Reflections

A refreshing journey

2010-08-29T04:25:00.000-07:00

It's been ages since I travelled in a second class sleeper compartment of a train.When the tickets were booked I almost thought of cancelling my trip. The so- called luxury of closed doors and artificially cooled cabins were hard to let go. The lack of natural light and air was something that you paid for. I boarded the train to Pune on a cool July evening after a wait of two hours. The delay gave me just enough time to catch my breath after rushing against time for months on end.There was no school bus to run after, no cooking to cater to, no PPTs to be sent across and no schedules to be prepared for 8 1/2 trainers. I was left alone and that felt divine. Waiting for the train I finished a 100 odd page novel by Padmarajan, one that I had wanted to read for so long.The train arrived and after I settled down, it struck me that I could breathe freely. The windows were left open and the feel of fresh air on my skin was exhilarating.There was a cool yet wet breeze all along and as I bade goodbye to the familiar city sights whisking by, I started to relax.It felt strange not to have known noises or voices in the background doing the routine humming.My phone also chose to take a break and it went 'off' battery. I felt answerable to no one; calls from my family did not bother me (they were all well taken care of). It was now time for me to be.

There is a community which is formed when you travel in second class for a relatively long distance.The warmth of the people around is comforting. A sense of bonhomie sets in within a short while of the journey and total strangers could leave the compartment hand in hand at the end of it. It may not be the case always but it sure is a refreshing change from the cold and artificial air within and among in an AC compartment. The element of unpredictability is catchy because you never know who might end up sitting next to you. The low ticket fares capture a great part of the spectrum of our people and you could end up sitting right next to a street vendor or a college lecturer.

Big families with kids and bags equalling in number form very interesting objects of study, I noticed.They make the compartment their temporary abode. The huge dhabbas of food filled to the brim vanish in no time leaving only an appetising aroma behind. All it takes is a smile and you find yourself answering questions, making suggestions and being made offers to partake in the sumptuous feast spread out deftly on the seats.

Kids run around bare foot and bare bottomed, fascinated by the sights and the slight tremble under their feet. Loud mouthed women shout out instructions to both their children and men, all at one go and it requires some skill to decipher which one is for who. When it is evening and time to settle down, you first hear a shuffling and then a rushing of feet in bathroom slippers towards the sole 4 bathrooms divided among 70 odd travellers. The scene is complete with mugs of various colours and the coarse towels of different sizes.The stench that comes out from these over - used bathrooms are not something that you crib about, but what you associate your journey with.To avoid the rush I devised a strategy to take care of my biological and hygenic needs. Being an early riser the wee hours of the morning were not too much to ask for. I managed my work, which even includes a decent wash, admirably.

Since I was on a time alone trip, I refrained from that extra smile but I knew that I was still silently taken in to be under the watchful eyes of the matronly women around.20 hours past and the train came to a screeching halt at Pune junction. I left my temporary home of almost a day and rushed to the main entrance with an expectant smile.

The Muse

2010-08-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

Let me remain your Muse and you my beloved Artist
Fly high on my wings; my wings brushed with the choicest of treasures-
abundance of love, plenty of inspiration and imagination galore

You and I are not to be bound by shackles of permanency
We would lose our magic, if it were to be so
Spirits moulded, souls in unison we yet remain free; free to explore and grow richer together

At the tap of your thought on the pane of my window
I'd come rushing to your side
And fill your palate with the best of my colours

The world would gush and stand in awe at your creation
Bursting with pride and filled with love, I'd quietly slip out of your gentle embrace
and wait at my abode, till our thoughts meet again

The Magic of Kalaripayattu

2010-04-27T04:31:00.001-07:00

It was during the phase of a major personal crisis that I was led to experience the magic of Kalaripayattu . I was ready to experiment with anything to take me out of the state of numbness and purposelessness that I was struggling with, on a daily basis. I started off with a vengeance, ignoring the aches and groans; wanting to excel in the art and thus conquer the feeling of emptiness within.

{For the uninitiated, Kalaripayattu is a martial art form with its roots in the mystic land of the brave Othenans*. The popular ballads on the heroic deeds of these experts in the art form spread the fame of Kalaripayattu all across Kerala and even beyond.Though used as an effective method of combat during the olden days,today Kalaripayattu is used as tool to train the mind and strengthen the body}

I was used to a more fun based work - out, like dancing, where you stick to the rhythm and let the music transport you to another land altogether. Kalari with its huffs and puffs and otherwise dead silence did not appeal to me in the beginning. It however did not add to the void too. But there was this lack of excitement that slowly led me away from it.I could not comprehend the fact that people could draw inspiration from it; forget completing one routine. Months went by and I complied to a monthly twice routine,only to cater to my bodily needs of a work out. When I did not see the magic of Kalari unfold before my eyes, I began wondering...
In a passing conversation with one of the ardent followers of this art form I understood that the key to the magic was in being consistent. I was convinced that this art had a charm and a power to it. There were living examples right infront of me. I was now hell bent on realising it myself. The monthly once hazy routine gave way to a dedicated weekly routine and I began to see results almost instantly. I was more sure about the steps and the moves and the confidence drove me to strive for near perfection.
The art form takes shape and life through the able guidance of the gurukkal alias the teacher.I do not know if it is a characteristic among Kalari gurukkals, but I have found that steadfastness and serenity were second nature to my teacher. His method of instruction is firm yet calm. There are no raising of voices or lashing out of instructions. His persistence in seeing the desired results drives you to aim for the seemingly impossible. I started off as a mediocre student trying to finish off one level after the other. The perfection to my steps and moves, the kicks and turns were miles away. My teacher noticed a trend in me over a period of time; a trend to skip the details. One day he came up to me and without a preamble started making me go over the routine step by step, kick by kick... I began to see the difference in what it was and what it was supposed to be. The change made me feel great. I could sense a feeling of power and inner strength,which comes out of concentration and meditation,slowly setting in. This made me ask for more.

Focusing on the art of Kalaripayattu has helped me deal with myself over the months. The edgy side to me is being given a back seat now. When it pops up once in a while it only reminds me that I need to practise more. After 6 months of training I feel different, more composed and more at peace with myself.

* Othenans: Thacholi Othenan was a legendary hero who is believed to have lived during 16th century in northern Kerala. He practised Kalarippayattu from a very young age and grew up to be an extraordinarily brave and skilled warrior.The Othenans are his descendants.

To you, with love

2010-02-04T02:25:00.000-08:00

This letter is all and only about you. Smell it, touch it and even try tasting it; you will be surprised by its familiarity. (as if a slice of you has been pasted on to this sheet). Hence I would start off without an address.

It took me a while to gather my pen, book and thoughts and find myself here. You have been so much within me; an integral part, that I never felt the need to let you know of the same. At times I tend to forget that we are two different beings; molded in spirit but still different. The difference adds on to the charm, I must say. (Imagine, for eg., the ludicrousness of predicting when you would sneeze next.) The differences brought us closer and the fundamental similarities hold us together.

Do you know what I like the most about you? The fact that you let me be. You don’t treat me like a kid who needs constant guidance, you don’t dish out instructions at the beginning of each day, you don’t thrust a self- drawn map each time I step behind the wheel and venture out on my own. These might sound mundane and even silly, but they have made an impact on me. I have made my mistakes and I am proudly learning from them. I am my own person because of you and I like what I see in me. There are times, I agree, when I feel like shaking you up and telling you to help me out of a tight spot that I am in, without wording it out. You would find me sulking in front of the TV, trying to make my disapproval as voiced as possible. But smart as you are, you play dumb. I am left to fend for myself and when I do, I could not even begin to love you more.

On this Valentine’s Day, where lovers proclaim their undying devotion to each other, I have only one thing to tell you: Thank you. Thank you for helping me to find myself, to believe in myself and to be proud of what I am. What would I give you in return? I can see that naughty question framing at the corner of your lips. I give you the best that I have in me- the ability to love you unconditionally. Keep flying high; we will meet in the course of our individual journeys and would continue to glide together from there.

The first stitch

2009-11-29T20:59:00.000-08:00

It was a day like any other; I was rushing off to meet the hands of my clock. I had to fit in a doctor’s appointment too that Thursday and was wondering for the umpteenth time why we could not have at least 25 hours. A lingering back ache has finally led me to the doctor and I would say here that it was more on the insistence of my sis doc that I found myself at his OPD at St. John’s that day. After a long wait we were given an audience by the Orthopaedician. He tapped, poked and stroked and came out with the verdict: An irritated disc in the lumbar region. (Thanks to the media I was not left gaping at the terminology). A healthy diet, some gentle exercises and the will to make it happen was his prescription for the same. My extended sitting hours, both at work and in the car, contributed to it and I had to take care. We went ahead for the routine checks – the Xray was done but the blood samples could only be given the following day as I was not on an ‘empty stomach’. So the next day saw us at the hospital yet again, but this time with my little Anika in tow. All that was left to do that morning was to give out my blood to those thirsty vials. I stretched out my arm for the laboratory technician to poke and poke he did. He would have come across as a vampire or even the Count Dracula himself. Anika kept eyeing him furtively while still maintaining a very animated conversation with me. “What is the colour of your blood? Is it blue? Oh, it is almost brown”. In the midst of this chattering my sister was unaware of the loosening of the grip of Anika’s hand from hers and the next moment saw her down on the floor, fallen on her face. She had fainted. I was too shocked to react and I sat frozen on my chair. She was just a couple of feet away from me. {“Could I have prevented the fall?” Don’t we all do that?! A burst of ‘what if’s’ keep popping up the moment panic is put to rest and things are in control. In the flash back sequence we go through all possible permutations and combinations. But eventually what matters the most is the new learning that is gathered and may be, a sharpening of instinct. }

The cut on her chin was deep and she had to have sutures. I freaked out and remembered that, of the few prayers that I have sent up, one was for Anika not to have any wounds or stitches on her while she grew up. I was sure that I would not have been able to handle it. Now I stare at the face of my crying baby and knew that I needed to transform. We rushed her to the emergency ward and were told that she would go through General Anastesia for the sutures to be done. My little one tried to put up a brave front but her mask kept falling off. She was terrified. The uncertainty of what was in store led to more of fear and it was written all over her face. As she was wheeled in to the minor OT her beseeching eyes and those stubborn arms were not to let go of me. I knew there was not much to worry about but I was not able to convince her of the same. Sometimes, we need to go through our own learnings and she did that too. Thirty minutes later she was back in my arms and all was well with her world again. The questions and the chattering continued as if there was no break in between…

We stepped out of the hospital, leaving behind the smells and sights and sounds. I was grateful for the beautiful evening sky and for the feel of that tiny hand in mine.

Life is beautiful

2009-02-05T01:04:00.000-08:00

A friend of more than eight years met with an accident while he was driving back home after dinner, with his wife and baby. A pleasant evening culminated in to an indelible memory when the car crashed in to a call centre taxi during the late evening hours yesterday. In no time was a family erased with just a single survivor left behind, battling for life.
After the initial shock, the news sank in and I finally was ready to acknowledge the fact that we take our lives and its safety so much for granted. Despite the laws of mandatory usage of seat belts we still drive around without them, leaving the seat belts hanging on to the door sides gathering dust. (From February 1 2009, the city traffic police will begin penalizing those who are not fastening their seatbelts. This had been made mandatory in the country under Section 138 of the Motor Vehicles Act following an amendment in 2003. Source: www.expressindia.com dated 29th January 2009)
Driving time has turned out to be the most convenient slot in the day reserved for catching up with pending calls. The traffic woes have turned us in to road ragers waging our ego battles with the wheel as a weapon. The deep rooted belief that we would be untouched by tragedy and disaster has given us the impetus to move on recklessly, still.
Life is beautiful and is to be lived responsibly. I had my moment of truth, though at somebody else’s pain, which taught me to be grateful to each passing second that I spend on this planet. My seat belt is dusted and it now adorns me in even the shortest of my journeys. I have dug out my mobile hands free - from the depths of a drawer- and am struggling to get used to it. Driving has become a mindful exercise and I have promised myself not to take the gift of life for granted.

Peace

2008-12-29T22:43:00.000-08:00

I reckon the pain in my writings, that you talked to me about
It has had its roots in fear, a state of unrest and fluidity
The realm of my identity was a strange land to me
I have been groping for “me” and my “self”

It was easy to go by, past them, for long-
Ignoring the persistent calls from within
But they then assumed tones of warning and threat
And yet, I remained apparently oblivious to them all

Closed my doors and life was safe within
The knocks grew to bangs and finally
The secure door came crashing down
Leaving me ‘alone’ to lurk in the dark

It shook me to note that warnings strong cannot be ignored
I was left clueless for a while but not for long
There were miles to tread and the path was ‘less taken’
With the tough going also came new learning

Now in the cozy confines of my ‘self’

I look back at times past and see what they brought home to me

The ‘self’ discovered and untangled and the fears and unrest slowly turning to peace!

The Avian Scent (originally written in Malayalam by Kamala Suraiyya)

2008-08-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

It’s been a week after she came to Calcutta, when one morning she came across an advertisement in the newspaper, ’Wanted a smart and intelligent lady to be in charge of our whole sales department. Should have some know-how about fabric colours and the latest designs. Walk in to our office with a self-written application”

The office building was in a crowded street. By the time she reached that building in her light yellow silk saree and white hand bag, it was eleven o’clock. It was huge building with seven floors, which had more than two hundred rooms and great many verandhas. There were elevators and a group of people in front of each of them-fat merchants, office goers clutching their leather bags and the like. She couldn’t find a single woman there and had lost a great part of her courage by that time. She felt that she shouldn’t have ignored her husband’s opinion and come for that job. Spotting a peon near by, she asked him: ”On which floor is the textile company?”

“Must be on the first floor”, came the reply. She felt as if all eyes were on her. No, she shouldn’t have come. Why was she here among these sweat-soaked men? Even if she was offered a thousand rupees she could not come to this place everyday. But at the same time she couldn’t make herself go back too.

When her turn came she got in to the elevator and stood to one corner trying not to touch anyone standing next to her.

On getting down at the first floor she eyed her surroundings. From the verandah, which extended to all the four sides, there were big doors to each room. And on each door hung a board: Export and Import, Wine Merchants…

But no matter how much she walked, no matter how many doors she crossed she couldn’t find that board which she had been seeking. Her palms had already turned wet by then. All of a sudden she saw a man coming out of a room and approached him,” Where is the textile company?”

He took her in from head to toe with his narrow reddish eyes and then said: “I don’t know, but if you’d come with me I could ask the peon and let you know”

He was a short middle aged man with dirt in his finger nails. She didn’t feel like going with him and hence merely said,”Thank you. I will ask around and find my way”

She walked away briskly, turned a corner and reached another verandah. Big doors yet again. A board which read ‘dying’ was hung there. She smiled at the spello. Instead of dyeing clothes do people die here? At any rate she decided to stop by and ask at that place, and pushed open the door. There was a big empty hall with a couple of chairs and a glass top table inside. Not a single person to be found anywhere around. “Is there anybody in?” The door curtains in the room swayed a little. Nothing else. Mustering up some guts she went in to the room and sat on a chair in the centre of the room. Taking another step without a minute’s rest seemed impossible to her. What kind of people run this office? Where have they all gone leaving the door open and the fan turned on?

Since these people were dyers they would know about the place that she has been searching for. Opening her hand bag she took out her mirror and made sure that she looked presentable. What if she asked for 800 INR per month? They would be lucky to get an employee like her- educated, well placed and widely traveled!

The sound of someone opening a bottle woke her up. Stupid of her to fall asleep in a totally unfamiliar place! Rubbing her eyes she looked around. Opposite to her sat a young man, pouring whiskey in to the soda in his glass. His bush shirt was out of cream coloured terelyne. He had thick hair on the upper part of his fingers. She saw those powerful fingers and felt scared all of a sudden. Why did she come to this devil’s house?

He lifted his head to look at her and she saw that his face was as long as that of a horse.

“Did you sleep well?”, he asked her

Without waiting for an answer he lifted his glass and drained it off its content.

“Thristy?” he asked again but she only shook her head.
“Do you know where the textile company is? I had this feeling that you might know. You are dyers after all” she said this and smiled courteously. He didn’t reciprocate her smile but only kept on pouring whiskey in to his glass and mixing it with soda. He looked as if there was plenty of time left to talk.

She repeated her question, “Do you know the place?” She grew impatient and just wanted to get out of that place. She even contemplated going back home.

Suddenly he smiled. He had very thin lips which turned ugly when he smiled. “Why are you in such a hurry? It’s only a quarter to twelve.” She walked to the door.

“I’d hoped that you would know of the place. I assumed that you would have some connection with the textile business,” she said.

“What connection? We are not dyers. Didn’t you read the board? It says ‘dying’

“You mean to say…”

“The very same…Haven’t you heard of dying? We make arrangements for people to die comfortably”

Leaning back on his chair he winked and then smiled at her. Suddenly she felt as if that blank smile spread to his eyes too. With trembling legs she ran to the door. But her sweaty hands could not open it. Her eyes were already brimming with tears by then.

“Please open this door. I want to go home; my children would be waiting for me, “she said. She wished that he would listen to her, give up his cruel thoughts and let her go.

“Do open this,” she begged again. But he went on drinking and kept on smiling at her.

She started banging at the door. “What are you trying to do to me?” “What wrong did I do to you?” Her whimpering lasted for only a few minutes. Weak and tired she fell down on the floor by the door.

In a very gentle voice he kept on talking about something. She could only hear a few words.

“…Once, in winter, a bird happened to get in to my bedroom. Yellowish brown, like your saree. I tried to knock on the glass of the window with its beak and I struggled hard to break the glass with its wings too. But do you know what happened? It fell on to the floor, worn out. I squashed it dead with the shoes on my feet.

He was silent for a long time before he asked, “Do you know the smell of death?”

She raised her eyes and looked at him. She couldn’t speak a word but she definitely had an answer for him. No one knew about the smell or rather the various smells of death like she did: the foul smell of infected wounds, the aroma of the frit gardens, and the smell of incense sticks…

In a small dark room her mother lay on a bed on the floor and cried out in an undignified voice, “I do not feel well my child. There is no pain but I don’t feel well” Fat worms were wriggling out of her wounds and yet she didn’t speak of pain.

Then, there was her father. One day when her diabetic father felt weak it seemed as if the whole room was filled with a breeze from the fruit gardens. It was such a sweet smell and that was also death.

She wanted to tell him all this but she couldn’t lift her tongue.

The young man who was sitting in the centre of the room continued talking as if she never spoke:

“You don’t know, do you? I will explain it to you. Death has the smell of bird’s feathers. You will come to know that, soon enough. What about right now? Tell me what your favourite time is? Is it noon when the shameless world lies naked before the sun who looks from above? Or is it evening? And what sort of a woman are you, a bold one or a coward?”

He got up from his chair and went and stood next to her. He was quite tall. She pleaded with him:

“Please let me go. I never even wanted to come here”

“You are lying. How many times have you wanted to be here! You have longed for a comfortable end so many times. Aren’t you like the river which, with its gentle waves and deep sighs, yearns to disappear in to the sea? Don’t you long to experience that ever lasting caress?”

“Who are you?”
She sat up. She found that his fingers were horribly attractive.

“Haven’t you seen me before?”
“No”

“I have come to you often. Once you were just an 11 year old girl and you had jaundice. You were far too weak to get up from your bed. When your mother came in to open the windows you told her that you saw yellow flowers everywhere. Yellow Alari flowers. Do you remember that?”

She nodded

“I was among those yellow flowers which only you could see. I was waiting to lead you by the hand to the place where you were meant to be. But you didn’t come that day. You didn’t know about my love then. You didn’t know that I was the guiding light for you and for everyone.”

“Love? You call this love?”

“Yes, only I can show you the fullness of love. You will offer me everything, one by one…those pretty red lips, the dancing eyes, your perfect body…everything. Every single sweat pore in your body will cease to be yours. And in return for this sacrifice I will give you total freedom. You will cease to be anything but still be everything. You will be there in the roaring of the sea, you will be moving around in the old trees which sprout during the rainy season; when the seeds whimper in their birth throes from under the soil, your cries will rise up with those. You will be the wind, the raindrops and the grains in the soil. You will be the beauty of this world”

She stood up. Her weakness had left her completely. With renewed courage she encountered him and said,”All this may be true. But you have come to the wrong person. My time hasn’t come. I am a 27 year old married woman and a mother too and I have come here in search of a job. My time is yet to come. Let me go back home, the time must be around 12.30”

He didn’t say anything. Opening the door he let her out. She hurriedly walked over in search of an elevator. Her footsteps seemed to echo all around.

Once she reached the elevator she paused for a moment. The peon who generally operated it was not to be found anywhere. Still she got in to it and pressed the button. The elevator went up with the first sounds of destruction. She felt as if she was up in the sky and that it was thundering. It was then that she noticed the board that was hung inside the elevator: “Elevator under repair. Danger!”

Suddenly there was darkness all around, a noisy roaring sort of darkness. She never had to get out of that.

Lola Milford, the American lass (originally written in Malayalam by P.Padmarajan)

2008-08-21T23:47:00.000-07:00

My name caused a great deal of amazement in her
“A Sanskrit name?”
“Yes”
“Is it Sanskrit that you speak?”
“No”
“Then, why the name?”
“Malayalam as a language is very much akin to Sanskrit”
“Still, can there be a name like the Lotus King?”

The Lotus King?! I felt embarrassed, yet I told her

“We worship the lotus”
She looked a little reticent. I saw that she was trying hard to tell me something, so I urged her to speak. She then asked me how we came to worship the lotus

“I don’t know”
“Does Obrion say anything?”
“I don’t know”
“What do the petals of the lotus signify?”
“I don’t know”
“And the sepals?”
I was getting bored. Our conversation was beginning to sound more like an interview to me. I replied without much interest
“I have no idea”
“I’ll make a move “
There was a smile of mischief in her eyes. She left.

During my four months of stay in America, it was on that day that I first came across a shy American woman. A bashful American woman had always been my imagination. Today, when I look back, I feel that this was one of the reasons why I was attracted towards Lola.

Down memory lane…

…I guess I am in love with Lola Milford, a student of literature. Let that be. A woman like Lola…someone so beautiful, cute and adorable and intelligent and articulate.

Why did you brush your leg against mine in that restaurant today? And again, why did you…

I am not able to read anything these days. This woman is driving me nuts. Wish I could see her right now…this very night!

She had short hair spread out on her forehead like Audrey Hepburn.
I asked her:
“Is Audrey Hepburn your favourite star?”
“No, it’s Shirley Mc Lean”
I mused that the life of Shirley’s eyes were innocence.
“Lola, you have the same eyes as Shirlye’s”
“Flattery”
“No”
“Yes”
“No, really! You are the most beautiful woman I have ever come across”. Suddenly she lowered her head and then, all of a sudden, she grabbed my hand. I looked at her and saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.
“I…”, She was struggling
“What is it ?”. I urged her again to speak. She just pressed my hand without saying anything.

Lake of the clouds…Darkness had spread around USA and a fog had started forming on the surface of the Watergate. From a vague distance we saw a motor boat passing by.

Lola muttered, “I.. for me,..”
Her lips were trembling and her hands, which were in mine, were sweating. Whatever it was I knew that she never was going to complete it.

I also knew what it was that she was struggling to tell me.

Michigan…

I kissed her the night before we were to leave for Ohio. We were standing above the St. Cruise river and there was silence all around us. While walking towards the car she held me by my waist and whispered: “ I am a virgin, remember that”

Lola had a black mole on her neck and it bothered her. One of her teeth, the fourth one from the middle on the top row, was an artificial one. Maidens from south west America are usually very beautiful and imaginative. Lola had much of both these attributes. Whenever she talked about Texas, her homeland, she used to wax poetic.

Cool winds from the Bay of Corpus Christi…
The sprawling park by the bank of St. Antoine.
Come, come to Texas once

She wrote poems but never got them published
“Why don’t you get them pubished?”
“I don’t want to be a second hand writer,” came her reply

Lola was proud of American literature. Just talking about it excited her. She believed that Mark Twain was the world’s greatest novelist. Once while we were talking about him she extended an invitation to me…

“Let’s go to Missouri”

I complied

Missouri…

In Hannibal, we stood under the giant statue of Mark Twain. The river, made eternal by him, flowed in front of us.

Lola continued her excited speech on American literature.

Christmas…

I made use of the holidays to explore Las Vegas. Lola came along with me. She could n’t stand the sight of Las Vegas and appeared to be very distressed. I asked her for the reason and that day, for the first time, she talked about her father.

From Texas he came to Ohio for business and made money. He squandered his entire wealth by playing roulette at Reno and Las Vegas. A total pauper he ended up murdering someone and was given capital punishment. That was the day I heard about John Milford. His wife was a prostitute; a cheap broad who appeared on TV and on the big screen occasionally. When Lola grew up her father took her to Ohio and she never saw her mother again.

When we passed by the Reno arch Lola leaned on to my shoulder. “This place destroyed my father…,” she whimpered. She got drunk that day. Her child-like face and cheeks turned flaming red with the heat of the liquor.

She cursed Nevada state with a slurred tongue.

“Do you have such a city in India?”
“No,” I answered proudly
“Then I would also like to come to India”
That evening, totally freed from the intoxication of her drink, Lola and myself were riding on two rented horses, along the sun-borne shades, when she asked me again:

“Can’t I also come to India?”

I didn’t say anything.
“Can we get married?”
“I am a Hindu, I don’t know if a Hindu is at liberty to marry a Christian”
“Can’t you get converted to our religion?”
I gave her a wry smile. I held this notion that changing one’s religion for a woman would lead him to slavery.

We stopped on reaching the shores of Lake Tahoe. All of a sudden she suggested,” Otherwise, let’s live here”

I turned a shade uncomfortable. She perceived it and asked me,” Do you need to get an American citizenship to live here?”
“I don’t know”
My indifference irked her. She abused both the countries, rant about Indian and American citizenship, about India and America,…a Christian and a Hindu, Christianity and Hinduism…For a while she sounded like an insane woman.

While we were in a hotel in the capital of Arizona, I told her about my state of affairs.”I may never be able to marry you, my Lola. You shouldn’t be disappointed”.

“No, I am not disappointed,” she said. But I noticed that her voice was quivering.

I talked to her more about my circumstances…an entire family which was dependant on me…the poverty at home (if it hadn’t been for this scholarship I would not have made it to America) And then, you, who grew up here, could never live there comfortably. There are no big hotels, no beaches…there’s only poverty; just indigence. She did not seem to understand.

Lakhs of huge buildings which belonged to the Phoenix city lay spread out in front of us. An orchestra was hurriedly singing something in a distorted manner. She looked at me, dazed

“Poverty?”

The day when Marlyn Monroe died, she came to my room. “Our greatest star was a fool”, she grieved.” Still it’s better that these asses die”. And then, for a long time, we talked about suicides and the reasons behind them. She was convinced that all those who committed suicide were fools, irrespective of who they were or what their reasons were.

In between, I told her,” At such a time when the hurt becomes unbearable, we too might do the same…”

She fell silent suddenly and a minute later she asked me “How many days do you have before you leave?”

“Three months,” I replied. Later, many a time, I have often wondered what had prompted her to ask me that question at that moment.

A week before I was to leave Lola told me,” This week belongs to me. I would plan as per my liking. You better listen to me.” I agreed.

“How are you going to spend this week? “.She answered my question without any embarrassment ”This week is going to be our honeymoon…in Southern California”

Lola had a great fortune left behind for her by a deceased aunt and that made her plan sound so easy.

Southern California… the famous Hollywood. Wide side-walks spread with orange trees; the well known Rose Bowl stadium. At the peaks of Lajola, in one of the houses that stood projecting towards the sea, I came to know that she had told me the truth: Lola Milford was a virgin

Sometime earlier my mother had written to me: They want to have the wedding as soon as you come back

My fiancée who I grew up with wrote to me : Can’t wait to see you

Through that night we two sat on your window sill

Shivago’s poems

“Imagine that I am carrying your child within me”

“And if so…?”
“I will give birth to him, right?”
“Yes, and then…?”
“I will bring him up”
“Bring him up?”
“He will grow up to be like you and when he reaches your age-by then I will be very old- I will kill him”

I felt quite sad, but still I asked her smilingly” Then why can’t you kill me now itself?”

“I don’t think I will be able to do that”.

Later she pressed her face to the ground and cried

“This should not have been…all this should not have been…”

A wind blew up from the valley where crores of Aselia flowers were in bloom. That wind blew her hair carelessly. I gently put my hands on her shoulder. She got up with a jerk and wiped her eyes.

For a moment, she looked at me intently. Then with a renewed excitement she kissed my fingers and said: “Forgive me”

Southern California is the land of sand dunes and a hot air hung in the atmosphere constantly

There were giant sized Joshua trees, rising up to a height of thirty feet, bearing huge bunches of flowers. When the winds blew the flowers came down in odds and clusters. I took a photograph of Lola with a flower bunch in the background and she posed for it smiling beautifully

After I took her snap she muttered as if to no one:

“I feel that I too might commit that blunder”

“What is it?” I asked her

“The one by Marlyn Monroe”

The bells of Santa Barbara mission chimed sadly. Dusk flew in low and the doors of the old church closed silently. The sound of church bells from another church crept in from a distance through the snow and reached us. In the dark, with her head on my lap, Lola asked me:

“Isn’t that what I should be doing?”

“Don’t be stupid. See me off happily”

I thought of the various faces that I came across during the past few days at the Gabriel Mission and at St. Charles Borneo facing the Bay of Carmel. The brides and bridegrooms of eternity. “

You should never do that. It is a form of cruelty” I told her

The long dark shadows that have been lurking around dissolved in the dim light of the valley. Mist covered the orange trees.

I wiped off the wetness from her cheeks

The last day

Lola appeared to be very enthusiastic. But I knew that it was only a pretence. We roamed around the streets till it was very dark. Now and then she would suddenly stop at the corners where the light wouldn’t reach and kiss me. The night clubs were getting more and more noisy. We weren’t talking. I felt that Lola’s mask of enthusiasm would come off at any moment and that she would break down.

That happened at a turning. Three young men were laeding a bikini clad woman to the darkness

She was drunk and was cursing someone in an unintelligible voice:

Golden memories…Silver tears

“Let’s go,” said Lola

We continued walking and she was struggling to say something. After we walked for sometime she asked me: “That stupid woman is trying to forget some sorrow by drinking and whoring, isn’t she?”

Her voice was edged with sorrow. I stopped her and looked deeply in to her eyes. They were full.

“Let’s go back,” I said. We walked towards the hotel. The door closed on us and we were alone.

It was late in the night; we could almost see day approaching

I sat on the bed and Lola, was at my feet, on the bare floor. Now and again she would kiss my hands gently or look at my face intently. And during those moments, I found it difficult to believe that she was an American woman.

We parted at morning. There isn’t going to be another meeting.

Let each one believe the other to be dead.

Take leave of those lips that have been kissed.

The importance of being "I"

2008-05-28T04:01:00.001-07:00

The importance of being "I"
Life is definitely fleeting in nature. To live it up and thus be able to realize my dreams has been a thought of priority in me for the past few months. In this context I got the chance to talk to a lot of women friends of mine. Some have hardly been exposed to the real world while the others have been exposed much too much to the grim and ugly aspects of living so that their entire picture of life and living got muddled.

I belonged to the first category until not too recently. Not that I am totally aware now but I know that I am headed that way. I find it a pleasurable journey, where you let go of your inhibitions and get the courage to actually question the various dogmas thrust upon you from the time you arrived upon this planet.
It sounds easier said than done. But in this journey I have had some wonderful perceptions. To begin with, I was getting to know myself. In a conventional and orthodox Indian setting, (I was brought up in the strict environs of a catholic boarding school in Kerala) you are brought up with the notion that you are what others think you are supposed to be. Right from your parents to the teachers in school to the society you interact with ..... everyone else but you, tells you what or who you are and you accept it blindly; no questions asked. You live with this belief and it becomes ‘you’ after a considerable point of time. Later if you happen to be thrown in to a more aware society, (It happened to me when I came to Bangalore) where individualism is respected and looked up ടോ, you tend to see where you have been lagging behind and if you feel the need to catch up you will move in that direction.

Then I began to accept myself as I was. I had always found it difficult to believe in myself and had banked on my friends or family to reassure me of the same. As a result, the moment one of them backs out, or disappears from my life, I am lost again. To be able to love yourself for what you essentially are is a beautiful gift. It comes in with an awareness of the self and lots of confidence. At times it's tempting to slip and just fall back in to the old rut. But I try to strenuously hold on.

Living life as if there was no tomorrow came next in my list. I started cherishing and savoring every possible moment, getting utterly 'selfish' and thinking about my own needs, dreams and goals for once. This could get a little tricky because in this new found freedom you tend to take in anything that comes across your mind as part of it. It can be something which is against your nature too. You end up realizing it a little late but is it not always better late than never?? That's the whole point too....let go and be one with your own nature, instead of trying to fall in to a pattern put forward by many others before you. If you feel there is something amiss or there is something not quite right you would get to know of it in the mean time. Just act upon it then and life is back to being carefree and beautiful.

With these three aspects in place it’s just a matter of working on them. I have always found that for women in India, the majority of them, developing their individuality has not been a smooth learning. May be because we are a still evolving society or it could just be that we do not find the need for it too. Knowledge comes in only through experience. Our women never had the chance to experience their own selves and hence they have been living in ignorant bliss. Dependence on the 'stronger' male has been encouraged from a very young age onwards, more in a rural setting now, and it continues and goes on till the end. The famous lines in Manusmrithi, (an ancient Indian philosophical text) which indicate that a woman needs to be taken care of till her end only substantiates this. She cannot exist otherwise and hence she remains dependent and takes in what comes to her.

Will we head towards independence of our own selves? Do we find it a necessity? Would it not be too much of upsetting the routine??? Too many questions left unanswered but definitely worth a serious thought!

The charismatic Cochin

2008-05-28T03:56:00.000-07:00

The charismatic Cochin

Featured in National Geographic Traveler's '50 greatest places of a lifetime', Cochin is arguably the ideal starting point for exploring the unfathomable diversity and inexpressible beauty of Kerala. It has emerged as the commercial and industrial capital of Kerala and is perhaps the second most important city on the west coast of India.

Cochin or Kochi as it is called today, still reminiscences one of old time glory where the impact of 18th century colonialism is still evident in many parts and aspects of the city. Aptly titled the Queen of the Arabian Sea, the city spans across industries ranging from ship building and petrochemical refining, to handicrafts and spice trading. Among the varied industries, IT is the upcoming one and tourism the all-pervading one. Cochin has undergone an almost sea change in terms of infrastructure, modernization and general upliftment. The marine drive itself is living proof for this. 7 years back it could only boast of a GCDA complex and a Rainbow Bridge, but today that part of the city teems with life-shopping malls, eateries, movie multiplexes…The Queen sleeps late now a days!

Come to Fort Cochin, the older counterpart of the city, and you feel you are taken back a long way in time. The stone paved pathways, the architecture of the by-gone days, the palace… all fill one up with a sense of nostalgia. The Jewish Synagogue is a must-see for any lover of culture, history and art. Built in 1568, the synagogue is magnificently decorated by Chinese tiles and Belgian chandeliers. More interestingly, one even gets a chance to meet the last of the immigrant Israelites who speak better Malayalam than most of the natives around! Around Fort Cochin the other places of interest include the Dutch Palace, St. Francis Church built by the Europeans (also famous for being the burial place of the Portuguese trader Vasco Da Gama), Vasco House where Vasco Da Gama was supposed to have lived, and of course, the charming Fort Cochin Beach-The Queen of Arabian Sea. Though not a big city in terms of area in comparison, Cochin nestles a lot of history and culture in its slender arms and balances it so well too!

Cuckoo

2007-04-27T00:35:00.000-07:00

From the moment I set my eyes on you I have never stopped wondering! You continue to be enchanting my dearest Cuckoo. I got so used to you in the nine months that you were inside me. The interactions that we had (I still remember the DinnerCall in the 6th month;-), when after a long day I was lazy to go and feed myself in the evening. You did not see it fit to be left hungry and made your stance clear with that solid kick that got me right on to my feet, fatigue and laziness all forgotten) made me get to know you much before I saw your face.

And then came the day of your arrival. I vividly recollect the first two sleepless nights.....I was too enamored to lose even a moment with you. Does this happen to every mother? Do they keep gazing for hours on end at their new born with eyes wide open?? We sealed our pact on those nights.....You and I would stick on.

The first one year was eventful with so many regular mile stones.....your first turning - over, the auto rickshaw crawl on three limbs which always had all of us in splits, your first tooth and its impacts on all around, the first word and that too in Malayalam, the only time you showed an inkling of recognition towards your mama’s penchant for the language. Your love for the word was to grow and the dexterity with which you handle the complicated English structure and grammar has amazed all who got to hear you communicate. The Queen herself would have been so proud if she had had an audience :)

Then came the first step...... All set to go! With the two tiny feet firmly set on ground, you sure did your bit of exploring, wandering off on your own and getting lost in your own world of thoughts and friends (I am still waiting to meet Nikita). And yet, once the wanderlust was quenched and you were homeward bound, your undying loyalty for home and mama always shone through. I even made up a couplet for you…”When the sun goes down and the moon comes up, mama will give you maama (food)”

Affectionately named my ‘accessory’ I cannot remember of many instances where I have been on my own without you. Right from mundane bank and doctor’s visits to something as ‘grown up’ as book club meets and dance classes, we have kept each other company. I never fell short of instant attention; thanks to your chatter and chirpiness.

Friends, admirers… you have plenty; and you have trained yourself well to handle adulation in its stride. Doting grans, drooling aunts, appreciative and eager - to - please friends….at times I find it impossible to believe that you can manage them so well, so young. No one feels lost or unwanted in your company, but yet you are hardly attached to any of them. The moment they are out of your sight you are back to your life as if there has never been a diversion from your routine. I have seen so many little ones and even older ones whimpering when they see their grandparents/relatives off but you wave them off with a customary hug and a peck on the cheek (if they get lucky).

The enchantment grew with you with every passing year and now at your fifth year you surprise me still by being much in control. Come what may, life is all well as long as you are. A change in regular scenarios, upheavals which might bow many down…none of these are your concerns as long as it doesn’t upset the world that you are in. At the same time when it comes to compassion and perception there is no one who is second to you. While many try making a show of these traits you find them to be a bother to be talked about. There is that element of acute shyness and reserve which makes you keep away from any public display of emotions too. (The way you appeared to be detached when your dear friend Sahana was crying in pain and all of us were trying to help... I later spied you stroking her hair and cuddling up to her, the moment she was left alone and fell asleep) You have been a miracle for me right from the time of your conception within my womb to this very moment where I draw so much of my strength from you.

I am blessed to be your mother