I hope to see their true object;
I find myself but fed with fancies vain.

Cease then, mine eyes, to seek herself to see;
And let my thoughts behold herself in me.

- Edmund Spencer

They tied her on to the makeshift stretcher of bamboos, so that she didn’t fall off while they carry her to the crematorium. But what they tied up on to the stretcher wasn’t a person. She had long gone, leaving just the body. Gone to look at us from above and silently hope we would get on with our lives instead of wasting time moaning for her.

I could see her now, sitting on her easy-chair, with her legs stretched in front of her, looking at me and waiting impatiently. I looked at her, then looked at the body, and then again at her. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. But I was afraid of my grandmother seeing it. She would become uneasy, shift around in her chair and say, ‘What nonsense is this? No need for those unnecessary tears. There are so many people in your house, go and make some tea or something for them. Be a good host.’ But I couldn’t move; I just stared at her. By this time, they had lifted the body on to their shoulders and begun walking out. There was no reason for me to stand there any longer so I ran back in to the house. I locked myself and cried my heart out.

Where is she? Is she already taking another shape to enter in to this world again? Or is she waiting for us to live out our lives, so that she can look over us?

‘You let me go.’ She said.

‘What do you mean?’ I replied.

‘I was waiting for you, to come and smile at me once before I went. You hadn’t come to see me in a while and I was beginning to miss you.’ She paused. ‘I hated not being able to speak. I wanted to say so many things. It took me almost a year and a half to accept that I will no longer be able to tell all of you, what to do and how, anymore.' She grinned and then went on, 'I had decided its time I leave and take the burden off you all. I had become quite a liability by the end.’

‘No!’ I yelled, ‘Nobody ever said you were a liability. We never complained. How could you think we didn’t want you any longer?’

‘There will never be a time that you wouldn’t want me. Even when you had to care for me like an infant, you never complained. But I had to take the decision because I realized just how much you did for me, and I was thankful for it.’

‘But I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to live without seeing you everyday.’

‘Then why did you sing?’

I could not answer that. Tears ran down my cheek, unnoticed, as I stared at the floor. My heart felt like a heavy lump that was stuck in the middle of a tornado. I felt the walls pressing against my ears. Before I could comprehend what was happening to me, I fell on to my bed, scarcely breathing. The voice wasn’t mine when it spoke, ‘I sang because I wanted your pain to go away. So that you stopped struggling for air and feel calm.’ I sat up and felt my senses coming back. ‘You used to say that singing made your headache go away. So I thought if I sang, your suffering would go away.’ This made sense. ‘So that you would stop struggling,’ I realized what had happened, ‘so that you go in peace.’

I tried to recollect what I had sung to her. But I couldn’t remember. I remembered my uncle trying to find her vein so that he can give her saline. I remembered wiping her forehead as she heaved again and again trying to breathe in some air. I remembered holding her hand, kissing her forehead, trying to look brave and strong. I remembered the tension and fear I saw in the others’ eyes. It was then that I realized there was nothing anybody could do to make her any more comfortable. I noticed my uncle giving up hope with the saline. Then I looked at her and a tune burst out of my mouth. I do not know where it came from or how I could sing at such a time. There was nothing I could do to stop it, so I continued humming the tune. It wasn’t a song or anything I knew but I saw the change on her face almost immediately. I saw her relaxing a little. She stopped trying as hard as she was before. I felt a strange kind of relief. I saw my uncle shaking his head, I knew what that meant. But it did not bother me so much. I looked at her again. She was still trying to breathe but it was as if she had lost interest. I did not stop singing; not until I thought she had stopped trying. I thought it was over then. But I saw her move again. And I felt a little balloon blow up inside me when I saw her breathe her last. The balloon seemed to float inside me, it made me relax but I felt uneasy. Someone in the room said into their phone, ‘It’s over.’ The words echoed in my mind and the balloon burst so suddenly, that for a moment I was disoriented. When I did get a grip on myself, I saw all around me a lot of disoriented minds, pretending to be calm and composed. I joined in.

‘You let me go.’ The voice shook me out of my reverie. ‘I didn’t want you to suffer.’ I replied.

‘Well, you succeeded in pulling me out of my miseries.’ She said. 'Don’t ever stop singing.’

Just as she said that, something cold hit my face. ‘Will I ever see you again?’ I asked, but there was no reply. I didn’t need a reply. The tears kept coming but the grief had passed. The tornado inside me that held my heart captive was calming down. It was only then that I heard the knocking on the door. When I opened the door, my mother stood outside, looking at me with concern dripping down her eyes. ‘Are you ok?’ she asked. ‘Almost.’ I said and hugged her tight.

‘I will be soon.’

A month later, I sat at my desk staring at the stack of books, diaries and papers in front of me. I picked a diary up and flipped through its pages. Everything was written in Malayalam and I could barely understand it. But I knew what was written. I knew what every page contained. I knew the story that each page could tell. I stopped at one page, in which I found my hand-writing. It was a Malayalam song that I had written in Hindi.

“I met this man at the Narayaneeyam yesterday; very chatty and rather irritating. But he had so many songs and poems and he sang pretty well.” She just couldn’t stop, could she?

“What song did he give you?”

She laughed as she stretched herself on the easy-chair. “It’s a beautiful song. I want you to sing it at the temple for the Onam celebrations.” She noticed I was going to protest. “Don’t worry it is very easy. It won’t even take you a day to learn it. I wont ask you to come practice or anything either. Just learn the tune and practice it at home. That’s all. It’s a really nice song and I really want it sung in the temple.”

I looked at her and her eyes confirmed that she does not mean to take a ‘no’ for an answer. There was no way I could conquer her determination. “What song is it?”

And she began singing the song and describing every word and making sure I understood it perfectly well. I spent two hours learning the song and singing it along with her. By the time she was done with me, I was exhausted and she was satisfied.

Suddenly, something struck her. “Have you eaten anything?” She asked. “You just came from your tuitions. You must not have had anything.” Before I could say anything, she was already on her way to the kitchen. “Let me make some dosas. I made a different kind of chutney in the morning. Taste it and tell me how it is. Do you want tea? I haven’t had any tea since morning. I’ll make some for you as well.”

Outcast

2007-11-11T23:20:00.000+05:30

When you graduate from high school to junior college, life gives you a chance to make right all the wrongs you have done. You have now learnt from your mistakes and you are ready to face a whole new world. You can choose the people you want to stay in touch with and stay clear of all the people you don’t want to stay in touch with. Sometimes a whole new life with a whole lot of new people and a completely different atmosphere is just what you need.

When I came to Mithibai I had all the hopes of making lifelong friends. I dreamt of all the wonderful times I would have that my older cousins kept boasting of. I imagined myself in the famous canteen surrounded by people I would call my friends discussing unimportant things and laughing at just about anything and having a good time. It is strange how everything you dream of never happens. What you dream of is almost always the opposite of what actually happens. I have had this experience several times and yet its one of those mistakes that one shall never learn from. Well, my point, in short is that my first few days of college life were not exactly what I thought they would be.

The first day I entered my classroom (that was going to be the place I would see the least in college), there were only two girls in the room. They were in deep conversation and didn’t seem like they would appreciate company. So I sat down on a bench away from them. They threw me a glance but before they could see I was smiling, they had returned to their conversation. It seemed one of the girls had recently been through something traumatic and the other girl was trying to console her. I believe that judging people by their attire is highly prejudicial and I generally try to be least prejudicial at all times. By the ensemble of these two girls I could tell that they suffered from the Freedom From School-Uniform Syndrome and had planned on attracting as much attention to their brightly clad torso and scantily clad legs as possible. I waited for some more people to enter.

It seemed there had been some sort of procedure whereby people had chosen the person or persons they wanted to enter the class with; an arrangement they had forgotten to inform me of. I say this because within 10 minutes of my arrival into the classroom, it was full and all had entered in twos and threes deep in conversation with each other as if they had known each other all their lives. I looked around at the people surrounding me to find the group that would be least hostile by my intrusion and people who I would like to hang out with. But before I got too far a teacher entered and I decided to postpone my mission. In class I answered a couple of questions; this endeared the first-benchers towards me. During the break one of them came up to me and asked me my name and if I would like to join them in the canteen. To be frank, they did not seem like the kind of people who liked to have a lot of fun but I was getting desperate for company and so I went with them. What I did not realise at that time was that this little mistake of mine would cost me my popularity in class. When we went back to class after break, I excused myself and looked for place elsewhere but it seemed every seat was taken for people who hadn’t come as yet. So I found myself sitting next to the nerds. The next day, I promised myself I will find a place farthest away from them.And thus I sat at the last bench the next day.
Having taken up Arts, is sometimes like taking admission into a girls college. There are rarely any boys and the few that are present are treated with great care. But if the boy is even slightly good looking, he would be treated with utmost reverence. I honestly had not planned on sitting on the same bench as Rohit Gala. It was pure coincidence that the seat next to mine was the only one empty and that Rohit Gala came late that day (like all other days after that, when he did attend lectures). I will not waste time describing him because I would go on for pages describing his perfect face and unbelievably attractive physique. As you might have already guessed, Rohit Gala was the Greek god as far as FYJC girls were concerned. We did not have much of a conversation except when he asked for a pen. He did not come to class for a few days after that, during which time I became the girl who sat next to Rohit Gala, although it did not endear anymore people to me. I did manage to have a few random conversations with people here and there. One particular group of girls came to me on that very day and asked me if I was from their school. But when I said I was not, they quickly left. They seemed nice people to hang out with. They seemed to have quite a lot of fun as I had noticed the previous day, but they made it quite clear that I was unwelcome and so I did not impose myself on them.

As I came into college the next day, I saw a notice for a dance audition to be held that day after lecture hours. I was quite good at dancing and so decided to go. The auditions went quite well. Even Rohit Gala was present. I was selected (and so was Rohit Gala). We were to start practice next morning itself. I was more than happy as it meant bunking lectures. Dance rehearsals were fun. All the people around were quite cordial and fun to be with. Soon they became my closest friends in college. We did almost everything together, including getting yelled at by our teachers for not having attended lectures. Unlike some of our seniors I tried to attend some lectures but, let’s just say, when man is given a choice, he will almost never choose wisely.

I have had some of my best times going to various college festivals, going for dance rehearsals, organising various events of our own, simply hanging out in the coffee shop when we are exhausted after all the work done.

But i learnt an important lesson through the ordeal of making friends.
A lesson that I have learnt in the past five years of my college life is that, there is always a category of people that you fall into whether you like it or not. As for Rohit, he was one among the several Greek gods we came across.

Smile

2007-11-11T22:52:00.000+05:30

The queue for the railway ticket at Andheri station was as long as the train on Platform No. 1... I was in no particular hurry to reach my destination and so my mind was left idle to wander. This was not the first time that I had been to the station. In fact, I am such a frequent visitor to the juice-wala at the corner of the booking office that he recognizes me by face and often awaits my arrival with one kokum juice ready for me. But I had never bothered to notice the whitewashed walls which had turned cream on top and a bright brown and maroon on the lower areas or the number of pamphlets stuck on the walls (hiding the creamness), calling for young talented actors and actresses of all age or the vacancy for a paying guest who ‘must be single male’. I had barely noticed the stench of dirt mixed with dried spit and betel juice that permeated the place and least of all the beggar children right under the counter. We usually turn our face in the opposite direction when we see one of these children coming our way begging for alms and completely ignore the existence of the ones that don’t obstruct our way. But this one child had my rapt attention for the 15 minutes that I waited in the queue.

The girl must have been barely 10 years old and had a little infant of probably 5 or 6 months in her hand. She wore a ragged frock with frills. Her dirty brown hair was tied in a bun at the back of her head and her complexion was the testimony to the fact that she had spent all her life on the street. But her face seemed to have a strange sort of serenity; A silent radiance of a child who has been trusted with responsibility and is ably doing it. She walked past the long queues silently making sure a torn little blanket covered the infant sufficiently. When she reached the counter she spread another little rag on the floor with one hand and carefully lowered herself over it. She placed the baby on her lap and made sure it was comfortable. She then looked at the numerous people around her. I sensed a feeling of longing in her eyes as she passed her eyes over the people. She then looked down at the baby and looked up again. But as she looked up this time, her face was contorted in to a frown and her mouth was wide open, as she droned on a rehearsed set of lines and looked up at the men and women passing by, with impassive eyes and outstretched hand.

Suddenly all the serenity and radiance was gone from her face. She became just another beggar girl who is intolerably loud and screechy. I could still not take my eyes off her. Barely anyone heeded her pleas for alms. But it did not matter. She went on with her pleas and I continued looking at her. She would stop every 2 minutes for breath and in those 2 minutes her face would return to the serenity that first attracted my attention. I was amazed at the change in her facial features as her face moved from serene calm to contortion and back. Begging for alms was a daily job that she did without passion, for the sake of survival. There was no fun in it or any skill or talent required, but it did not matter. This was what she has been conditioned to do since the time she was born. Fun and play were words that found no place in her dictionary. I did not realize it but there was a look of concern on my face. The child noticed me and glared at me as though she was offended by the attention. I quickly looked away but my eyes returned to her as she returned to her pleas for alms.

I was only 4 passengers away from the counter, when an older girl of about 16 stomped her way to the little girl, scolded in a language I did not understand and forcefully snatched the baby from her and walked away. The little girl just sat there and screamed and tried to call the other girl back. But to no avail. She curled up against the wall, hugged her knees and began to sob quietly. I looked around for the other girl and found her sitting at the opposite corner nursing the baby. I presumed the older girl was its mother. I looked back at the girl who was still sulking like her favorite toy was snatched away from her. It was not as if she will never see the baby again but the grief of having something so dear being snatched away from a person is deep. There could have been several explanations to what had just happened. But it did not matter.

About half a minute later, the child looked up and wiped her tears. I was now only one person away from the counter. The girl looked around her, the feeling of longing again in her eyes. Her eyes locked with mine and I was transfixed. The thread was broken when the man behind urged me to buy my ticket fast. I bought my ticket and began to walk back. Suddenly I remembered there was a bar of chocolate inside my bag. I looked back to find the child still looking at me. I took the chocolate out and gave it to her and smiled. There was nothing she could do but to take the chocolate. She then looked at it and the ends of her mouth curled upwards in to the most fascinating smile I have ever seen.

Space

2007-08-07T20:54:00.000+05:30

Steal every moment that you get
For cherished or not that is all you have
Not silent not hidden not covered
It is open. Blatant. Naked
For everyone to see and everyone to know
But you steal it; You hide it; You won’t let it show

Why bother having a private life.
Why hide what cannot be hidden
Why scare the few who may be true
By stealing something they have already given.

In the Sabbatical

2007-06-23T18:16:00.000+05:30

After a sabbatical of three months, I write on this blog again. Nothing much to say... but here's what I've been upto...

An inspiration away is a world,
Where I tamed the sun,
And now the wolrd is mine.

Have I the courage, the grit,
The motivation to drive on?
Survival is a a thin string.

Crossroads

2007-03-27T21:58:00.000+05:30

It was still dark inside the house, when Kalyani opened her eyes. She groped on the window-sill next to her bed for the small table clock. It was 5:30 am. She looked around to see what had woken her up. The room she shared with her grandmother looked orderly. Everything seemed exceptionally quiet. Her grandmother, as usual, was outside on the veranda chanting her morning prayers and there was a cricket crying somewhere among the tiny bushes in the small courtyard outside, but these sounds only seemed to add to the silence. Kalyani looked out at the veranda. Everything was in shades of blue and black. The courtyard of dried cow dung looked disturbingly peaceful. She fell back on to her bed, still feeling groggy from sleep and thought about what had happened yesterday.

A cab driver from Dubai! Everyone was so excited. ‘I will see my Kalyani well settled before I close my eyes.’ Her grandmother’s voice rang in her ears. There was such a sparkle in her eyes when she said it. Mother was skeptical at first but as soon as she was told that he has never touched alcohol in his life, she was thrilled. Her own experiences had taught her enough about alcoholics. She would have chosen a pauper over an alcoholic for her daughter. Kalyani wasn’t excited about leaving her mother and grandmother alone and going to a strange country with a stranger, but then again she must get married and go someday, might as well be now with a person well capable of fending for her. Everyone said such a connection is hard to come by. The sun was up now and she must finish taking a bath and washing the clothes before 7.30. Her mother did not like it if she was late for breakfast.

She had just finished sweeping the floor and dusting the scanty furniture around the house, when she noticed a visitor at the door. ‘Radha!’ she yelled and sprinted to the door. They hugged and Kalyani pulled the visitor in to the kitchen. ‘When did you come? Has your college closed for the vacation? My god you have grown so thin. Don’t you city girls ever eat?’ Radha was the daughter of one of the richest men in the village and she had been Kalyani’s playmate since childhood, much to the disapproval of their parents. She was doing her first year of MBBS in a city down south. She stayed in the college hostel and it had been more than 6 months since she had visited Chenur in the onam vacations. They were of the same age but Kalyani had given up studies after tenth standard. Her family was neither as rich as Radha’s nor were they as enthusiastic about girls being more educated than their prospective husbands. And unlike her friend, she was hardly interested in academics, so she felt no remorse for discontinuing her studies.

‘I came in the evening yesterday. We have three days of leave because of a strike. Let that be. What am I hearing, you are getting married!’ Radha hardly sounded excited. Kalyani giggled at her shock.

‘Don’t get so excited. The wedding is not tomorrow. The proposal came through my uncle… you know the one who is a match maker? He told grandmother about it and they spoke to the other family. They are going to come and see me tomorrow.’ She went on to tell Radha all about the proposed groom.

‘Are you happy?’
‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You mean you really want to get married so soon?’
‘What do you mean ‘soon’? I’m almost 17. Maalathi got married at the age of 15. She is 18 years old and a proud mother of two healthy boys. I also want to have my own family.’
‘But there is so much more to do in life before you get married.’
Kalyani laughed out loud at this. ‘Now you have started speaking like a city girl. You are studying and are going to become a doctor. What do I have to do? I’m the daughter of your house-maid.’
Before Radha could react to this, Kalyani’s mother entered the kitchen. Her face did not encourage amity. But at seeing Radha, she immediately changed her tone and graciously offered her tea or something to eat. She yelled at Kalyani for having made her sit on the rickety chair in the small kitchen. ‘I don’t know why you like to spend time inside this pile of mud and brick.’ She said to Radha. As she scanned through the kitchen, her eyes reached the sink were the vessels lay unwashed. Her mood immediately changed again and she caught Kalyani by the ear and pulled her toward the sink, ‘you haven’t even finished washing the vessels. What have you been doing? Is this how you are going to behave at your in-laws’ as well? Are you going to make me listen to insults from them? Why do you make life so difficult for me?’
Radha tried to defend Kalyani but to no avail. When the initial storm was over and her mother went out mumbling to herself, Kalyani said almost to herself, ‘May be it will be better for me to go after all.’
‘She will never get over the trauma of losing your father to that tramp.’
Kalyani let out a bitter laugh. ‘Ha! Losing my father? I never had a father. She never had a husband. He was jus a man who forced himself upon us, stole our money and went out with others like him, come home drunk and beat us as if we were pieces of iron in his workshop. The only good he ever did to us was to go away.’
Radha knew being in the house would only make Kalyani bitterer. They decided to go out and walk around in the woods. On their way, they met Maalathi with her son in her arms. They shared pleasantries and spoke for a little while and moved on.

‘She is happily married, isn’t she? You can see it on her face.’
‘Oh, her husband is a very nice man. He is very hard working and sincere and takes care of his family. He is hardly 25 but I hear he earns quite well in the city. I hope I will be like Maalathi one day.’
‘And you are hoping a cab driver is going to keep you happy. Don’t you have any ambition in life?’
‘You don’t understand. This is life for me. This is what I have to look forward to. The only ambition I’m allowed is to hope my husband doesn’t start fancying other women. What I don’t understand is why you have to waste so many years reading and learning and racking your brains when one fine day you will also get married.’
‘Because getting married is not the end of the world for me. I will work even after marriage. I will work and have children and manage a family and a professional life together, like most women do these days.’
‘And what do you get after doing so much, money? But you already have so much.’
‘No! It’s not the money. It’s the satisfaction of having done something in life, the fact that I can be independent.’
‘You have turned in to a city girl. I always knew there will come a time when we will not understand each other. We come from different worlds. Our priorities, our goals, everything is different. To you the world is full of endless opportunities and prospects. To me the world is my mother, grandmother and this little village where everything goes according to a plan; a plan that has never changed and has hardly any scope of changing: the men will work and earn money for the family. The women will take care of the children and the house and teach her children to become men and women.’
‘May be you are just scared of trying out new avenues. The world is changing and you need to change with it. That’s the only way to survive. Or else you get out-dated.’
‘But I don’t want the kind of change I see in you. I don’t want to gain so much knowledge. I don’t want to earn a living. I don’t want to worry about the entire world and forget about my family and friends. It’s true once you become a doctor, you will only have time for your patients. You will have to beg for time with your family. And even the time you get you will be worried about your patients. I’m sure you will handle it very well but I want peace of mind. I’d like my world to remain small. It reduces worries and makes life much more meaningful.’
‘So you will accept the proposal tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know. What if he isn’t such a good person as people say he is?’
‘But if he is, you will marry him?’
‘I’m still worried about my mother and grandmother. When I go they will be left alone here.’
‘May be you should leave them here and start your own life. May be you should get married.’
Kalyani looked at her friend with a knowing smile. Radha returned the smile. Then they both stared at the mud road that lay ahead of them. A little way ahead it split. One goes on further, up a little bridge over the river to join the main road that goes to town, while the other leads to the river. The river runs parallel to the main road. The two mud roads never meet.

The Ghost Within

2007-03-19T17:56:00.000+05:30

Meenaxi never had a dull moment; running around in her grand house, frolicking from one spacious luxurious room to another, climbing up and jumping down the narrow wooden stairs and playing catch-and-cook around the coconut trees and in the rice fields with her brothers. She was loved by everyone. There wasn’t a human in the little village of Telishery who could resist her adorable five-year-old giggles. Everyone loved to see little Meenaxi in her white petticoat with long curly jet black tresses bobbing up and down with her as she dances around the river side. And then she was lost........
“Meenu! Where are you?” It was lunch time and Meenu couldn’t be found anywhere. In and out of the numerous rooms Meenu’s mother and her two elder brothers searched frantically, but Meenu could not be found. “MEENU.....” the voice rang in the extensive grounds around their house but to no avail. Mr. Nair, Meenu’s father, who was the collector of the district, was called and told to come as soon as possible. The neighbours were asked if they had seen Meenu but nobody had. Some of them volunteered to help look for her. They went to every nook and corner of the village but in vain. Meenu was to be found nowhere.
While walking by the river side, Appu heard the men calling out to somebody. He went closer to them to find out who they were looking for. When he realized they were looking for Meenu he immediately ran towards them. Looking at the boy running towards them, the men thought he might know something. “Have you seen Meenu around here lately?” The boy nodded. He pointed to the west and said, “She was going towards the cottage in the afternoon. But after that I haven’t seen her.” This sent a chill down everyone’s spine.
“Why would she go towards the cottage.”
“There is nothing there but some trees and the cottage. She wouldn’t dare go into the cottage.”
Set amidst a bunch of mango trees which never bore any fruit, the cottage was a small structure of clay with a thatched roof a little away from all the other houses. It belonged to Ramanunni, the lunatic who had disappeared from the village many years ago. It was said he could speak to the dead and used to bring back messages for them. He would often go into a trance and tell a person that he had a message for him from the dead and for the message he would charge money. That was his living. Everyone used to be scared of Ramanunni, for he rarely brought good news. He never spoke to anyone unless he had a message for someone. He would roam around the village all day long and keep muttering to himself. Children would run away at the sight of him. And then suddenly, Ramanunni stopped coming to the village. Some said he must have taken ill and died, some said he must have abandoned his cottage and gone off to another village but nobody knew for sure what had happened to him. No one ever had the courage to go and look into his cottage. And hence his whereabouts remained a mystery.
Mr. Nair was reminded, now, about the number of times Meenu had asked him about Ramanunni. Meenu’s brothers had told her about Ramanunni one day, as a game to scare her. But instead of getting frightened she seemed to feel sorry for Ramanunni and wanted to know more and more about him. “It is quite possible that Meenu did go to the cottage”, thought Mr. Nair.
They set out immediately towards the cottage hoping to find her on the way or somewhere in the trees around the cottage. It was dusk by the time they reached the wooded area a little beyond the village. The trees hid the last rays of the sun. Although the men had carried electric torches, the atmosphere around them was eerie. The three men felt a knot of fear in their stomach, walking through the lonely path with the sounds of the cricket surrounding them. ‘Poor Meenu must be terrified all alone in this ghastly place.’ thought her father. The men proceeded slowly observing every movement, listening to every sound around them. The crunching of dried leaves under their feet, a solo whoosh of breeze that ruffled up the leaves in the bushes. Did that sound like someone’s in the bushes a little way ahead or was it just the wind? Is that moaning or just the dog howling?
Back home Mrs. Nair was in a terrible shape. She had been crying for hours together. She was sitting in the veranda and refused to move. But as the hours stretched on, there was no sign of either her husband or her daughter. The eldest son tried to persuade his mother to go in and eat something, but she refused. She refused to budge from her position. The neighbours’ wives came and tried to calm her but nothing anyone said had any effect.
In the woods, the men were quite close to the cottage. The woods had thinned down and they could see a shadowy structure ahead of them. About fifty feet away from the cottage they decided to go around it and call out to Meenu. Half an hour later there was still no sign of Meenu. “We have no other choice. We must go in.” said Meenu’s father.
“Are you insane? Go inside the house where Ramanunni lived? I will not do it.”
“Yes, you never know. This place is too scary for a man to live all alone unless he is practicing the dark arts.”
Although Mr. Nair found the idea ridiculous, he was also queasy about going inside the house. They decided to go a little nearer the house. As they walked closer and closer to the cottage they noticed a small dim light coming through the window. “He still lives there.” whispered one of them. As they got a little closer to the cottage, they heard a low moan coming from the cottage. It sounded as if someone was hurt badly. Fear gripped them. Shivers ran down their spine and spread throughout their body. What could it be? Who could it be? It was a continuous monotonous moan as if someone was chanting something incomprehensible and taking breaks in between for breath. Then suddenly the voice rose in a loud crescendo and then again went down to its regular pitch. All three men were rooted in their positions. They could not move an inch further. Sweat beads covered their faces. The electric torches now lay unattended on the ground at their owners’ feet.
Finally, Mr. Nair got back his bearings and mustering all the courage left in him, moved a little further ahead just enough to peep through the window. It was too dark inside the cottage to see anything but he could see a hooded figure resting against the wall. And next to the hooded figure he could make out a bundle covered with a white cloth. The moans seemed to be coming from the hooded figure. The source of the dim light was a candle which was almost extinguishing, kept right below the window. He could not make out anything but the hooded figure and the bundle next to it. He picked up his torch and pointed it to the window.
“Oh my God......”
Mr. Nair ran to the window to get a closer look. The small white bundle next to the hooded figure had legs emerging out of it.
“MEENU...” her father screamed and ran to the door. On hearing him scream, the other men also joined him at the door. The door was latched from inside but two hard kicks and the door gave away. The sight made all three men swear. The cottage did not have any furniture apart from a bed with a broken leg. In one corner of the room there were a few utensils lying scattered. The entire place had a dirty stench. The hooded figure lay there in the corner of the room opposite the window. And, yes, the little bundle next to the figure was Meenu, lying motionless on the floor. Her father ran to her and picked her up. “What have you done to my poor child...........?”
The hooded man lay there without a care in the world. He seemed absolutely unaffected by the whole scene. Meenu stirred as soon as her father picked her up. “I’m fine, papa. I was just sleeping.” Hearing his daughter speak, he had tears of relief in his eyes. “I must have fallen asleep. I was so tired after I came here. Please don’t be mad at me, papa. I will not ever come here again. I promise. But Ramanunni is not well, papa. He is very sick. All he does all day is moan and cough. He says he is going to die soon. What does that mean papa?”
While the child was speaking Mr. Nair had gone up to the man and taken off the blanket from his face. Ramanunni was never a healthy man. But now all that was left of him was skin and bone. The chanting they had heard were a sick man’s painful moans. “Meenu is right. He is very ill. We must take him to town as soon as possible. He needs to be hospitalized. Come. Help me pick him up.”
On their way back home, the men wondered if these were the same woods they passed just a while ago. The wind rustled to ease their fears and the leaves crunched under their feet to urge them to move on. In a sudden moment, the cottage lost all its eeriness and the woods around it looked serene.
The ghost was laid to rest.

Silver Bowl of Soup

2007-03-15T18:07:00.000+05:30

Restless boiling turbulence,
Drawn in by the mystical fiery of the wind
Hiatus, a moment of sudden silence,
When I tear through me to find
A vast silver bowl of soup

It seems to say ‘come join me
On a trip to deep within you to feel
The warmth and love that be
The slayer of your miseries’, kneel
Before a vast silver bowl of soup

Forget existence beyond now
Let it wash every speck of doubt and let
The endless wall of orange endow
A peace in me that only the sea can set;
A vast silver bowl of soup.

Homecoming

2007-03-09T21:00:00.000+05:30

“Come on Menakachechi, come fast. If we reach there before our mothers do, we will get to play in the water for longer.” I was being dragged along the same old dirt road again by my 5 year old cousin, Smriti. We crossed the little broken gate that divides our land from the others and trundled on barefooted on the soft mud and the tiny pebbles seemed to roll around in joy, as if at our arrival. The smell that tickled my nostrils was much too familiar. It was a mixture of mud, dried dung that was used to level the verandas of the houses and herbs. Everything looked green. A few leaves sported droplets of water which sparkled in the sun light. It had been raining sometime ago. . The same old houses with thatched roofs peppered the undiluted greenery around me. I had missed it all so much.
“Is that Menaka I see with little Smriti?” An old lady stepped out in to her verandah to greet us. It was Padmavatiamma, one of our neighbours, speaking in the very colloquial malayalam, i sometimes fail to understand. “I did not know you had arrived.”
“We landed just a few hours ago. Little Smriti here could not wait to go to the river for a bath. So I decided to take her before she gets too cranky.”
“That is nice. It is always good to take a dip in the river and go pray in the temple. And you will be just in time for the evening aarti. It is very nice to see you children again. How long are you here this time?”
“Hopefully for a fortnight.” By now Smriti had started to pull my hand forcing me to come along. Giving into her pressure I waved out at Padmavatiamma. “We really must be off now or else we will get late. I promise we will come visit you before we leave.”
“Yes, yes you must go. But keep good your promise. I will have some sweets made for you.”
And so we walked on until we reached the end of the road. Here there were huge boulders arranged to resemble steps so we could reach the riverbed below. The temple stood a few feet away from the ‘steps’. It was a small structure that housed the idols of three different deities.
“Menakachechi, tell me the story about this temple again.” Said little Smriti as we started descending the huge boulders. Although I have told this story to her over and over again, I did not hesitate.
“Well, legend has it that Lord Shiva sent his army of spirits, on his behalf, to build a temple on the banks of this river. Lord Vishnu, jealous of Shiva’s growing popularity did not want this to happen. ‘I cannot let this happen. ’ he said. ‘I must stop them and build a temple for myself.’
The army of spirits did not like to work in the daylight. They worked during the night and brought huge boulders to build the temple. Lord Vishnu came down to earth, hid under a tree and in the middle of the night and crowed like a rooster. When the spirits heard the rooster crow they thought it is dawn and in their hurry to go back to heaven dropped the huge boulders to be used for the temple on their way. These are the same boulders.” She pointed to the boulders they were climbing down.
“And what happened to Lord Vishnu’s temple?”
“Lord Vishnu attempted to build his own temple on the other side of the river. But when the spirits heard that it was He who had tricked them, they were so angry and cursed his temple to forever be in ruins. Till today, that temple remains in ruins. People have tried to repair it a lot of times but they never succeed.”
By now we had reached the riverbed. As soon as we stepped on to the sand Smriti took off her frock and dashed into the water. I was left to pick up her clothes. “Don’t go too far, Smriti. Stay close to where I’m sitting.” She waved back in agreement. So I settled myself on the sand and looked around me. The soft sand under my feet eased all the tension in my body. All the weariness of traveling in a train a very long distance was forgotten as I turned my head from left to right taking in the simple breath-taking landscape and filling my senses with it. The river flowed with a playful grace and let little Smriti enjoy splashing its water. A little distance away women took a minute off from their washing to watch the little girl take the real pleasure of swimming in the river, something they themselves had forgotten since their childhood. The light cool breeze brought their laughter to my ears. It sounded like a melodious tune to go with the atmosphere. Beyond the river, tall coconut trees and other bushes stretched as far as eye could see. And beyond that the clear blue sky, little puffs of white clouds were sprinkled here and there. The two words that sprang in to mind for the surroundings – magnificent and tranquil.
Suddenly I heard the whistle of a train from far away and its muted chug ensued. I tore my eyes from the sky to the trees below. And there it was, a train passing by. I could only catch small glimpses of it through the trees but I followed it till the end of my vision. Then the chugging got softer and softer until I could hear nothing else. I felt a tiny tingling run up my spine. I saw Smriti jumping up and down in the water, clapping her hands in joy at seeing the train. I let out a hearty laugh and felt the last of the tight muscle in my body relaxing.
I was in gods own country. And I felt his presence in every inch of the spectacle splayed around me. This was his creation. I was grateful to be a part of it. This place never failed to rejuvenate me, after a year long tension of the monotonous routines of city life. I was back in my hometown - Kerala.

Applause

2007-02-21T22:47:00.000+05:30

Dipped in a thick warm rush
Thankfulness grows within
Cheers and applaud saturate the air
As you stand tall, great, thrilled

You saved yourself from shame
And regret, you helped were you were needed
You earned yourself a name
For in life you have succeeded.

She (a poem)

2007-02-18T01:56:00.000+05:30

Cocooned inside the protective shell
Or chained for she may go too far
Her pretty little face looks longingly
Beyond her world, the room, where life begins

Her window shut tight, latched and covered
The panes a blend of the room and beyond it
Bitter-sweet concoctions brought to her to taste
She’s not satisfied, for she knows there is more

Bitter or sweet edible or not, she wants
She craves the worldly things beyond,
The door lay open for her to leave, and yet…
Something there is that stops her… the chains.

She cries like rain relentless sometimes
Sometimes a drizzle that turns into storm
Sometimes a storm that gives up in a drizzle
Doubtful sometimes of the reason, but always wet.

Her respite, the world may not understand
But she does not live in the world.
She speaks to the walls she has known all her life
The only ones who will listen.

Of reason, of meaning, of consequences she speaks
She understands why this must be done
For her own good, as the world does explain
To make her stronger to build her nerves

Against all evils worse than these
She must learn to cope, accept and bear
With all that may come her way
When she will be freed in to the world

She speaks of longing to see for herself
What wonders may come her way
Good or bad, experience she craves
The ones that are real and not fake.