Rejoiceme

Romancing those Little hearts...

2010-09-22T23:05:00.000-07:00

Cumulonimbus clouds extended far from the horizon. They lay siege to the blue ones roaming heartily happily across the day. The breeze blanketed a swathing cool feel. The chill woke up the little Ant.

He looked up for a while, thought a little and looked straight. The clouds already had the sprinkle on those greenish meadows under which he slept cozily. Small drops cumulated on the green blade of grass, slowly and steadily the viscous sphere full of dirt streamed to the tip. Before the little ant made a motion, it fell atop his antennas, drenching his black sheath of skin, more in happiness. Wrapped in energy, he stood up and drew the refreshed spirits for a boogie dance. As the rain fell louder, the drumming felt sweeter. Every drop of rain on the leafy membrane heard itself like a phantom drummer.

A smile garlanded his lower lip. Papa Ant and Momma Antress had saved enough for the rainy day. He was the only always-smiling insect in the colony and why shouldn’t he? No worries. No insecurities. He never felt the anxiety of being vulnerable.

“LAZY” – someone called him from far. He couldn’t make out the figure, marred in the veil of milky shower. The nickname hurt, ants in the hardworking community read ‘lazy’ as an abuse. But as long as he didn’t care, he could walk ahead.

Home stood an elegant structure; barricading the stream from peeping in. The mound of earth looked too safe a nest. Nearing he looked through the windows. Momma ant was busy preparing dinner.

“Knock-knock” - The knuckles prodded. A shivering chatter of teeth sung a cacophony in momma’s ears. She wiped him to warmth and ushered him in.

A full dinner later, thoughts carried him through a tunnel into the invisible. A world he wanted to be in, far away from the clutches of the workaholic ants. He too wanted a castle, but unrelenting to work until he discovered the something he cherished the most. The other Antmates had grown to giants in his eyes, but the little Ant believed in the power of dreams to survive.

Memories welcomed him to his earlier home. An awe-inspiring nest atop a tree, woven by Papa Ant who sewed leaves together to a spectacle. He remembered his moment of daze, that idle morning where his eyes interlocked in hers and roved on her soft black and yellow hair. She had come to collect nectar from the red blossom near his window. Even before he enjoyed a better glimpse, she buzzed away. How he expectedly hoped to see her again and how happily was he enveloped in bliss when she came singing the next day, gradually leaving a look or two to his charm. His pheromones had the power to speak to her intonations, and her scent on the flower multiplied to be his buzz. A beautiful Bumble bee, she slept like an unearthed treasure in his heart of hearts. A hardworking cutie, with whom he foresaw the proud environs he would be a slice of.

The pitter-patter subsided. Dripping rain above the roof marked the concluding drizzle. He could hear clear the next-door neighbour chirping, so inviting, and irresistible calling for him to game. But today the cricket’s wings rubbed to an unpleasant frequency.

“No, am not coming” - The shout reverberated through the anthill and the cricket stopped chirping. He wanted his privacy and the moments to be soaked in her thoughts. The little ant reclined in the cozy bed made of excess earth & continued to imagine her antennas that looked elegant while gathering honey. Her wings through which sunlight sifted its orangish hue making her the most chic even in some inattentive eyes. Her intrigues interested his invitations. Her gait in the most colorful of red cocktail dress etched in his canvas of reflections. Her skin stood shiny golden in her walk towards success. She stood epitomized as his strength in many a venture ahead. Her die-hard spirit and the truth in her core fascinated him more. He adored her in absence, yet enthralled himself in those umpteen fantasies he wove with her presence. He turned around and curiously stared at the colorless glass gift idling on the table. A crystal bowl with a dancing duo. An Antress moved rhythmic and the Ant moved graceful holding her hands in his.

The wind blew silent and chill, and the little ant’s black lashes hugged each other to weave a world of dreams where he and she danced and survived the intense of tempests that life threw forth. He loved the togetherness she granted him to complete and compliment.

Alas!!! Another strong wind and the crystal bowl fell, crashing to pieces of minute magnificence. He stopped dancing, heartbroken. She continued the ballet with the stranger he hadn’t confronted. But in every broken speck he saw the iota of her reflection, his trance.

The little ant woke up in sweat. The air around tried to console and soothe, but to no avail. He knew the impending, the imminent, waiting in the bright cloaks of an invigorating dawn, inching closer with the rising sun clothed in vivid red and magenta, merging her and consuming her passions. The intense light of the morning blocked his gaze and marred his vision. As calm descended, the little crystal stood intact, unlike in the broken dreams, glazing in the brightness showered all around. But the dancing Antress missing, the little ant’s eyes searched frantic. And he knew bitterly that the bumble bee too had gone, slipped his grasp, knotted to someone luckier and to a bigger Anthill. Yet he prayed for her, for her dreams, for her life to bear wings………and smiled at the new naughty dawn, shying away from his gaze…bringing with it more charming bumble bees for the little romantic in him to wander around…

A day from yore

2010-09-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

Written 3 or 4 years back.... (Too Long and hence never posted anywhere)

The leaves of the Tamarindus indica rustled to an uneasy surprise. The stones on the sidewalks had changed positions like my grandmas teeth. Through the lustre of her sparkling teeth the missing ones were a black hole on the enchanting smile. The brown equated itself to the disillusioned ferns on the path and untrimmed grass on the terrain. Except in a few places where the cow had grazed its presence, grass grew taller than ever. I watched earnestly at the calf, suckling the udder of the mama cow. The thirst to survive is innate, for the two year old struggled to maintain its poise, but drank the milk in full. None rushed forward to separate the unison. The plantains maintained the sway and blushed with a swaying ‘hello’. Though numbers had dwindled, of the trees, animals and the people in and around the house, the magic lingered. My steps ushered me in. The silence hung its head in shame and remorse. Everyone had left the arena, like actors who had their part complete. The big clock had stopped ticking. The pendulums appeared motionless through the hazy glass. The gongs weren’t resounding the echo of my arrival. The grandfather clock wasn’t keyed. Time paused for the passer by at 6: 15, AM or PM was out of question for the visitor in me.

A tumbler fell from one of the many rooms, waking the silence of my manifestations. The once teeming house had none to receive a guest. All were welcome. The squirrel looked at me for a moment and turned tail, past the polished steps. He didn’t recognize that even I had come uninvited. The sparrow had already flown away to my mighty footsteps, but watched circumspectly from one of the braches. She chirped, may be cursing the hostile intruder for breaking a romantic sequel with the squirrel. I begged a pardon and cooed like a pigeon. A head peeped from the indoors of the long corridor. The frail figure kept her legs beyond the wooden framework for the door and came closer for clarity. It was my achamma (Dad’s mom). “Lallu” - The exclamation of a surprised expression hadn’t subsided from her charming face checkered with wrinkles of age and tardiness. She has grown a little younger in her regular shades of white clothes, hair and skin. A gentle stoop had made her acute, but the gait spoke of the ancestral prowess. She spoke again “ We expected a guest when the crow cleared its throat to a different sonata”. A smiled greased the extreme ends of my lips. She ordered the polished brass kindi (a spouted puja vessel used for pouring sacred water) for washing my legs. Ritual remained, though the kindi devoid of sheen lay idle, neglected and languished. And it’s only on these rare occasions that he too gets a chance to spread his worth. Ages since I had a nostalgic exchange of feelings. Ilayamma came with the lungi and enquired about the urbane Mumbai. “Later” I quipped and tucked the lungi in half just below my knees. Ilayachan’s smell tarried in the lungi, reluctant to leave even after 2 years of widowing Ilayamma. Fate had plucked that young soul on urgent requisition in paradise. My eyes set upon the cracks, white in color, meandering freely on the black floors, equating itself to the black hairline transcending time and age for the whites to rule to latter part in the game of life. In a forlorn corner had sprouted a seed, the vestige of some birds’ bowel clearance. I went closer for a hint. It was the Peepal germinate. The fertility and sanctity of earth had made its growth comfortable. None cared to weed it too.

The silence yet again got creviced with an enquiring look. It was a tasty invitation of the Malabari etiquette. I sipped the sugary syrup of water mixed with small onions (shallot). The tumbler to pour the liquid had a once-upon-a-time aura etched to it. The imprints on the glass were paintings too old for my memories to recollect. Horses in red profile and birds in yellow designs were covering the glass in entirety. The cool mint taste of water was a special order. Water was drawn fresh from the well, instead of from the motor and pipe arrangement-part of the modernization drive. The pulleys had squealed for the lazy bones hadn’t gone wet for long. Rust deposits gave way to the strength of the coir ropes. The ropes wet and refreshed itself. I saw the water coming in the iron bucket, to be replaced soon with a rubber make. Lightweight and easy. Water dripped while dancing the way up.

I handed over the mug and an empty glass. The next question was posed

“ What is the special requirement for lunch?” I had pictured a plantain leaf, dry red colored coconut chutney and the viscous buttermilk. Fair enough isn’t? “ The calf is newborn, just two days old, do you mind a Milma curd?” packaged catholicity rules. I sighed and smiled at her helplessness and nodded wide-eyed, brows painting a Kathakali pose as if in full agreement. She smiled back for recharging my leisure intact.

Reclining on the easy chair kept me unplugged. The same chair where my Achachan (dad’s dad) used to lean playing with the little me. He had a collection of empty matchboxes set apart, stacked in the corner of the windowsills. Those tiny boxes awaited my arrival every year twice, once during the Christmas and then the summer vacation. Christmas had the matchboxes in larger denomination, keeping in mind the gap of seven months after summer vacation. But 10 days was far too less for me to justify their presence and unleash my creative ideas of joining one after the other converting it into the train I had just arrived in, the houses where I stayed, tiny boats and what not. Achachan’s beedi puffed smoke so consistently like the communist spirit that stayed staunchly till him getting draped in the red flag of honor. A talented kathakali artist and holding positions like the co-operative hospital director never made him giddy of pride. His trademark black framed spectacles stand a mute spectator while a flickering lamp keeps his photo alive. I missed the treasure in him, lost much before I could imbibe the true essence of his creative pursuits. The genes left in me still try a pluck at the creative arena, but for the fetters of the urban headed, rustic minded society.

The ilaneer (tender coconut water) became a missing regularity now. A huge house and a handful of people. Lonely and puckered like the oasis, waiting for a lone visitor to enquire their well-being.

I got up from recline and stared at the wooden stairs, a fragrance of childhood when we weren’t allowed to climb for fear of falling, climacophobia for parents. Come on, invited the stairs who always lend a different tone to my footstep. I wag gaining heights. Pun intended. The first level had another steeper set of stairs heading to the attic. In the 75 or so visits to this ancestral property, it was just twice that I climbed only to get preoccupied with the haunted indecisions whether or not to climb. I was mentally prepared to rise above the rest today, to check and dust the old Marxist ideologies, bound volumes, which had given me a torchlight glimpse 5 years back. The torch lent a thorough scrutiny of the entire stretch, only to be greeted by the handicapped clock. Black needles in roman architectural style that darted once inside now poked out of the broken glass & frame. A misfit invalid, jammed at the alphabets of 6 and 9 taking the hour needles glances for years. Against a while backdrop the needle blacks looked royal, though the corners were graying. My mischievous hand rotated the needles once and kept the minute hand in 9, for a change. How long will the numbers tolerate the same gaze of comatose?

Carefully climbing down had a vacuous feeling for the lost treasure, still a flicker of hope whispered that grandma would have the prized possession. The enquiry revealed the selling off to a Tamilian rag picker cum Aluminum merchant who traded profitably for a measly sum; the entire bound volumes and some brass utensils. I didn’t complain. My lips sank in sarcasm, anchoring itself on one side. A smile escaped. The Marx had left no marks. He may have handed over to one young couple tossing groundnuts out of it and crumbling the ideologies into the nearby bin if at all it existed. Else to a provision store or a grand welcome to the cracker industry.

I reclined and closed my eyes. Even the spicy invigorations of the fresh fish fry couldn’t wake up the battle between my senses. The battle won by the eyes and I dreamt. Seeping through the blanket of darkness, the past eclipsed the present. The glory of those days shimmered in the wavy dreams that surfaced amidst the summer rainy morning. Unexpected clouds showered and inundated the dry earth with its white sheath of rain. A scent of compulsiveness drenched the nose. The huge tumblers were cornered so that the water gushing down the roof got percolated. The cows had cuddled together just like me in my dad’s lap jolting my puny spirit at every bolt of thunder. The blanket was another companion to reason. The taro leaf (chembu in Malayalam) danced playfully to the tune of the drops, but always carefully slipping the drop off from shouldering any responsibility. A clever gal I saw in them, tactfully titillating the boys’ thoughts and escaping the close glances before ultimately losing heart to one. The fresh-bloomed flowers of my favorite mangifera started gripping off the branches along with the cascading shower of water and wind coupled. Jackfruits though held forte like a fat bully nonchalant of the rains battering its dark green leaves. A small puddle had made its identity near the haystack addicting my young heart to jump in, wet my leather Bata sandals (supposedly not to be made wet) and feel the drizzle too. But dad’s attentive glances and mom’s stare dampened my spirits. Waited for long and they went inside to sip a cup of the very hot brew of tea on the cold rainy day. The St. Jospeh’s umbrella on the soft corner called me “ Lallu take me and enjoy the momentarily freedom”. A split second and I was out with and outstretched umbrella. Jumping on the puddle and the splashing water converging after every jump. I wanted to empty the puddle. A hopeless challenge before dad finishes tea. It could take in 3 more people, more than the one in the family planning Ad. I was soaked in the drizzle that kept swaying in the wind. No umbrella could stop its resilience. Unconcerned and uncensored by the colossal gazes I gyrated to the raindrops pounding differently to a rhythm on the naughty umbrella. A melody depending on the intensity of rain. The rest time was a passionate playfulness in making paper boats that raced one after the other in pursuit of a non-phyrric victory, finally sinking to the onslaught of the imminent showers intensifying without warning. I had a question. “ How does the crow and kids survive without getting wet?”. None answered. I still haven’t got an answer.

Someone was coming from far, her view obstructed with a mat umbrella fixed purposefully to evade the drizzle and the mist from all quarters helped the impeding. The umbrella adorned her small head. The old lady had come to meet my dad for a financial help and was caught unawares in the incessant downpour. The rain subsides by evening making way for the damp breeze, rich with its cool presence. The coconuts look sparkling clean with the water service, but the last drops reluctantly leave the tip of the hanging midrib. Love affair to be or for me it exhibited a Michelangelo’s ‘God creating Adam’. The clock was wound and the lighted bell metal lamps (Nilavilakku) chanting ‘deepam..deepam… bringing a separate hue to the moist twilight. Kerosene lamps have already started burning the wick in light yellow and brighter yellow outside. Butterflies of the rain hover around the wicks, some suicidal in the quest to liberate the holy soul. The echoing decibels of cricket spoilt the silence of the night. Grandma calling aloud – “ the kitchen leaks”. Water had trickled down the walls kissing every inch of space on the kitchen floor. A broken tile is the culprit. One that cracked while the coconuts were spread above the kitchen roof. A process, which accentuated the conversion of coconuts to copra. The reddish moon smiled softly through the broken tile.

Monsoon fury would have taken us in hoards to the overflowing temple pond. On the top sat guys with an umbrella and small sky blue net. Another with a fishing rod and the baits of earthworms that squirm in pain to tantalize 100 innocent fishes to a certain death. The local lads had cleared off a lot of the hyacinths. Rest would flow with the water canalized to the fields. Swimming lessons were to commence. Crash course by Ammamma. The first lesson was to have “no fear”. The floaters were provided, a couple of lovely coconuts whose skin was ripped off the top to facilitate the braiding. The skillful balance kept me afloat. Next instruction was to splash the hands and legs with full vigour against the pressure. The only fun I loved was to go deep in and to check how long I could hold my breath. The weeds and the silvery shoals of fish scurried at my dip and check mechanism. The fun was to remain afloat when it rained in the pond, water pounding from around, giving a leisurely feeling of freedom and a rare meaning of existence. Each drop pitter-pattering on the waterbed had a singular significance blend with the silhouetted greenery. I could never display the aquatic genius then. The lazy bone in me always gaped at the flippers and somersaulters’ running across with jetting pace splashing the waters with reverberating sound.

“ Wake up Monu, lunch is served “ My siesta culminates. The stoves and smokeless Chulha’s have retired for a modern and young kitchen. So food cooks faster. Fair skinned walls glisten, as the smoke never disturbs the whitewash. The once rich storerooms overflowing with the might of the fertile land, lay barren and empty. Golden hued areca nuts lay uncollected. Only the photo-frames got added against the available doors. Achamma cursing the afternoon heroines of the serial sympathies, oblivious of my presence and the external nuances. I had to leave early tomorrow. The straw mats and mattress were spread across the breadth of my room. I didn’t like sleeping on cots here. The cotton trees vanished long ago. And with it the pillows and beds of its cotton make. The phone chirped. The younger generation of caller answered. “ Did you complete the assignment? “. “ Yes “ comes the reply. The phone falls silent again. But I haven’t got an answer to that question yet. Will any human ever complete the assigned task for him in perfection? I have no answers.

Past

2009-11-14T06:31:00.000-08:00

With memories laden in oblivion light,

Carries he moments in casket bright.
Painted in travails time triggered,
Pinches it in pains sugared,
Often does the scar remove,
A thought long lost in lavish love.

His little sunshine

2009-09-09T23:39:00.000-07:00

A wanderer spirit unanchored,
Let loose in the vagaries tempestuous,
Saw he a little sunshine virgin,
Leaving the bosom of a caring refuge.

Fell she straight on a life anew,
Cozy green in satin wore afew,
Shy but firm stood she afresh,
Budding life promised the sprout near,
Buzzing race assured a bee so mere.

Fading the shades of day aside,
Left alone she wept beside,
Whimper heard a wanderer spirit,
Met his gaze in the tear reflect,
Imprisoned in her soul serene,
Drank he love in wineglass clear.

Fettered dwelled his soul in trance,
Yearning to show his heart for once,
Little sunshine caught unawares,
Left alone in a dusk that fell.
Still he lives in her alone,
Waiting for a morn to chariot in,
& drop her home in a heart he owns.

Independence

2008-08-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

One more independence day. Celebrations. A handful savoring the true essence of freedom. The martyrs forgotten.

Forgetting anger, apathy, agony, anguish, and every negative emotion in the world, I flavoured myself with the excitement of a new world, a new life, a new spirit, A rejuvenating August 15^th. Freedom. Back to those school days. In line. Attention. "School saavdhan, Vishraam". Some voices reverberated deep in the eardrums. The NCC guys. The national anthem sung with fervour. Patriotic songs from all over the country. Irrespective of language, culture, caste, creed. Gujarati, Marathi, Malayali, Bengali, Tamilian, Punjabi, Telugu, Kannada, Kashmiri all as one, we used to sing. 'Yeh wakht ki awaaz hein, milke chalo. yeh jindagi ka raaz hein, miklke chalo..."

Today once again, history repeated. Thank u SIMC. 09 years. It had been long since I left my Kendriya Vidayalaya. My mentors. My teachers. I forget not. They moulded the untouched clay in me. Adding the requisite water, smoothened with adept hands, caressed some soft strokes, perfected heat to set and left me to conquer the world. I did. An Engineer I became. A job I earned in the Central Govt. Life went on, unsullied. It was time for a change. A PASSION enthused. My life questioned the spirit. Life suddenly a burden. Life's little surprises whispered. "It's time to quit." Freedom from the old schools of thought. My intuitions compelled me. I accepted. A new lease of life today. A new campus. The pristine atmosphere. A certain peace in every single twig. Every drop treasuring a smile. Am here at Symbiosis.

Morning. Cycles introduced in the campus. Evening. The thrill of a long lost habit came inviting. A ride uphill. A free ride downhill. A breath of fresh air. Virgin emotions tickled. A variety of freedoms on display.

The freedom of being single. The freedom of being a man. The freedom of being my parent’s son. The freedom of being born lucky. The freedom of loving life. The freedom of expression. The freedom to survive or exhaust.The choice is mine and will always be.

I fly high. A life not too long to survive. The Mayfly, she who reminds, Life is small. Past a burden. Present a Gift. Tomorrow a mirage. I Enjoy. I enjoy the freedom of today. Tomorrow mayn't be mine to enjoy.

Prayers...

2008-08-14T05:53:00.000-07:00

We like to send our condolences to the family of Dhananjoy sir (Photography Dept.), who lost his wife a few days back. We at this time would like to let the family know that they are in our deepest thoughts and prayers.

From the SIMC family.

To all of us,

Let’s all pray silently for a minute. May the departed soul rest in peace.

SIMC salutes you...

2008-08-11T01:12:00.000-07:00

She is Sweta Mantri, another of my SIMC’ian friends. But she is special. Guessing what makes her earn this special niche on my blog?? Let me confess that she is one of those very few who earns so much of respect from the depths of my heart.

A source of inspiration to all the fellow travelers, a tough character in the script that destiny engraves. An icon of strength, courage and determination. An example of resolve to battle any of the strongest odds pitted in life.

In front of her stands fate guilty and ashamed, losing the battle of tenacity, not just once but an umpteen no of times. Her ever smiling visage that makes the face of a sullen destiny hide humiliated.

And as does her Orkut profile say:

“I would take a deep breath n enjoy new challenges. I believe in beating d worst by d best!!”

Way to go dear, conquer the zeniths, attain the pinnacles of glory, we all love you a lot.

Before kicking that bucket away....

2008-05-08T05:51:00.000-07:00

As always coincidences rule the roost… yet again this time with the bucket list… though I can’t remember where, am sure I read thru someone’s blog about ‘THE BUCKET LIST’ as a must see movie, the same day I received the tag from sandeepettan...Now let me share my bucket list ;-)

* To travel the world had been on top priority from long, but for that I require money.

*So let me first start with my career. The first of the things in my list had been an MBA in media/communication management specializing in advertising from a reputed institute. And that dream is coming true with Symbiosis, Pune.

* Next on the chart is to get placed in an AD agency of repute long before completion of the course, which hopefully will happen with all your prayers.

* Then comes the real game of life, of starting an AD agency of my own, maybe after working fro 2-3 years and I get bored with work, or maybe sooner, even before I join the company. ;-). No ideas about that for the moment.

** So keeping all this apart, there is a small dream I treasure - To start a small evening school in my village, where though I never intend to teach physics and chemistry, would focus on a unique initiative of giving refined education in English to a few young students who are inclined and interested to learn the subject.

*** To pen just ONE book is one daydream that would hopefully cease being a dream for long.

* Supposing that I receive money from all available quarters , i will go globetrotting with my SLR. First to those places I missed to inspire myself with, within INDIA. Meet the people, discuss, exchange ideas, enjoy the cuisines, involve in their culture. Then to some great cities from yore, kicking off with Paris, later to a culturally rich and huge city called Istanbul/ Constantinople. Later see the pyramids of Egypt…Roman masterpieces and a 100 places more... :-)

Then arrives the following little things to be done intermittently...;-)

* I wish to tour a concentration camp for once.
* I wish to catch a fish and release it too.
* I wish to eat fresh grapes, pick fresh coffee beanz, pluck tender tea leaves from Darjeeling, pick apples from Kashmir and more…
* I wish to go scuba diving, take some corals from the sea in Lakshadweep.
* And a long remaining fantasy, - Go to a nudist colony and be naked.

Lots more to be added in this list, & so this may get updated month by month irrespective of the constrains I face as I surge forward.
This I believe will be the leading lamp to guide me through my ambitions, hopes, aspirations desires and dreams.

Thanks to sandeepettan who lent me this novel idea to keep track of my own life’s little purposes. Am I too late to have done this is the only question that perturbs me. But nothing is late in life is a policy I uphold. And since there is no place for regrets in life, I wish forever to travel in the journey of life with fun and awe, laughter and giggle, smiles and tears, all encapsulated in one.

AND I TAG - **** Cherian ( if he hasn't done this yet), ** *Sarin, ** Maria & * Devidas

Enveloped...

2008-04-24T04:49:00.000-07:00

I received my last red uniform a long time back. If my memories aren’t dampened with the moisture in my belly, it had been a long 6 years since. Centenary celebrations sparked a row thus giving us the new luster. How boring was the leisure granted while my coat was to dry! And the next day I was the cynosure of all eyes. All appreciated my dress to a great applause. Memories too take time to dry isn’t? I was fed with a lot of intellectual nourishment; in simple words some were real food for thought. Today I am lean, permanently idle and old and it’s all silt and rust I carry. Alone in this big city, none to notice, none to care, I wither in the sun, shiver in the cold and wrinkle in the rain. I am paralyzed, unable to move, in a condition to move any compassionate heart. Some dry leaves give me company today. Time snails.
Age as well caught up with me, but without any assurance. I suffered. On the brink of geezerhood, not a single soul bothered. Umpteen I gave news of a job, many to whom I whispered a baby born, some I gifted those fragrant love letters. None ever enquired my sorry state. Lives made. Celebrations done. People forget. It’s not a mistake. It’s human.
Heard that young people have taken over, one who moves faster, is more reliable and cheaper. But wasn’t my service reliable and cheap, or has things turned turtle? Free sells anywhere and has it become so? Maybe so… how will a forgotten chap like me know? Overheard an individual mentioning email or was it female; auditory sense prevails but cloudy with dirt in my ears. Still it’s beyond my scope of understanding; at times I sit wondering whether it’s a fairy tale I heard. How can a letter go electronically via a computer, and reach anywhere in the world within seconds? And the stranger wasn’t mentioning postbox, mailman, post office, mail van, stamps, envelopes nothing at all…My head crumples like paper. Loud echoes reverberate even in sleep. It hurts. Occasional silence spells doom. And who is this courier? I hate to accept a lesser rival rising above me, but alas telephone too, in its smaller versions has looted a lot from my niche.
My head aches imagining so wild. Those rosy days. Those quiet moments. Musings mirror the lost tenderness. Memories envelope me. The first sky-blue inland I gobbled. Folded carefully in all the ---FOLD HERE--- marks and sealed, it took time for the petite him to adjust to my belly darkness. Only a small stream of light seeped in and it felt like a stolen twinkle from a firefly. The stamp was so shy. Opening her eyes and staring at my darkness was initially impossible. Later we were strangers in unison. Her giggle was so fresh like the anklets of a little kid. None knew where and what next, except that the inland was from a loving mother to one Mr. Adwaith in Bombay. But heard that Bombay changed to Mumbai, Madras to Chennai and Calcutta to Kolkata. Unsure because it’s long since I read such an address. At sharp 3:00 pm that day, Keluettan, our khaki clad postman opened me and stole my 3 hours of friends in a gunny bag. Keluettan retired long ago and a young Suresh took over. He still comes, clothed in a new blue uniform, steps to revive a dying department with a fresh look, I learned.
Though I have no qualms, I ponder over some. Never did I get a chance to love, I did like some cute stamps, but they left at the next clearance. The longest I had lived and joyously enjoyed was on continuous Govt. holidays. An idealist Gandhi stamp lay idle chatting. The orange envelope though wasn’t too friendly, was kind of matured. Postcards were more friendly, as they were open hearted, didn’t have to hide anything. I got a lot of information reading those little postcards, costing just over 15 paise then. Competition postcards though were costly, thankfully improved my general knowledge. Lovely days of yore have elapsed. Rustic innocence lost, faster lifestyles rule. Hurry is the watchword seen through the windows in front.
As years passed on letters at the same address went to Mrs. Thushara Adwaith, Greeting cards to Malu and Chinnu. And it all stopped abruptly. Once I eavesdropped on a dialogue between Keluettan and a colleague. The loving mother cum grandma shifted base to Bombay after her husband’s death. Who knows if she is alive or not? Once Adwaith too had posted a letter, I forgot to where.
As time progressed, my belly grew tighter; at times the no of letters reached the level of my red cap too. It was too difficult to get pregnant often. I don’t complain, as it was fun and joy with so many companions; infinite good news had a stamp of my service in it. The feeling was bliss and even at this age goosebumps rise in me. What is lost is more treasured. The worth of something or someone that never comes back, but still haunts our sleep is understood too late. Isn’t?
In front of me sits a banana seller, a vegetable vendor gives company, my vision is through my black lips, rather than my eyes. Is my name cut off the rolls by the India post too? I am saddened at the ignominy of being forgotten, but which door to knock and how? Questions knock me down in disappointment. Negativity creeps in. My concrete base seems as solid as it had been, nowadays a resting place for the hawker.
My dress gave away a couple of years back, initial shyness to show my skin turned to shamelessness when the whole dress ripped away at the ruthlessness of nature. Now I stand stark naked, a little insane, a lot tired, inviting death to accept my final letter. Not a stain of red remains, except for the few unfriendly drops that had crept in while getting painted. Letters are forgotten and so is letter writing.
A teenager is running towards the hawker. And she has a paper in hand. Surprise! She kissed it and dropped it in my pockets. The inland looks blank at me. No banter exchanged. No jokes shared. Quiet clarity of the hawker’s husky tone lingers. Hopefully Suresh will come. Pray this reaches on time and saves my face from further disgrace. Is it my revival? Questions still bother me. Time alone will reply.
Is something scribbled behind? My eyes are deceiving me. Faintly I decipher the words. A few little hearts in red and…

Truly yours,
malu@gmail.com,
Bengalooru.

What name is that? Bengalooru…Has my city changed too? More of those questions knock me off the cemented platforms. Am I falling? No remorse, no regrets. I have performed my duties to the best of my abilities.

The story afterwards: The inland reached on time, Malu didn’t have to send another inland. It was all E-mail and SMS from the Gen-next.

Framed....

2008-04-23T03:44:00.000-07:00

“Photo frames done here”
The steel plate hung like a prisoner restrained with manacles. The sheen on the metal plates had worn out. The white calligraphy peeled off from the black background in separate quarters. Dancing to the tune of the passing wind was the only distraction. Ramu squatted in the lonely quarter of the room. His memories flooded with moments of the once princely style of living. The teeming crowd, those bustling streets, thriving business establishments, wealthy households, colorful living, opulent smiles, happy faces and the cascade took him to a higher echelon of thoughts.
“Worth emulating” – many a passer by had quipped at his workaholic nature.
The golden frames often competed the golden morning rays for the skin tone. Ramu had lost number on the frames he had done. Gods, goddess, animals, birds, sceneries, vehicles, men women, children and how many infinite subjects in Gold, silver, wood, and pulp. And once experimenting with cardboard sandwiched and glued one upon another for a marvelous creation. He still vividly remembered the smile on the innocent face and the golden watch his parents gifted. The watch stopped ticking long ago, almost at the time when time began its ugly taunting grimace. The kid won many a laurel for the painting Ramu-da had framed in the special cardboard construction. They believed his handicraft as a luck charm till they too shifted home like the little humming birds that left the nest once the little wings were strong enough to fly. How weak and tired his heart grew then. Always missing the thought of missing the kid’s little laughter that broke his thick blanket of seemingly small miseries. He sometimes felt a pang during idle hours that his luck left with the kid and his embellished frame.
How his hands used to carefully chisel the designs on the four corners and around the frame. The generous applause and the demand for more of the variants echoed in his present state of woe. How happy had his workers been? How lavishly was every festival celebrated? The affluence in those unselfish smiles always welcomed the best of work from their hearts. Times had changed, people too.
The once particular incident of an enquiry and the subsequent order for a thousand look-alike photo frame surfaced in his thoughts. How striking it looked when the similar elegance with different captive gods smiled in a stack, ready to be imported. The deadline and the extra effort he put in ensuring his workers getting the due were highly appreciated. The letter of appreciation lay cobwebbed and uncared in yet another unknown corner of the warehouse today. The business lost out to the flourishing new business, to faster output, to better designs.
“ Below par compared to your designs ” – he remembered the smirking remark from a patron; and how he mockingly depreciated the imported, colorful photo frames as swarming mosquitoes out of nowhere, till yesterday when the little kid doubted “Photo frames done here? Doesn’t it come readymade?”
He remembered the transitory phase from where his small world started going topsy-turvy and the carelessness with which he looked down upon it. The usual sense of optimism kept him going, till he knew the business sinking. Alas it was too late for a revival. To stay afloat in the readymade market was more than difficult, he found himself getting strangulated with the workers who found the heat unbearable without overtime. Lamination changed the whole outlook of his little crafts. He lost the entire niche clientele. Even the loyal workers shifted base once his purse suffered. Not one from the umpteen gods he gave life to helped his business survive the intense of times. He had framed them for good and now he stood framed and frozen before the loneliness surrounding his survival. The morsels of food looked at him in pity, and he flung the saucer like a flying disc. Food spread on the disintegrated walls and cracked floors. Even the insects didn’t come to inspect. Everyone had deserted him. Disgust and shame had overhauled his personality. He found hatred everywhere, a sticking repulsion. His eyes had grown vacuously callous. Anguish dug it deep nails deeper to reach his bones. It split open. It was torture in a different league.
He knew his little mistakes, to have trivialised the competitor in front of his huge business, to marginalize the instincts had been another and his inability to cope with the new environment of change had done him in. he closed his eyes for a tear to drip, but again the reluctant tear evaporated.
A head stooped and looked inside his shanty. Ramu didn’t care to enquire the stranger for there was nothing to rob, not even his dignity.
“Uncle, can you do me a favour?” Now what more of him remained to help? – Ramu thought in the distraught emptiness snuffing life out from inside and outside. He puffed the beedi’s last inch and snuffled inquiringly.
The stranger enquired again “ Can U?”
Without waiting for the tired head to nod, he continued. “Can you frame this photograph for me, in golden borders, with the grape yard creeper design, & a small base at the bottom for a light to fit”
Ramu opened his palm and accepted the rolled photo.
“The advance or the whole amount will be paid as you say”- The stranger said with an emphasized tone.
The acceptance was immediate. The elastic band swiftly removed, Ramu’s eyes glued at the photograph. A waiting exclamation took seat. It was long since his eyes had grown so wide and suddenly moist.
The little boy had grown so big and handsome.
“ What happened to Kaku sahib?” – Ramu enquired out of all eagerness.
“ He is no more, died a peaceful death a week back…and he always jovially told us to frame his photograph with those special photo frames at Ramu’s…” The boy’s voice trailed.
Ramu’s eyes brimmed within and his heart felt heavy with a deadly emotion pinching the crevices through which blood flowed all these years.
“What are you doing beta, do u still paint a lot?”
The sweet childish innocence once again covered the strangers face.
“ Am creative head with an advertising agency, enjoying my work of art and evaluating others too…” Pride reflected in his overtones.
A sense of gratitude prevailed in the breathing. Ramu’s face creased a healthy half smile, the forehead wrinkled in countable crumples. Kaku sahib’s death is paying him money, making him a little wealthy, helping him a week of tasty food. For the first time in life he thanked almighty for an unwelcome death.
“ Baba always appreciated your work and recounted that your luck charm brought us the good in life…”
Ramu wet the dirty dhoti’s corner with some disobedient tears, while the stranger continued.
“…and am here today not just for your work of art, but to appoint you as guide for the trainees in my Ad studio… are you ready to accompany”
No questions, on where when and how. Ramu though unaware of Advertisement and its nuances or explanation nodded involuntarily. He felt an inexplicable feeling of good submerging his self. A whisper rang around. A blanket of warmth surrounded him. Ramu felt the viscousness of Kaku’s soul. He supposed that Kaku had come to return a slice of the once stolen luck, to help him survive.
Life didn’t seem miserable like it seemed hours before. Blood started to flood the parched nerves. Energy began to fill the cells devoid of food. Starvation took a great exit. Life instilled Ramu enquired
“Let’s go?”
Bending his back out of the hanging roof, he wiped the dust off the steel plate, unshackled it, and sheltered it with a newspaper. His bones ached at the smoothness of the untried cushions of the car. The sheen returned with the minor glitches suffered during the test of time… The car moved on to another destination, wind desperately kissed his forehead, acknowledging and welcoming him to where life waited with golden frames for a new guest.

A lonely Bouquet …

2008-04-21T05:13:00.000-07:00

The morning blanketed itself in sinister silence. It had drizzled the previous night. Water pooled evenly in the uneven potholes of those seemingly unending roads. The breeze wasn’t welcome. She too remained absent. Neither a twig moved, nor a leaf rustled. The only sound was an alien breathing echoing. It was mine. The breath grew quicker and translated itself to a panting. Moonlight glistened on those palm leaves hanging loose and uninterested. My legs grew tired and found it miserably uneasy to walk. Two haunting lights pierced from an unpredictable distance. Sound of the rummaging engines disturbed the ghostly silence. My energetic hands waved. A screeching halt and I scooped my fright in. The scent of jasmine and lavender smelt around. The talcum powder shower with the garlanded jasmine on those black hairs stole my breath away. A damsel sat with her chin, ear and hair resting in an easy mood, unaware of my presence. A blue headscarf hid the rest of those assets. I stopped being attentive. The rickshaw traveled hastily to the nearest bus stop. She got out with a death like silence, unconcerned, unaware and indifferent. I forgot her. A few frail figures stood, some waiting for the bus, some for the early morning newspaper dispatch and some other idly sipping a cup of the brewing hot tea. The neighbor’s cigarette swirl addicted the morning air momentarily.
Every approaching headlight around the corner expected a bus. Little drops of rain fell soothing the tensed air surrounding me. I breathed easy. A little drop fell on my specs and blurred my vision. A single bell and the bus stopped, with the back door welcoming my arrival. The rest continued waiting. A double bell. Just as the fingers gripped the bar and moved to the vacant seat, a single bell invited the screeching brakes to throw me off the feet. A lady clad in a saree with the creamiest of hues entered from the front door. I watched her in quiet curiosity. The same carelessness took her lazy pace to the neighboring seat. The distance of the aisle was the only separation. Drops of rain continued pelting itself on the glass like little sprays of sand. The wipers danced with the drops and slept back in the rusty slot. The LED’s danced and encircled the Gods behind the drivers cabin. Darkness prevailed outside. The melancholic Hindi memoir enhanced the silence in the mood with the love lorn singer humming at the peak of emotions. Her eyes closed in vacuous clarity. The same indifference outlined in the clear-cut profile. The bulbs lent light on her flourishes.
A small ring adorned her cute little nose in the left nostril. Every breath through her nostril made the gold-plated move up and down. A drooping head fell sideways on her shoulder. She looked around and caught my eyes. A dark red bindi remained lifeless in the cheerless forehead. I sat in custody. The disturbance didn’t quiet disturb my menacing stare. My silent yet serious glances made her uneasy for the first time. She looked away, to the closed windows, lifted the shutter and looked out at the scenes thrown to light by the blinking streetlights. More rings adorned from the top of her ear till the bottom lobes, in various shaped circles. Two in silver, one in steel and yet another in gold. They mingled and danced at every swerve of the bus, sometimes kissing her bare neck in admiration. The spherical pearly locket dangled from the lowermost ring like the cutest fruit of the young mango tree.
Yet another of her stolen look and I was still in silent admiration of those spotless cheeks. She bit her nails out of a docile anxiety, the nails shied away at the drool from the pearly white teeth. I acknowledged her cute fingers speckled with four different rings. The little finger decorated with a simple silver plated circle, ring finger gleamed at the golden embellishment, the middle finger proud of a possessive emerald stone atop and the index finger charmed with a copper flamboyance, while the thumb basked in its nakedness. An untold number of leaf green bangles slipped deep down near her elbow, embroidered in golden hue on either side like guards on duty. She rested her hands on the lap and the bangles lay in idle innocence. Her eyes tried their best to bear my stare, moving to and fro to all sides of the screen. The golden thread of gold streaming down her neck en-route her breasts stopping at her navel found the sudden unrest a disturbance. Perturbed, the bosoms heaved faster and her hands stroked the smaller black beaded chain harder. The amulet stared shamelessly at the cleavage about of give birth to cute little globes. With the smaller necklace bathed in sweat, those diamonds sniffed the droplets of fear. A smaller droplet flowed down the groove to a blissful stay in the warm indoors. I smiled. The fingers on her leg twitched in displeasing expectation. With more than two rings bejeweled in each, the fingers found it difficult to squirm. She shifted her legs and the silver anklets snuggled with a giggling tone.
A sudden whiff of air and the veiled headscarf fell backwards; the vermilion streak drew closer in clarity amidst the pendant and its decorated tail splitting the hair in two. My head turned away, staring at the pictures of the infinite landscapes outside. Gazing at the pleasant sun rising far away in yet another horizon, my journey continued. She left somewhere in the middle, but the addicting fragrance of her jasmine garland, the arresting charm of her lazy gait and the beguiling spell of her ornaments still remain captive in my senses, long after the incomplete journey…

TaGgeD... :)

2008-04-03T10:10:00.001-07:00

THANK YOU PREETECHI... IT WAS NICE DOING THE TAG...

1.LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATRE

It was a sponsored programme :-)..JODHAA AKBAR… I laughed throughout the first half, seeing all the unready moustaches and bearded minus moustache, of course getting rude glances from those serious viewers..

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?

I am not completing any these days… Two in the Q… “ LAJJA” –Taslima Nasrin, “TAGORE – A Biography” – Krishna Kriplani

3. FAVORITE BOARD GAME?

Definitely not the Blackboard Game…. But yes, LUDO… :-) …

4.FAVOURITE MAGAZINE?

Can’t say…cos am more of a voracious newspaper reader….still for my conviction… Readers Digest, Childrens digest…and meow…;) -- Human digest too..

5. FAVORITE SMELLS?

The female fragrance of the shampooed/perfumed hair, in a sweat-smelling & crowded BEST bus in Mumbai…

6. FAVORITE SOUND?

The sound of the gentle breeze, tickling and rustling those leaves of the huge mango tree at home…, An afternoon song of the Lazy Cuckoo perched on the papaya…, Varying sound of the drizzle to the downpour on the leaves and the tiled roof of my ancestral home..

7. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD?

Loneliness…and Indifference from those unexpected quarters..

8. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE?

Again its time to go to offizzzzzzzz… :) So boring to sit retired even while working!!!

9. FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE?

Idli Annan at the Victoria Terminus Subway at Mumbai… His unique make and mix of the 3:5 ( number: price) Idli-Vada-sambhar-chutney is a mouth-watering favourite…

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME?

Manchaadi (Pet name..:P)

11. FINISH THIS STATEMENT. "IF I HAD A LOT OF MONEY I’D...?

Travel and travel taking infinite photos in Matt finish….:-) .. To start an evening school in my native village where kids are taught to speak good English...

12. DO YOU DRIVE FAST?

Yes!!! Too fast on my YAMA-HA

13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL?

Unfortunately till date, I slept alone…In the present condition animals * are fine too…
* is for a Feminine breed …;P

14. STORMS-COOL OR SCARY?

When my Boss storms to my cubicle asking for a forgotten & non existant report…itz ??? Kewl for him and SCARY for me..;-)

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?

Forgot the name…Think Dad got it for me at Rs. 5/- from Guruvayur…

16.FAVORITE DRINK?

It’s Lemon Juice with salt-sugar in equal proportion, Then Frooti…and off late the Appy…A taste that still lingers is the LEMON MINT COOLER from FRUIT YARD at kaloor, Cochin …

17. FINISH THIS STATEMENT, "IF I HAD THE TIME I WOULD...

Start a Time bank, Save the excess time, Accumulate and….. Barter it ‘Hour’ wise for love, to those who require only a little more of minutes to make the world a better place to live…Gift it ‘Minute’ wise to those who have only seconds more to live, Tantalisingly suspend it ‘Second’ wise from my roof, to sensitise those who never knew the value of time … & the balance will keep on growing in my Time-bank with interest…

18. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS ON BROCCOLI?

U mean, Brassica oleracea italica??? :) I had a look at the dictionary…:p

19. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHOICE?

White…So that I look matured at least in some deceptive eyes…;P, else NO..i dnt like it….

20. NAME ALL THE DIFFERENT CITIES/TOWNS YOU HAVE LIVED IN.

Thiruvananthapuram, Vadakara ( Calicut) , Thalassery( Kannur) , Surat, Mumbai, Bangalore, Chennai, Calcutta…

21. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?

:-) SOCCER, but esp. the Santhosh Trophy Football.. :-) I love the Kerala Vs________ games…
22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU.

Holding High the Infinite Figments Of Imagination…

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED?

:-) Floored !!!!

24. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE BORN AS YOURSELF AGAIN?

100%, It’s ‘I love me’…still with some minor polishing work done on the dents suffered en-route this birth!!!

25. MORNING PERSON, OR NIGHT OWL?

The Knight Rider….I sleep and ride on my dreams.…

26. OVER EASY, OR SUNNY SIDE UP?

Sunny’s side up…hahaha…

27. FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX?

Open grass lawn as my bed, A tree to shade, Natural breeze as the fan, A river by the side whose waters are soothing music to my ears… :) [ & I should be alone]

28. FAVORITE PIE?

Anant pai.. The Indian Amar chitra katha king… :)

29. FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR?

A Mint flavoured light green colored ice cream from Baskin-Robbins, if not any of the butterscotch flavours topped with honey…

30. OF ALL THE PEOPLE YOU TAGGED THIS TO, WHO'S MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND FIRST?
:)

Habitats to Homes...

2008-03-25T08:02:00.000-07:00

Appu looked through his plastic aquarium. Finger sized fish swam in the transparent waters. Silver strips glistened at every swift manoeuvre.

Continuous days of June rains. Earth quenched her thirst. Then the streams took birth. Muddy brown water over-spilled and meandered, clearing paths for its own progress. Now was the turn of nature’s spring to take charge. Pellucid and with them came uninvited guests of a different genre. It was Appu’s favourite pastime to venture into those unchartered waters. Sometimes with Amma’s consent and mostly by evading her constant gaze.

Today again he ran down the cemented steps, forgetting in the hurry, his habit of counting the number of steps. Before mom came searching, the little fisherman had to populate his marine museum with five more of the little fish or fishes. He decided to try all mathematics while going back, two steps at a time, or to try even three by stretching his little legs to the maximum. His tiny body stooped enough to concentrate, lest his catch went missing. Magic stroke of luck and his heart leapt. There in the corner of the stream swam in attentive assembly a shoal of little fish, a young breed like him. Playfully some hid behind the submerged and dancing blades of grass; some turned around and the rest swam behind. Almost motionless he rested the polythene bag of water on the wall of wet earth. Appu had mastered arresting the school of fish. Every step as casual, but more careful, his breath unprepared to disturb the air, even the ripples found it difficult to get stirred. Silence of death prevailed, a ghost he inspired. The closer his steps, the more he forgot his surroundings. It was drizzling slightly. The little legs in one flash posed a footballer about to take a free-kick.

“ Apppuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…”- The shrill angry call swept him off his feet. Appu slipped and fell. The cutie buttocks hiding in the small trousers were wet. A visibly frightened Appu looked behind.

“ Who told you to come out in the rain?” – Divyechi stood stern in a questioning pose. Sky-blue skirt and white blouse as uniform, School bag in one shoulder, holding an open umbrella she came closer and pinched his ear lobes. Appu’s face twitched as if his tongue tasted something vinegary.

“ Hahahaha…” he heard the giggle and looked atop the mud walls. At the edge, stood Chakkara, his naughty neighbour, with a small umbrella in her shoulders, head posed to a side and clapping her hands in joy. The girl who always poked her nose in the unwelcome had shed water once again to all his plans. His archrival, she liked him getting punished. Appu read what traversed in between. Divyechi while returning from her convent was directed by Chakkara to his mischief.

He bore the ignominy since the only chances of escaping Amma’s daily reward was to plead Divyechi.

“ Get all the rain in your head and catch a cold…” – Divyechi murmured on and on while drying a naked Appu.

“ Echi (sister), don’t tell Amma, please” – He whispered reluctantly.

“ Let me see” – She was too demanding. Appu’s lips went in a half crescent grimace behind her.

“ Please Echi, I won’t go out in rain again, promise” – Promise was added to every sentence, a newfound term after last academic year’s progress.

“ In that case, OK” – Echi agreed.

Wrapped in the pink towel, he marched ahead.

“ Why did u take bath now?” – Amma came from nowhere and questioned.

Before Appu opened his box of lies, Divyechi interfered “ He slipped in the courtyard”

What a sign of relief he had. A naughty smile decorated him. One eye briefly closed and opened, he acknowledged the lie, another of the impish learning from the third standard. Divyechi smiled at Appu’s genuine innocence.

He planned to avenge the treatment and decided to pay Chakkara in full. He thought, his blood still boiling. I’ll dig a trench, make her run the way and she will fall. Appu laughed at the smartness of his ideas. Clever boy!!! He patted himself with the comment Lathika teacher used to confer for his marks in Maths.

Rain steered clear and Appu reinvented the plans to fish hunt.

Stepping into the stream like a cat, his vigilant eyes were ready to battle any adversity. In a split second he splashed a sheet of silvery water. Along with it lay on the side a handful of little fish. Struggling to adjust to the new conditions, they fought for breath. Appu ran and carefully palmed one by one and dropped in the mobile aquarium. Though within a freedom curtailed boundary, lucky enough to get their breath back, they swam open eyed and confused. Appu imagined them as searching their parents and friends; still his selfish heart didn’t long to let them free. He loved their fins and the manner they took breath in and out. There were nights when he woke to see how his little fish slept, but they never did. Appu concluded this for their melancholy minus their loved ones.

When the total population reached ten, the fish found it difficult to swim in the packed contours and fortunately Appu understood it. Summer vacations came to an eventful end by June end. Set to join fourth standard in yet another big city, his heart longed not to lose his precious collect. The impossibility of Achan (Dad) allowing fish in the suitcase looming large, Appu was upset. Tears brimmed the contours of those black lashes.

“ Appu, why are you crying?” A soft tone rang like the cold breeze of the sultry summer afternoon. Chakkara came closer and sat beside him.

Hearing his woe she smiled and said – “ Don’t you worry Appu, leave them in our well, they will have more space to swim and every year when you are here you can see how big they have grown.”

“ Ohhh, wow!!” exclamations upon exclamations studded the fluffiness that Appu felt deep inside. His wide-open eyes, for the first time looked at Chakkara in admiration. Days of pent up anger melted at the breakthrough idea.

Unable to contain the excitement he ran, took the self-designed aquarium, looked through as he always used to, but now for the final time and poured the contents into the tumbler. He requested Divyechi to lower the tumbler with his fish friends into the well. Appu and Chakkara leaned hard to see the tumbler hitting the water softly. Into their new home, a freer place the tiny fish could grow better, start life afresh; rear a school of fish and ultimately a big population. Appu’s mind crossed the boundary of imaginations. He foresaw the subsequent trips, where the fish grew as big as what ‘Salim mappila’ got them everyday to fry, but he was firm never to allow his fish into the frying pan. They would be his friends, thanking his Chakkara for the new life. He couldn’t find the tiny silver streaks anymore; still he felt their happiness knocking at his heart.

The fishes have grown, so has Appu, and a happily married Chakkara. Her kids play outside the silver painted gate, with permission, and without any steps to count. The tiny fishes swim ready to flow to the paddy fields. The kids have but a novel idea. Appu Maman’s white banyan cloth as a sieve as well as to see the fish clear, ‘Kunju’ held one side of the cloth and ‘Thenu’ the other. Both moved in the shallow waters like a four-legged monster.

“ Lift it” – Kunju shouted and Thenu did. Five tiny fishes struggled and Appu reclined in the armchair remembering the bygone days. 17 years shifted like a single shuffle of cards. His fishes big and dark enough haven’t lost the silver streak. Visible to the naked eye, they shy away to their own secret crevices, cursing him or blessing Chakkara, he never can contemplate.

“ Appu-mamma…, how tiny and beautiful they look, isn’t?”

“ Beautiful catch!!!” - He nodded along in appreciation, “ who caught it?”

Kunju took the credits and Appu saw his past reflecting through the transparencies. Silver strips glistened at every swift manoeuvre….

My First Letter to a First love...

2008-03-20T12:14:00.000-07:00

CLICK IT AND READ.. :)

PS: This effort went bloopers..;)... But my spirits soar to write more...yet unable to, till I find a true diamond like her who grew in stature all by her will and determination, to become the independent lady she is today & will be forever...:)

Eternity...

2008-03-11T07:59:00.000-07:00

“ Mom, get me the watch from my drawer”

“ Which one do you want? The one with a leather strap or the steel!!! ”

“ Anyone ”

Busy, yet ornately strapping the black one around my wrist, memories ran faster than the seconds needle.

Years back where a watch reflected flamboyance. A tender age that yearned to be old. The 10 year old graduated from primary classes. Another vacation chugged him to the tranquil native village. Grandma longed to cuddle him in her lap. He who loved freedom always blushed in the attention. He continued playing, plundering runs at will from a deflated bowling. His 6-year-old brother waited for a lapse in concentration.

“ Chettan (brother), am tired bowling, please give me the bat”

“ Eda, two more over’s, maximum 5 more minutes”.

He dashed inside and I ran behind. Eyes groped in the dark and adjusted slowly. His little hands pointed and decided on the bigger needle first. It stood pointing 6.

“ Ha ha, Till 12:30 only ” – Tinku quipped after looking sharply at the needles of the grandfather clock. He had perfected the mathematics of five. The bigger needle at 1, 2, or 3, anywhere till 11 multiplied by 5 presented him the perfect time.

First standard taught him the simplicities of the hours, minutes and seconds in a clock, thought both of us weren’t aware of the importance of time. The pendulum oscillated without rest.

Grandma watched the proceedings from the portico and smiled

“ Enough of your cricket. Now take bath and come for lunch”

“ Ammammey(grandma) pleaaaase” Tinku pleaded with a lengthy overtone.

“ After lunch, I will give you a surprise ”

Tinku agreed with a smile.

Evening woke early.

“ Dress up kids, don’t we have to go out”. Grandma said kissing Tinku’s small nose.

His eyes slipped to sleep and the cute body shrinked itself into an embryo shape.

x--------x

Full sleeves and tucked shirts in the knee length trousers clothed us to a gentlemanly demeanor.

“ Where are we going?” I enquired the third time.

“ Thalassery town” - Ajitechi answered.

She looked beautiful in her Aqua blue sari and a matching blouse. The bangles shied when the fingers adjusted her earrings that swung with those black stones embroidered by a thin strip of gold. Some strands of mischievous long hair kissed those earrings before someone noticed the naughty act.

Tinku jumped to her waiting hands.

My mind pictured and discussed the falooda’s waiting in crystal glasses. The ‘rose and white’ mix, topped with vanilla flavoured ice cream was the food aficionado’s delight. The transparent small slippery balls that teased the teeth and danced around the liquid gave a smile. And the noodle like ingredient had heavens tasting on earth.

We walked on a different course altogether. No falooda’s?? Now what!!! We wondered.

The shop of shiny, leathery, silvery and golden watches hung on the glass sheet; most of them displaying 10 minutes past 10 were a treat.

“ Lallu, select the one u like”

I looked in awe; an inexplicable happiness swathed my skin, and in all kindness returned some Goosebumps of excitement.

Frames of me being the most important in the sixth class, and a crowd of boys and girls hovering around me to have a glimpse of the newfound fortune stimulated some corners of the heart.

“I too want the watch” – Tinku interfered.

“ When you are as big as your brother, there will be one for you”

Unrelenting he remained silent, cheeks red and puffed in anger, eyes brimming with tears. Ajitechi had the answer with a digital watch from the showcase. 06:47 PM, and the colon played hide and seek.

“ I liked this one ” – With a watch in hand I declared gleaming.

“ Take another one Lallu, it’s a ladies watch” – Ajitechi had her opinion.

“ NO”

“ Let him have his choice” –Ammamma stood by my side.

And thus I wore a silvery steel strap, with a name calligraphed in the smallest of print on the dial. Sst Shalini- it read from HMT.

Years rolled ahead. Watches upon watches, each costlier, beautiful than the preceding came to adorn my wrist, but none could give the feeling of being wealthy and important. The Sst still lies on my desk, ‘a souvenir’, wind it and it unwinds memories of Grandma, Ajitechi, Thalassery, their warmth, our childhood…Thus filling the turf with umpteen examples of simplicity, selfless acts of kindness, of unspoken deeds of love, reminding those nostalgic evenings which never will be back to fill the void that grandma left, again to make me feel important at least once again.

The pendulum oscillates, without rest, without complaints, at every crossing half hour, the silent tick-tock's chime loud, waking me out of my reveries, elucidating the new world ahead and the multitudes of opportunities it has in offer.

Thank you Grandma, for accustoming me to what time is, to my parents who taught me the importance of time, and to all who integrated in my life to make every passing second entertaining and life meaningful.

Liberty...

2008-03-06T23:44:00.000-08:00

I set her free from the dungeons of my heart.
I float with the melody of the winds.
I feel as light as a bun of cotton.
I sense victory in thoughts.
I defeated my fallacies.
I liberate My Self.
I set ME open.
I can inhale.
Freedom,
Choice,
Now.

NB: Do see a Pyramid/Triangle and not an Underwear!!!!

Tongilicious...

2008-03-04T06:16:00.000-08:00

“Shree khodiyar American Indian sweet corn” – As queer a name, yet something aromatic, something specific too... Maybe the four-wheeler is hand in glove of an American Indian!!! ‘Four-wheeler’ a misnomer, lets call it a cart.

A teenager guarded them- shy, shabby and smiling. The corn lay calm on the coal bed. Basking in the warmth of the puffing pulsations, the faintest green sheath continued browning in the redness of coal. Flannels flew while the corn conversed the coal. Anger? “No, it’s our love” - They said. Well aware of their destiny... a few moments of passion.

The petro-max shed a convenient shade. Five of the already prepared corn cousins lay conspicuous in the lower compartment, sleepy, tired and weeping for their love life stood incomplete and a little jealous for the one taking pleasure from the fondling of those masculine wood splinters now.

“How much for one?” – Pop came my question.

“ How many do u want?” – Pat came his inquiring reply.

The bargain starts, ending on a positive note. I cornered my eyeballs to have a glimpse at the simmering intimacy.

“ Two of the hottest, fresh cones please.”

He stripped the papery green sheath, already darkened to spots of isolated black. In half nude husk, they did shy a little. Lemon takes its turn in a hemisphere, a slight squeeze and came the juice, sour and translucent. Dipped in the Reddish-orange mixture of salt and chilly, they exchange a deep kiss. Like a shy guy smeared with his girl’s lipstick, lemon goes licking the bare body of cone, up and down, top to bottom. The skirt forcibly lifted, my cone looked innocent in shame. Pretty they looked with the tiny kernels stacked like a hundred little teeth.

My hands took the offer and the lusty front teeth dug into it ferocious. An assembly line of cute yellow stood audacious, but in disturbed disarray. The taste buds excited at the new prospect, tongiliciously tempting, irresistibly mouth-watering, tantalizingly aromatic, and invitingly succulent. Sour, salty, hot and tasty, what more of a flavor could my buds long for on that wintry night on the beach where waves blend one upon the other in another saga of love.

The streak of Vermilion…

2008-02-29T07:24:00.000-08:00

Hanging on the doors of a Mumbai local is window to an unfamiliar, faster world. Forgotten are lives of some similar beings, overlooked are the helplessness in some recognizable eyes, disregarded are the depth of some hungry souls.

Every day follows the other like a faithful follower. The almanac torn page after page for months to breeze past. Seasons expire, yet... life never comes to a standstill.

Walking through some narrow lanes left alone with the trail of a once beckoning history dilutes time. The towering Gothic structures admittedly evoke awe.

A lonely hand outstretched disturbed the meditative admiration. The rag picker had a haunting look overlooking an expectant coin to be dropped. The tobacco chewed and darkened teeth shone with a brownish red tinge. The lips widened making the teeth conspicuous. Another shuffle and the coins rubbed each other creating a sonorous harmony, music ensemble of a deprived lot. The left hand hit her belly involuntary, portraying hunger or a silent request to help her survive!!! The bubbly young kid with the hands on her hips swayed left and right. A look at her and she hid behind the shade of the polyester saree. The piece of cloth hung in tatters, a part of the mounds exposed. On the left hung a sack burdened with an uncared soul. The tiny future obliterated in the burgeoning populace of the emaciated. Snuggling in the race of survival!!! Nothing earned, nothing lost.

Unexpectedly, in split second amazement a smaller palm came outstretched. The shy little champion had become bolder in the enquiry. A look at the tiny palms evoked sympathy. The lines of fate callously double-crossed the lines of luck in those little requests. Pity squeezed the better out from the principled male ego and a rupee coin involuntarily tossed into the stretched out little fingers. The fingers folded, making a safe niche for the worthy coin. She looked at the begging guardian with a feel of achievement, who by then had turned to the next passer by. A sense of earning enveloped her twinkling eyes. So did a sagacious illumination in the darkest corridors in the donor. He had unknowingly directed those little hands to follow the murkier world of easy money.

Shanties as a home and occasionally with streets as a cushion, lamppost bases to recline, unaware of how life has to be indulged, they survive struggling, digging the same hands at times to empty some pockets of cash, sometimes to search for the crumbs of left out and decaying food in the dumping yards, ending in a rage.

The rag picker prepared to move. A coin fell and she stooped to pick. A shameless streak of sindhoor faintly decorated the scalp, splitting her hair into two equivalents. Value of the maroon stood demeaned. Any worth for her vermilion marks?? I stopped wondering and went ahead to enjoy the simplicities life offered at a discount.

The Little Nothings...

2008-02-26T07:43:00.000-08:00

......A Fairy tale based on the true life tale of two lovely souls.......

Once upon a time lived a princess, far away beyond the reach of eyes. Wearing anklets, dancing through, ran she all along the woods she loved so tender. Kingdom danced and so the subjects merrily, happily daily till dawn. Day along she sat alone, on a bank too grassy smooth. Pristine were the waters clear, carefree swam her fishes colorful, lovely smiled the flowers, and blissful slept the sky blue yet white, but prettier than all looked her dimples charming. Time ticked and she wrote verse upon the leaves of a little plant. Loved she reading the little words of joy and so she did write every day never-ending. The water she drank and the fishes spoke – “why not come down and be our queen?’

Smiling cute in reflections, she replied- “A gentle, handsome prince awaits a me so lovely, lovely...”

The fish swam down dancing her fins. A little drop splashed, kissing her dimples charming. Ripples drowned in her reflection.

Time went on and the plant did grow. As they did, so did she. The king loved her so, much more deeply than could the queen. Time came and she betrothed. So intense were her looks so elegant, the prince did swoon a little bit. Then the queen her mother so warm, packed great many jewels of gold; trinkets dazzling, dresses fine and all that made a royal bride. Everyone wept in tumbler full. The fishes did miss their queen in dreams, so did the leaves with verses poetic. Mom she pressed against the bosom full. Bosoms exchanged a love so warm.

“Keep this golden ball so valuable, it will help you when in need”

“Yes mom, always I will treasure it true”- she replied.

On a decorated horse she left to the groom’s kingdom, farther than where thoughts could reach. Far and far they rode so fast, warm a day so scotching hot. Thirsty, thirsty did she feel. Got down she to have her fill, the ball did roll far and far. Didn’t she notice and knew it late. Wept and wept she till sleepy tired. Nightmares stole her fancy dreams. She searched it on and on, did not find it her eyes gentle. Went near to take a sip, knelt down and ugly frog one leapt from it. Startled she did cry so loud. Asked the frog so tender toned –“why weep u maiden dream?”

“Alas! What will become of me? Lost a gift my mom did give.”

“Cry not, cry not, maiden dream, you will get it one day fine. A prince charming will give you back, all the gifts back in life.” Said the frog.

Stopped she crying loud, whimper-whimper all that lasted. Turned around and saw she dark. Prince, Horses, jewels of gold; trinkets dazzling, dresses, all disappear in one ominous stroke. All alone did she stand, stronger, bolder in her heart!!

Butterflies came dancing, and so did glow flies teasing her. Little dimples could not hold, tears so big tumbling down. The fish didn’t come again, and felt like self to drown below.

“Never will I tell my mom so nice, the king and queen do will weep” – saying thus she made a splashing jump. Came the frog to her rescue, carried her to the kingdom deep below. Woke up, attired a mermaid queen, left her legs so slim and bare. Instead did she swim the river, like a queen of the world below. Years rolled and years rocked and no sign of the prince to came. Waited waited eyes her soar, wrinkled did her skin so tranquil. Frog did care her day and night.

Far and wide did she swim, no wonder the prince didn’t come. Tired to her heart, wept she once again all alone. Came swimming the fishes seeing so. Nothing , nothing said she smiling. Tears none knew did exist, as the river drank it all.

“Maiden dream , why you cry? “

“Aging am I, day along, where did go my charming prince?”

“Weep not, weep not, maiden dream, time is not so too late”

A gentle smile did caress, the little globes of twinkling eyes.

In her joy and happy words, kiss did she a lip on cheek. Sparks of light made it big. Startled looked she at her. “Where did go my fins and tail?’ surprised she looked around.

Stood she on dry earth, the frog looking far. Ran she far and far, hopping, jumping did reach the frog.

“ Take me to that little hill, lies in store a surprise big” – The frog did croak.

On tip-tip, tap–tap, plash– plash from the bottom to the top, ran along both the friends till morning broke. Reached they both the mountain top. Far saw she a glittering globe and a thousand little notes. Remembered she the little leaves, once did she mend it tender. Cushioned ran she faster still. Touched she the golden round, and did she know the bigger truth.

“ Ohh my mom, the gift is due, what u did give me once so new” – laughed and danced she the sprited princess. Came back all her jewels, gold and trinkets, dazzling dresses wrapped her up. But searched she for her prince charming, who did take her all along. Saw she him with another princess, happier merrier than ever before. Didn’t she call him to disturb, didn’t she wake him from a reverie.

Turned to hug her frog near, instead saw she a prince so handsome, charming.

“Who are you young man magic?”

“ Ohh!!! My maiden dream, how u forget?” - So tender toned did he ask, a smile adorning the roving looks.

Frog was he transformed and told her the story now too past. Long ago came a rolling globe. As he took it, did it flash and in a curse was he swept. Wrinkled, shriveled did his skin, and was he told to stay away. Spoke the voice of the sky then loud. A princess will kiss you once, take her to the golden globe, may you be free of the curse of fate only then.

And on top of the world was showering love in drizzling drops. The prince did kiss the princess once, deep in the lips of love. Locked in love, both their eyes closed in bliss.

“ Love me, love me, till we part” – wept the princess in arms so cozy manly.

“ I promise we won’t part, keep my word or let the world split apart”

Owed she a lot to the prince charming, who gave her life not just once!!

Drove up a chariot golden, with horses beautiful, decked with feathery plumes and a golden harness; Drove them far to a kingdom, with another king and queen waiting. Showered blessings infinite the heaven, fairies, imps and angels piloting the route ahead.

Time and tide did pass again. Little prince and princess played around, running behind the new king and queen now throned. The king and queen did live, ages and ages of a happy life, eternal.

Checkmate.....

2008-02-21T11:48:00.000-08:00

“Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red” – Nancy miss spoke loud and crisp, pin pointing every color on the rainbow chart.

“Akash, write the colors on the board…” came her command pretty soon.

“Black, gray, black, gray, white, white, gray”

The offshoots of the already impending cloud of laughter burst from the young mouths. Akash looked devoid of blood as his sweaty hands wet the blackboard and chalk alike; the cute black in his eyes swelled and swam in tears, yet not a single drop dripped. He contained for it had been years of humiliation and embarrassment.

“What absurdity?” She thundered .

The giggles petered out wondering on whom the intended anger was!!!

Akash breathed the air around in all intensity, out of fear, dread and the cane that was to follow his palms.

A stoic silence prevailed.

“Go to your seat, young boy” agape stood the 4^th standard pals.

Nancy miss had interrupted a tradition.....

The oval plaque read in golden letters.

“Congratulations.

Presented to AKASH NAIR for being recognized as the

'Best Photographer' in ‘Black & White’ section at the International Junior…….."

A different eye at last brought laurels to the once ‘outsider’ in Art classes. Myriad of colors sprinkled and splashed across the walls of recognition, yet for eyes so unique stood they as spots of the same intensity. The enormous canvas of the world of colors arrived as a mere panorama of subtle shades in black, white and gray rainbows, a chess board of the black and white soldiers.

With a jerk his eyes opened to reality as the announcer boomed over the microphone…

“Let’s give him a standing ovation for transforming a rare congenial defect into opportunity and directing many more crestfallen to a path of success”….

Applause cheered the air around. He saw a million colorful smiles light the stage in harmony.

“May his blacks and whites take him far and wide, farther than the many in the colorful world can reach…..” Nancy miss completed the incomplete….

N.B - Monochromatism

"Aunty, Poppins or Gems?"

2008-02-16T09:29:00.000-08:00

The park quite lonely, the benches lonelier. If not for someone’s private moments she stayed lifeless, still surviving the battering weather year after year. Waiting, waiting and waiting she aged… the coat of paint lost its sheen and wrinkled. Expecting the unexpected visitor to sweep the dead dry, leaves relaxed on her sleepers for days. If not for the occasional breeze, the burden would have ‘weighed her down ‘. The infrequent rains refreshed her, yet after which she stunk of the decaying matter around… she then longed for the sun and his light, which again turns oppressively blistering. Seclusion made her panels go broke and broken like the poor little child’s teeth…

Far away on a sweltering afternoon, sun blazing on his most intense of temperatures, a lonely Red sari walked a different gait… neither fast nor slow, a determination reflecting deep within her. Eyeballs went in circles and ovals, the rest drooled… in anticipation the bench craved to kiss her rounded bottoms…she came near one, wiped a tear or two and did something none ever cared to…the summer foliage parted ways as she wiped it with smooth satin hands…. Cruel enough a poking nail pricked her…Out of passion, or for disturbing a long slumber? A wry smile adorned her. The simplicity standing proof of a long traversed painful journey behind… She sat leaving room on the right… yes!! She too was waiting like the rusted iron nails waited to prick her. The wooden ply creaked, aching joints of lustful surprises…? Her gaze straightened and focused; to a blank point nowhere near…the wind carried a flurry of dust into her gaze. The burgundy dyed hair acted a cameo, swaying sharp kissing the cheeks and an ear, forming a façade for the face. The nose lusted an emanating fragrance. Dust accepted failure and she positioned better. Easing her gorgeous spine and resting the torso on the bench support she sighed… a deep breath from the bright yellow spread air around... one leg upon the other and eyes closed in meditation another tear spoilt her mascara... the cuckoo sang, the sparrow chirped, but she remained composed. Her thoughts like nomads, left alone uncared in search of some answers. A droopy eyed, parched and scrawny stray by now took shelter near; quizzed at an unusual visitor in the vicinity…he lay quiet in a corner, resting himself against the tawny grass, once exuberantly green.

The breeze brought a shower of yellow leaves, another brought it nearer. Her eyes frantically searched…a young gun gained her attention. Hovering around made no impact…mistaken identities, she wasn’t the kind he expected… he walked off and so did the dog. Bored and unimpressed.

Time swept the change. The blazing sun gave a little respite and evenings made frolic in a farther distance. Kids played and her attention deterred her again. She sat vacuous. A child came running full speed as if he won’t stop at all. Near her he applied brakes… making a screeching sound and mimicking the brakes of a bus, he took reverse and parked himself. She smiled at his innocence. He came closer and in rapt attention checked her cheeks, stretched both of his closed fists and asked “Aunty, do u like Poppins or Gems?”

She stood startled, the question echoing deep… before the answer she had to give, her thoughts and eyes explored the park. No one resembled her ‘Gems’ Bond. She searched frantically. No, he is nowhere around, her multi talented, chocolaty pal. Loved and lost. She felt it bitter to acknowledge the truth. Her man had left quiet. The one she always shared her feelings with. The one she always treasured in her heart. He did promise to meet her once last to speak. Where has his boldness and persona gone? She wept incessantly with a thousand dins picketing the inner thoughts.

“Aunty, Poppins or Gems?”- The innocence reverberated with the question he always teased her with. An aunty added purposely to fight. She always chose Poppins as he loved Gems the most. He used to pick the same color from the Gems pack as that popped out of her Poppins silver and rainbow wrapper. The frames moved in the split second on how he dressed like ‘Gems’ Bond and enacted the thrilling TV AD adventures. And him applauding the talented lego bricks arrangement of hers with the available chocolate colors.

She kneeled amidst the running tears and smiled at the kid getting impatient to race his way back to the swing. She whispered to the little champ “Baby, Aunty doesn’t need chocolates anymore. You can have it both.”

His surprised looks and the thanks melted like chocolates in her heart. He ran driving.

Nothing more in the offing to wait , she rose from the bench. Two leaves fell, one where she sat and one where she cleared for the someone she waited. Now for how long will the benches wait for someone to kiss them clean?

Walking past the swing she heard a whisper. “Aunty, Poppins or Gems?”- This time but not for her.

Her bated breath waited for the small girl’s pick. ‘Gems’ - She said and picked a purple oval from the pack. The kids laughed and exchanged two different colors of both chocolates to each others mouth. She walked down the steps quiet, happier for the legacy continues, with different twists and turns, laughs and cries…sweet and sour times to flavor every occasion. Life so sour at times, only to make it sweeter later. She knew that someone better waited for the gem in her.

Silence

2008-02-08T09:03:00.000-08:00

A day after the silent innocence smelt the perfumed air around. A light different from the ones lent by the primordial soup. The bright new world lay raw in front. Her eyes continued to wink, but the pupil groped around in a semi circle. The tiny fingers snuggled tight to shape the clenched fist with her freedom curtailed in the bundle of joy. Still the toothless smile perfected the art of happiness for the souls around. The thumb went suckling, kissing the tiny lips of hers. Mom wrapped her in an embrace close to the breasts. The cuddle lent warmth to the coziness of affection. She slept, silent and noiseless, dreaming nothing for she hadn’t seen the world outside the featherbed.

Behind the curtains of lust....

2007-12-13T10:19:00.000-08:00

She sat in the corner of her room. Oblivious of the breathing behind her. Unmindful of the memories that haunt her, silence sobbed in another quieter spot of the heart. She had been enslaved in the prison of her own. The painted whitewash stood peeled off like her of her imaginations. The dampness stayed an uninvited guest. Her enquiries stood nude and shameless bathed in callous ignorance or intentional forgetfulness!!! She never cared. And he never tried to cloth it.
Curtains windowed the darker shades. She didn’t want the light of the day to disturb. Still a faint glow seeped though and spread like the whiskers of the mouse probing the smell of an indoor. Moans of someone’s sensuous pleasure trespassed the hazy boundaries of cloth. She wished to lose all her encumbrances. To feel lighter minus the mammary. Her gaze searched for the already lost heart. A gamble of zero hope. The last trigger. Nothing changed except the loss. Even the tone had a hiccup. The mutants of respects invalid for the present.
He loved her body; her color, her smile and everything in her except her. And what more could she expect as a prostitute?
Clients… Customers…Blurred images of men who came and went swathed her memory. Several visitors and a few guests. She serviced them without guilt, without passion to an ultimate impasse.
Kamathipura had been her ancestral home from time immemorial. Her world. Her mom wished her fate to break the shackles of these dusky rooms. She treasured and hid Tanima from those ugly clutches of lust. The penetrating eyes often tried to get it through, but those defeated efforts made the gaze thirsty for more. Brothels were her home and pimps her playmates. Untimely is destiny so unlucky. Her mom died a lonely death leaving the mantle for a young her. She wasn’t sold or maybe sold by the big madams. It was always a one-day play for the breed of her like and a one sided show. The actors playing their part to perfection. The selfishness for the three letter word caressed the body till the hunger died. Sometimes violent, at times lovely, sometimes lively, and mostly lifeless. It’s business. The most thriving from the ancient for the uncaring male dominion to ease off a frustration or two. Innumerable lives shattered, infinite souls sold. The muffled cries insulated in the muddle of sleaze.
Then there came the HIM. Out of a distraught home. Caring and quiet. Handsome and gloomy. His eyes spoke the undeclared story of disgust. The first man to enquire her affairs, the first man to caress her tress, the first man who cuddled her and shared his stories. The man who always returned for her. The man who kissed her forehead before making love. She fell in love so undisclosed. Her eyes awaited his arrival every anxious moment. Then his footsteps came more as expected, with the love and hope an extra baggage so unexpected. He had a family. A broken one though, her desires always defeated her morals in his presence. The cracked mirror reflected her circumstance in transition. The tiny drops of love showered from the crevices of her splintered soul into him. Was she going insane, she herself wondered once? But that is the magic of love, where the wits masquerade every wrong as right.
Months passed and she eased. The wrinkles from his tensed hood stretched clear. He brought the small chocolates she always yearned to savor as a kid. He got the teddies she saw on the windows while street walking. He brought the tiny packets of surprises every other day. He decided her birthday as the first night he relished her in delight. He softened her bed with the cards she never ever expected. And she began to dream. The castle grew in stature and so did her desire to live. She expected him to hug and make merry on the day she present him the biggest surprise.
The dark dim light streetlights expected his arrival. She stood with bated breath to break the news. Her gaze wandered wildly till where the lights could no longer transport. His gait slow, He arrived late. The regular chocolates missing from his fusty pockets. He smiled wry. And laughed at himself in a dry guffaw. Cynically the wagging tongue dragged itself and declared, drunk and inebriated – “My kid is back and so is his mom”. The elbows rubbed his eyes. The index finger cleared the flowing phlegm down his nose. His hands danced a different pose to the resonance in her ears. She felt a thud in her heart. The wind blew the castle down and all the dreams came tumbling down. She smiled amongst the angst and tears. There was no better joy than to see him happy. The news choked in the saliva that reluctantly settled below her tongue dragging down the throat. She coughed, but didn’t drop her crystal of joy. He kissed her once for long and she knew it her last. A fate so sandwiched like her mom’s. The hug caught her like a cadaver. Still his sweat smelt sweet a pheromone.
He left her a final gift of which he himself was caught unawares. The smiling chubby cheeked carved so identical. Her ray of hope. Her bundle of joy. Her son. The feeling of abandonment abandoned her in his presence. His future as the last glimmer of hope, she flicked the wrinkled past with a careless rebellion. The soiled pages to be cleansed and dried of the dirt. She will live for him. Tears of subconscious joy rolled her cheeks more than the lustful delights in her the next customer. She had evolved.
The hands pressed and the bodies’ embraced in a sensual nearness. He hugged her. And she melted into a stage of another tireless drama. A saga of transitory excitement, where flakes of lust flew like dust with every breath. A ritual done. The money paid. He left. She sat in the corner of her room. Oblivious of the breathing behind her.........

THE OCEAN ORDEAL

2007-12-04T00:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday…. On the 28^th November 2007, HAZIRA, Surat, Gujarat.... time and tide stood a true testimony to the proverb dedicated to salute their reputation…They didn’t wait for anyone…a delayed late evening ship survey. Reason - resource crunch tailed to the slackness of the personnel. Reserves intended for the MERMAID anchored at deep sea was loaded on the trawler. More time at sea. Venturing into the sea in a boat at half past six .The worst call ever taken by me. But adventure at mid sea that too at night is not an always-open option. It needs luck and availability, a little courage to take risk, the willingness to work at night, the adventure at heart and empathy towards the owner for the early release of his vessel for trade. My decisions agreed for the go. High risk - Worst among the practical impediments. The boat accommodated 10 humans, packaged in various shapes and sizes…lean, fat tummies, dwarfed, tall and so on…Nine of them with a wife waiting at home and one free me.
The ride as I believed was a 15-minute close to the shore entertainment trip, no traffic snarls, no humps, no ditches, no horns & no racing…. cool and calm amidst the breeze from the natural air conditioner. Ultimately my watch stood frozen, reaching the deep seas after an hour, although cruising at a commendable 5 knots. Aft to forward, a distance of 10 meters…the fishing boat lay complete.
Mermaid was nowhere in sight. No going further – The adamant crew reasoned for the route was perilous and not actually intended. The boat slowed down though not to a halt. Pitch darkness ruled the roost. The night skies were vacant except for one lone constellation and some scattered silver dots. The tide was high. Winter air was colder than the sea below.
Nine silk flags stamped the unique design for our small boat. I memorized the colours of those silk flutters. Yellow, blue, green, pink on one side & rose, orange, violet, red on the opposite symmetrically placed. A certain charm supplemented to the boat in motion. The lone bright ‘Maroon red’ waved the air in greeting, high at the helm. That was the ninth. Neither the crew nor I knew the real meaning behind these shades, may be a part of the aesthetics.Coaxing them with some sweet nothings, we reached the ship by 19 45 hours. “Welcome abroad vessel Mermaid” – Capt. spoke in a deep-throated command. The work finished at a speedy succession, taking cue from the fast life surrounding us. In an hour we planned the return. Hungry though… No time for dinner on the ship.
On the boat again. The Aluminium tumblers were wiped clean of the last morsels. I sat hungry at the boat crew’s callousness. The wooden structure started the return voyage at 21:30, unheeding to an own warning of the imminent low tide by 22 hours. An old Mr. Khan advised the crew to keep moving in the channel distinctly marked with a red light. The water split apart and the boat gained speed. The froth and bubbles tried to follow our trail, but of no avail. The wintry windy cold enveloped my shadowy skins. The silken curls danced daintily to the music of the howling snores of an orphaned wind. The small lonely cute bulb acted as a guiding radiance. I looked back for a view of the mermaid. Is she still beautiful? The ship seemed far but graceful in attire where the jewels gleamed. Only three triangular lights distinguished it from the horizon devoid of a margin. Disappearing from the eye view, she was inviting her male guests for a longer stay. Reflections carried to a larger expanse, but no shadows were cast for no glow had the nerve to cast a shadow between the oceans fury. Every silhouette merged in the darker picture.
Something I noticed in between. Water drawn in a plastic can from the sea. Another skilled artisan at work. Unlike the tumbler that goes dancing into a well and coming back gasping and spitting, taming the ocean and its salinity makes a tough competition. The 10-liter kerosene can was thrown into the sea along the direction of the boat’s motion. Coir held tight in hand, lest the ocean consume it. The behavior of the oarsman was equally rough like the mighty sea. He pulled it, dipped it again, pulled it, dipped it and repeated the same five times before one final drag and the haul was a can stomach full of brine water. We went on merry, laughing and chatting about life and the moments each sailor enjoyed at deep sea.Barely half an hour and lo!!! it happened. The red light neared and the boat rocked. It had hit the sand dunes in the sea. The tide had gone down. There is no way we can tell a tide to wait and time too had slipped off. No escape. The moon accompanied our sojourn. And with all its grace lent us the most needed light. Charm it exuded more from the moonlight reflecting its vanity on the oceanic carpet. Water glistened maybe shy to have a lady near. The seas seemed to lose its violent character. The presence of a female tamed him yet again. The expanses ahead showed a wall like structure. Receding water made visible the sand underneath. A blockade. We went round and round the red light with a vain hope of directing ahead a new route. The engine spluttered, screamed, roared and cried hoarse till it died, but the boat bottom stood obstinate in the sand kissed cuddle.
Stranded!!! Yes we were. Midnight in the middle of the vast expanse of an unending ocean. The little boat didn’t have a distress call equipment; neither did it have a lifebuoy. The boat was listing unevenly with every wave. Silence prevailed from the regular chirps. Only the distant industries lend some light to mark the shore. Dotted bulbs lined like a semi circular assembly. Our neighbour. A cutter-suction dredger at a far locale. Exactly 26 bright lights adorned the craft. The mobile signals were caught and left by the mobiles themselves. Mr. Captain requested the boatwallas to steer it back to the mermaid. They were unrelenting citing the inadequate supply of diesel to return on high tide. Anxious calls and hysterical responses. Deliberations continued. The human behavior became evident. Ball rolled to the other’s court. The blame game started. All the mistakes from the beginning, which weren’t mistakes till now, cropped up. Some fumed. Close friends turned to foes in a moment’s interaction. Tempers soared, anchors released. We requested the inmates of the boat to prepare food with the available resources. Rice and Dal stood mute at the empty kerosene tin. Both sat raw in the aluminum tumbler. So we are going hungry throughout the night.
“The first time in 25 years of sailing experience, am getting marooned.” - someone responded with the complaining intonation. I sat cool and quipped - “In that case I got the lifetime experience with just over two years into my career!!!” I beamed. I joked. The tense air borrowed an honorable humor. People learnt to smile ‘cheese’. The only question poking me was on how to click some memorable pictures. The Nikon surfaced from the captain’s pocket. 5-mega pixels. The battery was low, but the scope too was minimal. The surrounding didn’t expose much. The moonlight was my favorite. Flash off. Riding on an intense passion I captured the moon and its light as a couple shy among the misty clouds and like the divorced standing bold among the wavy sea.The small conversation with the boat crew ensued where he was more interested in the laptop I was checking mails on. The uses, where can it be procured, the cost factor so on and so forth. R-world had an excellent coverage till the battery let me down. The next tide is at 3 am. Let my tardiness sleep for 3 hours. I too decided and looked around the deck for a space. The temporary denizens occupied every available inch, but I got a corner to put my feet up. Sunil’s bag as my pillow, sleep almost carried me when an ‘Ankhom mein teri…’ hummed from the Mumbai mobile.
“ We agree to give the boat 30 liters of diesel. You can go on board.” – it declared. Somehow the boat moved freeing itself from the embrace. I was hungry, thirsty, cold and sleepy. There was no more “welcome abroad”!!! The cook was woken up and we got ORDER FRESH bread and AMUL butter plus mixed fruit jam. AMUL milk came later. One loaf and from that some toasted too. The instant egg fried rice and HEINZ tomato ketchup added zing with the KWALITY green chilly sauce. Thanks Shekhar, for the tasty food. It wasn’t hunger that made me say so.
I went to sleep in the bridge. Another catnap. The smooth rolling of the ship made my swing and the open air sung my lullaby. The boat was ready to leave by 2 am. Tide started to rise.
Somehow I was transported back to sleep. A sudden jolt and I found myself rolling off the upper deck. Perched precariously at the railing, only rising water approached my sights. A frail heart leapt to my mouth. There was a sudden cry of alarm from the co-passengers who hadn’t slept. They were tensed, red and wide-awake. A rodent came up the deck, enquired the air with its whiskers, and went down a hole. I continued my nap. The boat was rocking. A second jerk and I sat on my knees. A cold fright for the first time caught me unawares. Five more degree of list and the boat would turn turtle. Even water felt quite quiet. It was like death approaching, very near the shore. Seconds pricked like minutes that pain. The tide was rising furiously. Sickening sight of the whirlpools ready to consume us. The moment one falls off the vessel, death would clutch him with the unkindest & sharpest of its tentacles. A silvery grave of water? I couldn’t agree to. Swimming was futile. The cold froze me to back off into a shell. Hushed silence prevailed. Only the creaking sound of the wooden planks entertained the fright. The coxswain’s instincts and our lifeline bound together. The tiller was steered with adept hands. 30 minutes of nightmare. 4 am. We arrived a safe ashore. Moon alone followed us like a faithful disciple.
‘Relief’…said one…’Thank God’ ...said another… ‘Not again’…said my boss…’once in a lifetime experience’…murmured my cold whispers. Roads seemed safer and better, though with the infinite potholes. Rekindled with the value of life on earth, smiles came back and so did the humor.
On the road, into the waiting MH-03 Chevrolet. Fasten the seat belts, said the driver and we drove the deserted roads, each one thanking their respective God’s. Somewhere far the dear ones waited, to be hugged and pampered with life’s little surprises…another of those memorable nights from the annals of a small journey christened life…

The UNIDENTIFIED tracks..........

2007-11-23T02:55:00.000-08:00

A cold wintry morning. Sleep incomplete at 4 am, I woke. The train wasn’t silent, wasn’t overcrowded… Houseful? Yes…. Dozing off at the neighboring shoulders expense was immature. Fresh saliva tasted acrid. Eyes wide open. Cold shrapnel’s of wind made breathing difficult. The chugging continued at a constant pace….. the wooden sleepers… the steel rails and the gray gravel sang a tune in unison. Clickety noises surfaced at the silent bridges. The faint glow at the occasional lampposts shed light to the clouds getting ready for the new office. Screech…the engines stopped breathing. Quizzical warmth surrounded the empty gazes. The cold surrounded the inside of the heart. Silence overpowered the slow down. The halt was indecent. Five more minutes would have made the smile… destination seemed far from near. The two palanquin bearers were silhouetted in the misty atmosphere. The whites in uniform visibly invisible….the gazes sharpened itself to clarity. They didn’t have a princess …a stretcher they held motionless… a frozen body swathed in an inkblot of red slept quiet. It didn’t look a man… neither a woman… nor an animal… disfigured once upon a time human or inhuman. Not a single gaze spared when alive, and now follows umpteen twin gazes through the steel smelling windows. The undertakers walked at their constant gait unmindful.
The moment stood a cliché for the engine driver. Another shrill…. another deep-throated frequency shrouded in the clamor of those inexpressive iron wheels. Another shattered mind, forcing… coaxing and convincing the body to mutilate. He remembered….. the first episode of his own brutality…. At 18…His first night at work…the momentary dilemma….He stood undecided… his first trespasser… A young man at midnight back faced to halt the train with determination. Mighty enough in resolve to stop the unkind engine and the metal boxes surging at impending pace. The frantic honk never made him budge or his tenacity. Did he forget the need to live or is he accidentally unawares? Deaf? Dumb? Silent? silly???…. Is he trembling on the colder steel? Isn’t it deafening to hear the echoing wheels of iron through the tracks, like a sword running fast in the air? Questions stagnated the driver’s mind…the hooting neared; the derailed youngster turned face to face and lay down on the tracks in a steely embrace. Silently…..peacefully…to sleep an everlasting dream. Eternal escape from the agony in his daily diaries of woe. The train crossed the youngster too… one to two to three to… stopped counting cadavers when the fingers in his toe stopped counting at twenty… The trauma lasted. Refreshed only when truth dawns, of holding a thousand lives on his back from derailing. Still hoping against hope for the single moment to sweep the someone’s mind…. Praying the almighty to instill in them a fresher thought of ‘I will live’. .. frozen memories…
A pure somebody placed on the corner of the newspapers the next day. Nameless… faceless…anonymous… titled UNIDENTIFIED… he lived a life somewhere to a life nowhere remembered.

A reply to the someone I met in life…..

2007-11-16T05:34:00.000-08:00

Smartness is the personification of one's ideals... i know not what is in store... am ignorant on what’s life and its travails... life may reward as time ticks on the emptiness of the clock i keep watch on...

The selfish ego doesn’t permit me to fetter the freedom of life and its silly nuances to a bondage titled marriage... i will surrender meekly once i feel that life has gifted me my due... i may be fun and good in some eyes... may be the fanatic, fickle minded, finicky for others... the fuel hasn’t burned to soot...there is octane still, for me to chase a dream.... i yearn to survive the waves of the intense tempest...i want to craft an identity....sometimes which may gobble me, myself and the ultimate in resistance christened the ego... i see a light at the end of the tunnel.... is it a hole thru which the water seeps in to drown the mine of its diamond and the unselfish ego...am caught unawares... the seconds lost in transition... the minutes lost in indecisiveness... the hours lost in immature solitudes... i knew not the days have been torn fm my calendar... i knew not that years can add age to the self.... the truth dawned a little late.... years cant pluck the talent and the self of its visage.... i feel free to bloom, away from the sights and smells of the callous human mind.. i wander among the swifter winds... embracing the lovely clouds... resting my tired shoulders among the thundering silences.... eyes wide open to view the life in a different light... nose smart enough to smell the fragrance of the future...ears sharp to tinkle the little chimes... I wont quit so soon dear…if things don’t turn turtle again... i will have to crawl the life of a beetle on its back…though it covers a distance, it sleeps upside down tired and uncomfortable... life never ceases in me to sleep topsy turvy... i will pace faster, swim swifter, run closer... among the dwindling populace of idols... achieving the goals set .. if something unavoidable leaves me crippled...i am an invalid unavailable for the world to grimace...i will leave the stage with grace, tears though may not steal the cheeks of its redness...it robs the self of its soul....

marriage seems far...fantasies and dreams seem nearer....an oasis from the mirage of uncertainty... wish i live a life of my own.... a slave later for the someone, after i win... u too get married after the jigsaw's in the jumbled life is arranged....never wait for perfection... enlighten your enslaved thoughts that ambitions shouldn’t turn over-ambitious...goals are set to be achieved.... i never set anything in life... the wind took the sail to the distant port of nothings... the rudder i noticed now... let me steer it proper... b4 time gulps the sun of its twilight...

am so choosy, that i know and u too know, life wont wait for me... I may end up a pauper.. yet wont submit meekly for i'll be grateful to my heart... to my senses…to my reflections ...to have guided me to chase my dreams from the beyond... i wont regret, for i lost chasing a dream rather than dying old deprived of a dream in the dunes of sand....i don’t want to wilt under the heat of the sultry glances...i care more for the self i possess.. for the gift am presented...i may go on writing more...for the mood is so... but let my pen ink itself a different hue…for i have my work due to do...i pray my ink never dries...

mornings aren’t callous…evenings are .. but let me be born to know that morn set the pace for the evenings to be calmer....

lets live life dear... its a one off event... he who waits is lost.... and maybe i will... but u haven’t...at least u have to swim ashore... direct the crowded cowardice in the shore bearers to the floating body of mine... instill in them the truth that he tried and lost... teach the younger folk that life and its moments are precious... and give me a decent burial when at least one from the village of ours swim against the tide like the bold you in you did... an epitaph in golden letters should read... "life is short, enjoy every moment of it" ...i have a small ambition.. shared it with my lone heart long long ago.....to start a small school in the village..... a few talented unlucky can learn... where i can help channelise the pristine knowledge of English to some to feel contended when my life turns a beacon of the light house... at least for one ship to be anchored ashore safe...

take care dear…treasure your lovely and more than valuable genes.... let a tradition take root from it....transfer the energy like a chain reaction...bring forth kids with the vigour in u…the world will b grateful... don’t ever elude yourself of marriage.. marry a someone whom u find rarer than the commoners....commoners can't justify the birth of yours, counted among the very regular of those denizens lying cozily among the coyly spread beds in the abyss of your heart... days r longer.... nights are to be made shorter...i have to live long in the short time am entrusted from the almighty....another of those epitaphs from the banal office mornings.............

What More Do U Want???????

2007-11-12T23:42:00.000-08:00

My wallpaper baby…PRAKRITI... she greets me before the morning does…keeps me pleasant even after the evening dies… helps my optimism submerge the pessimism through the day....This bubbly baby is cute, sweet & innocent .. don’t forget her looks… angry for being called from behind… the questioning attitude in her eyes... the resignation in her stares as if fed up of the irritating photographer around… the 'now what do u want' look.. for intruding her play-space, disturbing her free-hours, indulging in her indulgences ……

Dedicated on this Childrens Day to all the Ma, Amma, Ammi & Mom's of the world, who bore the pains before & after the birth of their children...

Memories Caught Unawares....

2007-11-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

Summer sets in and I begin the countdown, vacation will soon be at my doorsteps. I start my regular enquiries… “ammey(mom), when are we going to ammamma’s (grandma) place this time?” The moments’ amma took to reply were nail biting impatience personified for the kid in me. She murmured vaguely in between the chores to be completed before going to school. “Paray ammey, please (tell mom)”- I insist in impatience. “Let achan(dad) wake up, you can ask him” – she speaks undecided. The curiosity & excitement cannot wait. My anxiety peeps into the room and check his eyes closely. Unable to contain the excitement my small tongue whispers into his ears – “ enitto acha? (Are u awake dad?)” And yes he wakes up. Before he gets angry, my cute smile makes his day.
I shoot my questions like the rapid fire. “ nammal naattil pokumo acha?( will we go to the native place?)”
He nods in affirmative, sleep still lingering in his nostrils, breath, eyes and eyelashes.
“ Really?” The exclamation is innocent. “ When will we book the tickets?” and 100 other questions wander in the morning mist.
Neither did my Ammamma nor we have a telephone. A 5th standard’s heart yearns to hear, meet and enjoy the moments of life in his distant native. A visit close to heart. It was always twice a year that he visited Vadakara/Thalassery. The excitement though didn’t cease even with the arrival of the telephone, except that the intimacy grew. A feeling even my mobile grants is that the person is near my heart.
The half yearly exam culminates. Last day is more in anticipation for the final bell to ring. A hundred thousand plans charted in mind, memories of intermittent rains cascading the roofs, cricket, football and ammamma’s warmth, all pregnant in his mind to deliver. Shouldn’t I make things happen? Lots of plans went unfulfilled in the previous vacation. Should make amends and I board the school bus to take me fast.
The enthusiasm in packing my bags, the wait for the train to come, the hooting smoking train, jumping up and down the berths, hanging like Tarzan until dad presses the pause button- energy exuded uncompromisingly. I sleep but wake up early & see the morning change its suit to vibrancy. I dint know the time. ‘Tellicherry” or say Thalassery, The black in yellow invites me. The greed to board an airborne private bus, for Trivandrum always had the snailing KSRTC’s (govt. buses). The private ones had an extra staff, the kili or cleaner, thumping on the aluminum sheet metal in resonance to any neighbour who may kiss his door.
Ammamma comes and picks me up in both hands. Kisses of intimacy and showers of love were spread across. Ajitechi too ‘walks out’ in embrace. There are a few kids who look in awe and excitement. They have come for tuition. Ajitechi, my mom’s sis cum the ‘Sacred heart convent’ teacher teaches them. My eyes search for Master Sarin – one among the naughty guys whom I befriended last May. A hand springs up from the motley crowd of girls and boys. I wave back stealing the moment from Ajitechi. The flock starts to gossip. ‘ Silence!’ Ajitechi shouts. I look elsewhere as if the culprit is on the roof. Before turning back, I blink at him the one eyed art that he had taught me last.
A, B, C, D, E…. and the classes continue at its reverberating best in frequency. I regret looking down at those 5th standard pals who were no magic in my eyes. Learning A.B,C’s at the age of 10, where I used to chorus at the age of 5. Learning Apples, Balls & Cats when I was delving deep in the parts of speech and figures of speech. By hearting a way of life.
Sanoj goes over the top. The carpenters son, adept in making small tables, chairs as showpieces, misses the K in the list, gets a ‘K for kissing’ from the cane. Ajitechi seethes, but in control. My small eyes watch it all through the grilled window of the bedroom. The 11 AM’s saw them all leave in a herd, after a strict and strenuous exercise. The plastic covers of the jewellery shops rustle in glee for they get their companion in the book it holds. Another romantic sequel.
Ambili looked cute in her red Paavada (frock) and sandal dyed blouse. Her face elevated by the small mark of sandal applied in horizontal streaks. Her hair tied in pretty knots rested on both the shoulders. The decorated umbrella in her hand opened. She turned back and smiled. “Did she have a crush?”. She was one among the many I dazed easily with my smile. Once later she came to me and professed with all shyness and gifted a peck on my cheek. She breezed away faster than the wind. I looked around to breath free. None had seen the small act of affection. She looked an aunty to the tiny me. Ever after whenever she was in proximity, I escaped her glances and approaches. No strings attached rule. A happily married housewife, she should be enjoying in one among the 100’s of Malayali gulf mints. There was but a butterfly that had me enthralled with her dainty dances in the house. An arch of Vermillion decorates her forehead now, losing her transparent wings to someone titled a husband. The boys were simpler in their slippers, non-tucked, half sleeved shirts and half pants sometimes covered in the length of the shirt.
By noon the scent of ammamma’s sardines deep-frying in the ocean of coconut oil was seeping through the nostrils. Pomfret, mackerel, mussels, rayfish and kingfish are on the way in the days to come. The new Chinese wok (cheenachatti) was happy for being ‘fired’, after a long wait. The tastiest cabbages fried until it glistened at the marvel of oil and turmeric polishing the sheath. Mustards added an unknown charm as beauty spots to the dry side dish. Fish curry came a class apart; mangoes in the backyard added the sour and fruity taste amiss to the yellow gravy. Another lovely memory had always been the tamarind – chilly- tomato – fish combo, colloquially termed the ‘puliyum mulakum’. The fish burying in a darkish brown hue and the tongue twisting to the tastes of eternity.
Feasting sumptuously had my stomach work hard on avoiding a siesta. I had other plans in mind. A whistling whisper from the grilled window woke me up from a slippery slumber of the ‘thekke akam’ (east facing room). Sarin is back after his lunch. The mischievous guy with blubber, whom I had pocketed for my local exploits. Bribed with chocolates, he turned a dedicated guide.
“Let’s to go to kaadar mappilla’s (moplah) cashew farm and collect some” - I welcomed his plan gleefully. His eyes were eagerly waiting for my agreement. Like a cat silent in the walk to steal, I slipped slowly into my shorts and moved out of the room. Freedom of the skies. Sarin already had the plastic bags for the collectors pick. Anything ranging from small mangoes, cashews, bilimbi, areca nut, jamuns used to find place in the collectors colourful mosaic. But the whole bag would smell pungent and look dirty brown by evening. We leapt two steps at a time and ran as fast on the reddish dusty streets. Time was precious, we hadn’t got a watch yet. The birds, colors of the sky, intensity of the light were our guide in going back. We wont steal- that was decided. In summary we decided not to throw stones at the hanging fruits. Well-mannered and cultured kids – I patted myself. “Lets collect the cashews that have fallen at the mercy of a birds beak or the kiss of a swift breeze” – I suggest. The afternoons were posh in gifting. Children who usually collect were either asleep or weren’t allowed to venture in the summer heat. Thanks for the sultry climate we had our pick. Every cashew collected made us greedy. We left the pulpy red pseudo fruit for the birds or squirrels to peck. The interest swept away the significance of time from our thoughts. Grandma stood red faced like steel poured from the Bessemer. She has known of my eloping episode from a local spy. But I smelt banana fry’s too… I presented my steal. Two Amulya tins filled to the brim. Cashew barons in the making. She didn’t question. She had seen 1000’s of kids from the ages she started teaching.
Ajitechi takes over the mantle, and threatens me. I knew that they are planning my dental extractions. I was always offered an extra glass of ‘rasna’ if the teeth were removed. Though painful, my taste buds fell under the lure, coaxed my puny thoughts and agreed upon the deal. Ajitechi was always sweet like the rasna, taking me to every street in Thalassery for the best buy, getting me the normally restricted-by-mom falooda’s and ice creams, biriyani from paris restaurant. The most enjoyable among the scores of experiences were my visit to the Girls’ convent school. “When will u retire?” I ask Pathros, the peon. He stood confused at my callous query. I passionately disclosed my ambition to the head sister who stood pampering me. “Can I be the next peon here and see all these girls in sky blue and white like a daily dose of medicine”. The whole staff room burst out in contagious laugher to the 10 year old’s innocence. Ajitechi wasn’t embarrassed as she expected such gimmicks from me.
By late evening as the situation curtails its intensity and I plead ammamma to get some nuts warm out of the sleeping cashews. The flame was set on the coconut husk. In the burning pyre slowly and carefully were buried some nuts. I waited with bated breath, holding my tongue, wetting my lips, teeth biting it at times, eyes in reverence. We were warned to stay off. The crackling sounds had established the nuts bottoms hot. Plop came a sound, out came the nut. After a while of dancing, ammamma took it out carefully with the tongs made of coconut ribs, reminding me of the Chinese with the chopsticks. The aroma was ecstatically addicting my olfactory, satiating the air of its pungency; so intense to attract the far stretched. Adding to the metaphor of love in the air. We opened every nut carefully to see the treasure inside. Some had burned itself beyond recognition, some mutilated, and discarded without mercy. Dusk hues spread the aroma of ammamma’s oil, ayurveda deep rooted in the culture of kerala. I accompany her to collect the dry leaves. A favourite pastime. Mangifera’s contribute the maximum to heat the water, secondary position held by the jackfruit leaves. The yellow-oranges were segregated, for once the sun evaporate the remaining water and earth distill the residual chlorophyll. The rains made the air smell clarity and the cool environs added to my sleep. Nights were the newspaper time for grandma. Marriages and bon voyages to heavenly abodes were keenly looked into. I sat watching the flies hover around the not so dangerous flickers of the fluorescent. There was one peculiarity of the rainy days. Less traffic into shops, shutters down earlier. Divakarettan will come. The dampened spirit of his lost business lightened up with the playful spirit in our ludo or ‘snake and ladder’ games. Torchlight on the ‘devoid of street light’ lanes was under surveillance. One torch and its light definitely would climb our cemented steps. I would run inside to collect the boards, the 4x4 coloured red, yellow, green & blue buttons, the die numbered one to six (sanoj, the genius, ‘carpenter in the making’ had crafted it from wood), mostly it fell facing six for my convenience as I insisted starting the game. Six awarded the player to roll the die once again. Now I had to find players, Tinku was too small to entertain the crowd; still he was a part when cousins weren’t available. Else a referee cum collector. Divakarettan entertained all with his daily dose of humour. I too enjoyed it until 99 plummeting to the unlucky 13 threw my tantrums on the playing board. Then I run inside and come back after a while rejuvenated. I used to hold on them late night to climb the rungs in the ladder and win at least once. A small game that built my confidence, a game that portrayed life as a game of rise and fall, positives and negatives. Failures had to be accepted gleefully and nurtured to find the minute dent that caused a defeat or loss. Even today my loss is someone else’s gain. My perspectives to life’s challenges and spirits never inclined to the negative.

Winter in a summer mind......

2007-11-06T08:43:00.000-08:00

‘Coooo..oooooo’. The tone dipped and rose. A sinusoidal musical chirp. The cuckoo cooed unusually long. The little boys’ sunken eyes scanned the sky. His gaze couldn’t hunt her out from the trees either. But he believed in his treasured mimicking skills. ‘coooooooo…oooo’. He tried to replicate the composition. The charm in his music was absent. She wasn’t in a mood to join either. His vacuous eyes cursed the air around. Maybe not for carrying his voice till the bird mysterious. He gawked. But his ears stood sharp. ‘coooo…ooooo’ .There sings again. Is she teasing his failure? He looked straight at the lush green spread of the muringa. She stood in poise lost somewhere inattentive. His eyeballs followed the soloist’s gaze. Yes, she is studying the family next door cuddling the chicks at home. Papa crow was feeding the nestlings. Mama crow romped around in cautious anxiety, shuffling her feathers in a frippery pose. The blacks stood stacked in assembly like the pleats of Akansha madam’s saree. The child remembered his Hindi teacher and the stories he by hearted, more out of the fear of her cane in his buttocks. So that is the matter, he gulped. Akashna madam had said, Cuckoos egg in the crow’s nest. Callous motherhood born out of laziness. He annoyed more of himself thinking of the orphanage…the parents of those orphans he met… The cuckoo in their mother had left. But why and what bothered her to leave a treasure in them? In a range were the reasons murmured, many a time behind his ears in parlance so implicitly explicit. He still waited for a crow. And his gaze wandered from the muted melodies of his inner self to the road yet to be traversed. A long winding path in dusty patches lay in front of his orphanage. Does it lead to truth or sacrilege? Questions bothered him more than the answers. ‘cooooo…oooooo’. He bent and pelted a stone at the muringa. Was it belligerence against the cuckoos or the society that left him to stray? The cuckoo flew away. Sob he did, thinking of the mother who may be cooing in sullen pessimism for stagnating the infertile fertility she bore.

The Tea-Man

2007-10-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

Under the Neem tree. A tall man with a longer moustache. He squatted. Numerous kettles circled him. A gas cylinder stood stout behind. From the matchbox peeped a lone stick. They rubbed each other and magic!!! His stove lit with the yellow orange. But the flame shone blue and brighter. One tumbler is chosen. Be seated on the hot brick is the task. An Amul milk pouch was tore open callous. The plastic added to the already contended lives of his predecessors. The mixture of white and water planned to boil. And they giggled at the flame getting hotter. Two spoons of tea leaves. The mixture sat quiet at the new neighbour. Slowly they gelled together to effervescence. Shades painted to brown, they leapt to jump out of the room of theirs. To enjoy freedom, to discern the life beyond. But the man continued lowering the glow. A spoon kept jetting in and out of the sugar tin, spitting the crystal candy into the mix. A style so indifferent. Music as the same spoon hit the side of the kettle with sincere regularity. Ginger added to the boil squeezed and squashed with an iron rod. Hot tea is poured to strain. Not on a strainer, but a cotton piece. The cloth wrung to its maximum. Solid and liquid filtered of their togetherness. A moment of melancholy. Decisiveness of collectiveness still stood in every molecule. The kettle is fuelled full. Tea leaves, sugar, ginger, milk and water packed in the essence of my plastic cup. I sip it hot.. aaaaaaaahaaa….soothing.The tardiness blown away, a fresh breeze filters through the Neem leaves too.

Heyyyyyyyy, Auto !!!!!!

2007-10-03T03:38:00.000-07:00

Auto-rickshaw or the ubiquitous crowd puller. This 3 wheeler also phrased as the rick/rickshaw sifted through my thoughts on reading an interesting article in DNA. Mclaren designer quoting the auto as a charming and great utility vehicle, an icon he says because it transcends fashion and resists ageing. Quoting it as a classic at par with the Mini, Beetle And Willys he evoked sweet memories in me.

The shape of the Rick like a bedbug fascinated me always. As a kid, the school bus made auto rides a rarity, but ‘bus breakdown hein’ news were a welcome thrill, as heads turned to the “Eyyyy, Auto” call. Those auto days in Trivandrum were sure to ensue heated debates on the little ‘extra than the meter’ fare demanded. Still I enjoyed the fights and the efforts taken to nullify the effect. Special mention for the drivers in Trivandrum as Lal-buffs. Courtesy, the palm sized profile of Mohanlal adorning the windscreens alongside the umpteen Gods from mythology. The Malayalam movie “Aey auto” cashed and showcased the unity and strength of the same auto drivers.

Thanks to the mixed culture I hailed from, any visit to Calicut never got me in the tangle of words. Appreciative glances were the only little gifts exchanged for a ride. The drivers had always been honest and fair in fare. One of the most refreshing experiences came forth when the driver retuned some coins for the meter was faulty.

Fainter are the memories of the roaring diesel engines from Piaggio trying to rule the roost. Boasting a wider seating space, yet petering out on the hegemony of Bajaj petrol providing an uncompromising mileage.

An inevitable shift to Mumbai decanted a muse of losses including the three wheel rides, but the first sight of autos lined at the CST made me feel at home. The regular auto art and the smoke spooking silencers weren’t seen. Instead CNG, the eco friendly automobile had its authoritative stamp. The identity in the front panel for Mumbaikar’s rickshaw was their unique registration number unlike the Malayali autos flaunting cute names like the chinnu, minnu or kuttu. Then wows the audio systems with thumping beats of the FM transporting the heart to my mouth. “Beleave a snake, not a girl”- The graffiti’s with the funny, witty or philosophical taglines romancing a treat for the eyes often had me in reflections and splits alike.

The amusing display of the rickshaw culture in Mumbai is worth emulating, from the fair on fare meter policy to the one legged drivers. Those whom I mistook for being differently-Abled, until getting enlightened that their left legs are tucked inside for the comfort of driving. None debates. Calm and composed in coughing a rupee less than the meter fare, though the meters tick even when the engines are not coughing. Doctored, I know, still reasonable to the core.

As a traveler I found Chennai drivers at the fleecing worst, while their counterparts in Bangalore, Kolkota & Goa fared marginally better even with the ‘fix the rate and then travel’ policy. Many variants in hues too are available like the usual black roof making way to the yellow in Chennai to the CNG green in Delhi. The share rickshaws of Surat and Mumbai communicate an altogether different story. Transporting the urban populace in a congested and unsafe mode, banking on the disorganized public transport system.

So much more in line… but ending on a serious note, the three small wheels and the bumpy rides turn a major employer in our country, livelihood to a major chunk of the population. Painting a true picture of the quintessence of modern and contemporary, rural and urban, rustic and the burgeoning India in different shapes, sizes, colors and characters.

A recluse to another....

2007-09-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

Within the bedlam christened life,
A bed so cozy lend to whom?
Born ignorant of burdens ahead,
in a track of faster pace,
to one who bore the brunt before.

Portrayed mud footprints tiny,
Given in place to toy,
luster lacking begging bowls.
Pencils she forgot to grip,
when hunger pained her callous.
Instead got matchsticks tiny.
Smile she knew not what !
Just a missing link in her texts.
Slept in sleepers withal,
Waking to alarms whistling.

Happened an age she knew less,
Something of which less she knew.
Wriggling writhing she waggled,
wholly aching her cadaver,
comforting while crying within.

Always only despair aside,
A dangling whammy unaware,
Sober eyed perceived her drama she,
Donning roles umpteen.
Umpteenth is now role finale,
in the same old tracks,
A lunatic Boy-Bearer.

Vagaries……

2007-09-10T05:30:00.000-07:00

A differently crowded Mumbai morning. Missing traffic snarls. Vacant trains. Silence of the cacophonies. Absence of the melodies. Something amiss? Ohh yeahhhh.. It’s a Saturday. Still the relentless energy pulses climbing the local trains were intact. Push-pull, pull-push. Excitement never subsides.

As usual the squatters sat in a disciplined line, displaying the frontal museum or their own “backdoors”. Rain as a natural flush they sit calm. I had my 18 pages of HT to go through. Yes!! My newspaper. Already the co-passenger had lent the page 3. A little gossip would do well. His eyes were sometimes popping out isn’t? Oddity in nudity. Letters or pictures? I chit chat to myself. I get into my next pastime. Opened the mobile front panel. Customary from my side to rake my brains and squeeze my fingers to set it back. The co-passenger was watching. He intervened. Did I like his freedom? Affirmative. ”Clip it first at top and it would be easier” – Advised taken. And lo!!! Words of gyan did work. So easy a task!!! What all did I do to set it trial and error. A small lesson added in the everyday texts of my calendar.

You travel by the same train, same route, same routine, yet have you ever realized that every split second in life is different. We don’t observe and complain monotony. Queer isn’t? The same lady on your street wears a different attire. The same vendor sells a special smile. The same newspaper portrays another charming story. Diversity.

People differ. Characters vary. Children grow. Maturity sets in. The routine continues as if you are keyed by a toy-seller. The hair upon your hair falls to gray. Noticed? It’s change. The absolute in permanence. Where you realize the misplaced vagaries and variety of life. We search. We condemn ourselves to the bygone.

The Hundred-thousand reflections in the saloon still ask me a 100, 000 more of unanswered questions. Am I doing what I have scripted above? The answer is I am not, though I am aware of a plain truth that life is short. Almost 19 years lost in the simplicities of infancy, childhood and teenage. As freedom sets in, the job begins. Then faces scorn at you. Why haven’t u tied the naughty knot? Initial enthusiasm. Then monotony. A few extramarital. Life is spiced for some. Salted for some. Still life snails. Ennui isn’t?

But can you rewind the clock to adjust the lost ages? Think of the second that you lost now in adversity and selfishness. Enjoy the petty fights you have. Take pleasure in the trivial. Value the insignificant. Forget and forgive. Laugh at it like an anecdote of the passing times. Break free from the fetters of narrow-mindedness. Laugh openly. Smile gently. Speak up and speak out. Don’t ever regret.
I thanked the man who helped me with my mobile. A smile I gifted. His cheeks reflected his dimple. Acknowledged. I left to catch my taxi.

The small girl at the red-yellow-green waits. The lights transform from the blinking yellow to red. Cars screech to a halt. 120 seconds of halt. She breezes past the open windows. Her hair sways to the cold wind. Her tiny hands are replete with the lemon-chilly combo. Averts ill luck. They believe. The tinted windows open. She sells more luck to the rich and the famous. Did it bring her any luck? Her destiny alone knows. Missing the tender age of childhood. She may be yearning to be like her clients kids dressed in school uniforms. She gets her share of the coins. If not luck she had her fortune. She smiles. I feel proud and happy for her. The man in the car never does. He has a lot to think. Business and money. Quotations and tenders.

Another man on the footpath sleeps unscathed. No blankets. Oblivious of the happenings. Ignorant of the world. Blaring horns never wake him. Is he drunk? NO, I notice his face. Serene. He has nothing to worry. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is a dream. Today is awake like a gift and so we call it the present. He earns for today. He sleeps for now. No bank accounts. No fixed deposits. No tax calculations. No tensions.

Countdown begins…3-2-1. The light turns green. Engines roar in impatience. Cars surge faster than the rockets. My little gal’s eyes droop. She saves herself to the walkway. Waiting eagerly for the lights to turn red again. Maybe another unlucky passenger may turn lucky.I proceed. Single day. Innumerable experiences. Mumbai or Bombay. Madras or Chennai. I learn more of life, most from life.

Now am in my office. Forgetting every second that has gone. Head absorbed deep in those files of which I know nothing.I should change. My heart weeps and appeals. Will I? When will I? Who knows? Time will tell. Wait for me. I plead. The clock ticks faster. Am I falling far behind the race of life?

My First Love...

2007-09-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

A story of resistance, perseverance and patience. The morning fun and the evening frolic make my day. Sorry not to have introduced myself- I am a VIP with a shiny black leather sheath and I accompany my boss wherever he goes. The perfect travel being in the local trains of Mumbai. So am a Bag and christened TravelTru.
Everyday I am crushed in the rush to enter. Somehow my boss sweetly requests people near the window to stack me carefully in the racks of the local. Maybe because am heavy. I don’t know!!! The stench from other bags, their rough hooks, all hurt me a lot. But some days I sleep a lot with the Times of India as the cushioned side rest for my cozy comfort. Some days I am squeezed in the multitude of other bags. I take it to be a part of life and I enjoy.
Let me tell you how I fell in love for a brief moment today. The usual morning stinking feeling was there, when suddenly a sweet fragrance spread near me. My half sleepy eyes popped open to see a cutie ladies bag near me. A beautiful cream-colored luxury bag embellished with a lot of embroidery. She had rainbow hues spread over her skin. The two rings dangling on her ears, attached to it were bands of her beautiful pink hair. Her twinkling eyes and designer wear with lots of well ironed pleats. Her beautiful rose lips were zipped. All eyes were set upon her. Its not always that a local traveller like me gets a female counterpart. As I peeped down to see who owns this cutie, I saw my boss sharing jokes with a pretty madam. I felt from the core of my feelings that this cutey is mine. As i gave a glance, she sulked. But i knew... she had an eye on me too. Maybe my executive looks garnered her attention. All the second grades were commenting on her, whereas i remained silent. She was feeling uneasy. As the bag near me was taken off, we became neighbours. I thanked God. Her insecurity spoke to me. We started conversing for the envy of others. But the train was almost covering up the destined time. She narrated expressively on her new journey. Her name was Pretty-pet. So I guessed that Pretty-pet had boarded a general compartment by mistake and my boss would have got her madam in his sweet talk. We too spoke a lot on ourselves in the minimal time that ticked faster than usual. She was impressed. Not just on my looks, but also on my character.
It was love at first sight. What a lucky day for me. As the train inched towards her destination, my boss handed pretty carefully to the madam. With a heavy heart we were parting ways. My eyes brightened as I overheard my boss noting the madam’s mobile number. That meant we were going to meet again. As I looked at my cutie she winked. My heart missed a beat. She professed. My eyes twinkled in the affirmative. "lets meet again somewhere, sometime. Do wait for me." Her eyes were pleading. I acknowledged. My experience taught me to muse a thought - "The people who are loved deserve to know the people who love them...So don't miss a chance to express your love, cos hearts are broken with the words unspoken."
I knew that my boss and me had found our sweethearts. Thanks once again to the suburban trains of Mumbai.

The most flourishing industries of Kerala - PART ONE.

2007-09-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

Jewellery business – A Golden pastime.

PRESENT

The Mallus, a sweet sobriquet for Malayalis, go gaga on the sovereigns of gold. As a vestige from the yesteryears of gulf stay and culture; brides compete in kilos of gold hung on the neck. Every competitive neighbor tries to outlay the maximum for his daughter’s neck. The mushrooming of jewellery shops than the number of women in Kerala has heralded a golden era in the history of this industry in Kerala.

PAST

The eminent historiographer Thankappan (gold-father) says that he will soon present details pertaining to proving the birth of Midas and his daughter in Kerala.

FUTURE

A future study predicts that the provision stores will be selling gold biscuits instead of the Britannias and Parles.

ARENAS

MEDICINE

Ophthalmologists report a high incidence of people in the age group of 50-55 seeing tinges of golden yellow in every frame while eye testing.

LITERATURE

Some literary critics claim the origin of the expression, Heart of gold from Kerala as the Malayalis are generally warm and caring while collecting gold.

AGRICULTURE

The agricultural industry too revels selling Two-dozen Carrots’ (24 carat) to anyone in Kerala. Aquarium owners have hit a goldmine by selling goldfishes to families from all walks of life.

POLITICS

What’s more, the General Secretary of the left wing politics Mr Karat, is an offshoot from Kerala.

SPORTS

There is focus on an Olympics event titled, “Neckthletics”, for the strongest neck, which may turn a real gold mine for Malayalis.

MATRIMONY
“The names like sona, swarna, suvarana etc are highly accepted in the matrimony industry today” said Kalyanaraman of Swapna Mangalyam Agencies.

TEXTILES

“Even the clothes with the yellow-gold hue are in high value and profoundly sold these days.” added Goldy Mathews of SONA Textiles.

EVENTS

All Kerala Goldsmiths Union celebrated the golden jubilee of the runaway hit, Ponmutta Idunna Thaaravu (The duck that lays golden eggs), by distributing pin-up's of models from the latest jewellery advertisements.

TRENDS

Gold has also brought about a sea change in the attitude of youths in finding self-employment. They skillfully break into houses, without disturbing the sleeping.
The poultry farm union has demanded the State Govt to help them rear only those hen, goose and ducks that can lay golden eggs. “This will be a golden opportunity not only to increase revenue but also reduce robberies in the state” – Echoed their leader Mr. kokkako.

CONCLUSION

Many elders aptly conclude that this is the golden era for Kerala and Keralites. With filmstars too joining the bandwagon, nothing else can be more proof to the popularity of the yellow metal in the hearts and minds of Keralites.

Those folios of transition...

2007-08-30T05:00:00.000-07:00

The memories and happenings in life are like the sand in a beach. Its infinite. It comes and goes with the waves. Sometimes some linger on, changing hands, changing forms. A handful is all what my little hands could collect…and I present a day from my album of vision for a nostalgic remembrance.

Gazing through the misty morning's impressions of rain, reminiscing the days of yore, my shoes kissed the cemented platforms of Vadakara railway station. A Beedi (hand rolled cigarette) stub lay quarter burned and doused by yesterday's rain. Some traveler would have thrown it in his haste to board. Memories reinvented or did the Beedi rekindle it? Symbolization of a mass movement of the communist prowess of the early 1960's. AKG holding forte for the enactment of a national law for the protection of cigar and beedi workers in 1966, making Kerala Dinesh Beedi(KDB) the fourth largest beedi firm in India today.

Graying memory searched for the hot brewing cup of tea. The artistic ease with which the 60 year old Kanarettan, used to pour it back and forth from the mug to my glass. Never a drop spilled. "Perfect!!!" I used to compliment him in English. My eyes searched the locale, for no sign existed of a tea stall. On the steps of the nearby shop was squatting an octogenarian. His droopy face obstructing my question to come forth. The puff of smoke rose intermittently above his baldness. His gaze now questioned my stand. His answer was cold. Kanarettan is no more.

My gaze wandered in the loneliness around him. My ears echoed the thumping sound of his tea-glass on the wooden table. It's only after that I used to sip the brownish hot liquid. The morning gossip of how the government should be run between the sipping mouthfuls of tea and more were vacuous.

I thanked the old man, who had already opened his packet of Beedi for a better puff. The lighter was a coir rope hanging near, its tip burning slowly to a certain death. He rose with the definite difficulty of senile decay, evident from the dragging gait of imperfection. I dare didn't advice. Every individual needs a reason to die. Some find on their own, someone else is gifted. Deep inside a corner of my pocket lay the 2 rupee coin, worthless today for the tea will never taste the same again.

Only the STD counters had opened shop. The red and yellow ISD on the dangling boards pronounced the reach of the Malayali 'conglomerate' to every corner of the globe. The engines of the private buses were already raring for a speed trial. Empty morning = A comfortable seat. In B & W script - Ladies only. Feminism ruling the roost. But they know not that gender inequalities are mocking convincingly at me. Will we change? Isn't it time for another revolution!!! Who cares? Questions knocked my mind. The cold air was dancing duets with my hair. I get down at the bus shelter. It reads - In memory of the Koothuparamba martyrs. Carved in cement are the letters I yearn to read. DYFI – Democratic youth federation of India. The youth organization of Communist Party Of India (Marxist) found in 1980. A reminder of the long and chequered history of student activism and struggle in Kerala. Comrades, I salute you. The world survives on martyrs. "Jesus Christ being an authentic communist, anti-imperialist, enemy of the oligarchy" -Quoting Hugo Chavez. The first martyr – quotes my thoughts.

My countryside. Not a speck of tar. Red soil. Enough of rain to seep. My bladder urges to take the liberty of open air urination. Gals please excuse. Don't be jealous of my freedom. It's a boyzone. The dew-wet grass smokes as the freshness of warm drops bathe the leaves. Alarm to wake up for a new dawn. But the touch-me-nots shy away in silence. Zippers in. Home welcomes me, fern filled and slippery. Dry leaves spread lavishly as a cushion for the rain. Does the house face the ignominy of being forgotten? Our urban lives are taking the toll. Yet my Malayali soul yearns for another independent villa. I left for my aunt's house. Nostalgia followed me here like a faithful dog. Let me brush. Colgate toothpaste. The stand-up tube remains synonymous with the early cock-crows of yesteryears, of the days as a kid and more. I used to wonder. Why are all the thrown away tubes in two pieces? Grandma put the brush inside a half section and an elegant twist. The whole paste kissed the bristles and came out white. Now I realize the value for money. Uncle complaints, "The plastic tubes of today are not fully filled. Air reduces the weight." I leave no room for debate. The easiest way being silent.

Brushing finished.... I search my bag frantically for the tongue cleaner made of steel. It's missing as usual. Forgotten. Back to nature. The midrib of a specific part of the coconut palm did the magic again. How skillfully did my uncle split it making a perfect use-&-throw double-tongue cleaner!!! Mythology too had the analogy in my maddening world of ideas. Equated my uncle to Bhima and the midrib to Jarasandha. Split open to an assured death.

Breakfast is ready. Appam and stew. Mind meanders. Those breezy evenings used to bring a cycle bell ringing. Chandran - The toddy-taper. Cuter, childish & fair like the toddy. He hands over a glass of toddy. I sip a little out of curiosity. Tasting sweet!!! So now I too can proclaim after the vacation- "I too have boozed". An insurmountable achievement among the 4 ^th standard guys. But what was toddy really for? It acts as natural yeast added for the fluffiness in the delicacy called Appam in Kerala. What was it this time? My aunty too has gone Yeast, when everyone else is heading west. No more cycle bells. Chandran has left for the hidden fortune in gulf. The dream abode of Malayalis. He said he never found a treasure atop the coconut palm.

Knock on the door at 9am. A man draped in a brilliantly orange hue below his waist. Tied so stylishly around, the muscular legs tend to shiver in might. The huge moustache adding glamour to the chocolate-brown skin he is gifted. The sharpest of his knifes kissed his buttocks, yet a smile adorned his face. That's Kumarettan. The coconut-climber. The ease of his task leaves me gaping as always. How do his legs grip the palm with a single piece of coir? Magnificent sight he must be having at the top. I go green. I dream. I forget it only when my tongue is pricked with the fizz of a tender coconut. The pyramidal top of the cut coconut. Craft indeed. He leaves taking his due & two coconuts. I tried climbing once. The failure was in getting down. Beaten black and blue - end to an ode. Now no more Kumarettan comes. Coconuts fall at the mercy of God. Some lucky passer by collects it. Its all coke and Maaza to quench my thirst.

My thoughts wandered like the lovely clouds. Those days when as a kid, I dreamt of a moustache. The ladybirds' inquisitiveness to know who the city-kid tucked in pants and belt is!!! Reflected clear from the questioning eyes. My eyes felt shy and proud together, all bottled a kid head. I was alien to the world of colloquies in Badagara. Now I had a handicap to select an answer about my identity. Should it be in my dad's name or the house name? My heart pumped 'lubb-dubb' every second. Sweat streaked my little forehead. The little hairs as young as my hands too get drenched cold. Finally I juggle my response and walk off by the canal side. Escaped. Now none asks. None cares. Effects of globalization?? I shrug it off as another odd joke.

Yet summer did have inviting glances at me. The small trucks that roared in the silence of the mornings. Empty bellied ones returning with truck loads of mangoes. It grumbled less in the evenings or did I feel so? Now one solitary tree remains. As souls departed from the indoors to a heavenly abode, the huge mangifera trees were taken for the pyre. May the souls rest in peace. This time I noticed the smaller saps have grown handsome & broader. For me and my loves ones. An inner voice whispered. Life is like that. A cycle of life and death. Merciless at times.

Evenings were fertile. Pazhampori (banana-fry) & kalathappam (type of cake) spread on the table. All home made by grandma. And today lures my buds with the bakery spread. They know not that it's for the small village leisure's and pleasures of yesteryears that I turned to wander-lust.
Those days of voltage drop by twilight taught me the skeleton of a bulb. The filaments in different hues, shapes and figures. A beauty so beautiful. Now none admires a bulb, for tubes & CFL's have replaced the days of low voltage. My thoughts drift again. The suicidal flies that took wing around the bulb and were engulfed by the lit lantern. How will they have a reason to die now? Senile decay even for those who had a charming death in my vision. Longer life. That's the positive outlook. The pitter patter has lost the freedom to cascade, yet the rains remain a vociferous spectator. Tiles and thatches finding roof as a possession of the deprived. The night gossips have ceased to exist. Television has taken the waterfalls to a trickle. Everyone glued like the Fevicol ad. Females married off. Older people called back to the pavilion. Some sudden deaths too… and the rest into a cocoon of their own. We have grown in size of our selfishness. The hearts have shrunk. Lives have changed. Time has its mutants. Transition.

15 minutes to 15 hours - A Deccan Odyssey

2007-08-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

Another evening. My heart yearned to gift the parker I forgot. But god scripted it anew, altering the 15 minute session to an unending 15 hour sojourn in the hospital stairs. Every moment with her dissolved itself to a momentous memoir treasured than a souvenir bestowed. At times my heart leapt for her sheer quality. At times for her simplicity - tribute to a dignified lady. A Magnanimous individual, mature beyond the tender age of adulthood. As the discussion progressed, my ideas got enlightened with her ideals, those that have been paved with intelligence and sincerity beautifying the sidetracks. A simple person for the mighty image she had cultivated inside her niche. Humble to her extent, for stood opposite her a delineated, vain and proud individual basking in egoistic glory.
Time flew. Lively discussions taking berth. Boastful sessions exchanging glances. Nostalgic exchanges bartered for richness. Unexplored realms of reflection, mirroring the bounties. A dull mobile battery as the lone testimonial. The world, people, their feelings in the nutshell of our conversation.
Me and Reni, mute spectators to an exciting drama. The conflict of emotions as a theme. Let me raise the curtains of the theater. Have a glimpse.
A call from the magical world of nowhere. Her friend (seena's) suicide trial & Our suicide trail. Sleeping pills – They echoed. ‘Rush to the Apollo”. The bumpy auto ride. The towering safari suit. The ambulance sirens. The gusty speed.
August 7th 2007, was rewinding for me. The morning had displayed everything including the Apollo hospital in front, an ambulance siren on the road, except that I was an onlooker then. Again Deja-vu. My diary repeated.
Papers to be signed. The ink grinned – ‘I take responsibility”. Was it a grimace? Hope not. The wait, pause and murmurs added to the unfolding drama. In a flash the neon red lights signaled - “Govt General Hospital”. Doctors questioned with an unlikely curiosity unseen in the eyes of the policemen. The question lingered - “What has she popped in and in what quantity?” My mind interrogated my intellect. Is it you who supplied it to her? My head did reel. Absurd question – it whispered. “Ask seena. She can talk.” My tongue wagged an authoritative arrogance. But the intellect googled her bag for a foil. An empty strip like the five fingers popped out & coyly claimed – “I went in her tummy to let her sleep permanently”. Sleeping pills- the doc heaved a sigh of relief. Attempter or abettor, whoever, still owes me.
Ungrateful pals with excuses to own. A call to seena’s mom. Another cold remark evoked. A jeer indeed. seena’s mom on wrong side? Not at all. Why should she care the one who escaped from the clutches of an ailing society!!!
Can I ever forget the sincere but tired gait of Reni on the hospital verandah juggling three test-tubes of seena’s blood, urine and gastric juices in both her hands. A silent prayer remained in me – ‘God, do take care of this noble lady in any adversity’. As the adage goes – Those who have none had God with them. Reni was destined a role – of the guardian angels’. All the worlds a stage and all the men and women mere actors… I remembered Shakespeare for once. A silent tear leapt out to kiss my cheek. Thanks for an unforgettable night for I could know in intensity, the devotion in her friendship.
Eons since I have woken a whole night, but this was classic. No tardiness to challenge the clock. Her eyes wide open, once droopy. There I knew that the conversation lacked punch. “Let’s have a stroll” Reni suggested. Down the vacant verandas amidst the humming mosquitoes. Once disturbed by the shrill cry of a lady who lost a valuable. A death knell at night. One soul we say. One life she laments. Only the walls to comfort her beats. Let her cry. Let the emotions flow out to the empty air to taste.
Visits of the policemen with the hourglass regularity never ceased. Calls of ‘seena’ came like a bolt from the blue. Often a peeving disturbance for our conversation. Empty advices. Lewd looks. Glassy talks.
One of them quipped – ‘people kill & we lose sleep’. Poor guys! I genuinely felt sorry.
Now my tummy was disturbing. Dinner please. We Agreed!! The midnight saunter & the pleasure to have a late dinner welcomed by the canine barks and the lust clad eyes of men alike. She didn’t notice. I did. I love the neighbours roving eyes jealous of a creatively crafted possession. The envy was fuelled as food got served. My tummy felt full by the crumb she left in the platter.
Back to the conflicting house of emotions. A haunted board hung freely in green. Title: Poison Emergency Clinic. Loved ones still melancholic for the loved ones who tried taking his life. Is it worth a strand of sympathy? No!!! Suggested my empathy. Then why am I here. Questioned my sympathy? It’s for Reni -My wits resonated. End of an argument. I laughed callously at the loss of life, for the unknown didn’t require these ailing souls now. Suicide is self will, though it demands a lot of willpower. But seena was trying to display her depth of love. Yet doesn’t she know that Love is blind. It can’t see.
Now we were back in track. Reni’s stories gained momentum and so did my curiosity. My eyes often set on her wide open round eyes, sometimes reddish cheeks, a sweet nose, rounded forehead & 2 sprouting pimples on her right chin, missing out on the ears in total as I listened in rapt attention her side of affairs. Cold stares for the old lousy lovers. Of those pastels that lent her the present hue. Her reminiscence of childhood. Her longing to get time reversed. Poetry in prose!!! Full of expression. Badagara slang pepping the tête-à-tête.
But she has to learn a lot. To be decisive. To speak in the negative. Often a weakness of a Badagaraite, who gets rooted in the name of commitment.My advices did follow suit, as it never cost me a penny.
The sheer power of storytelling gained prowess. Only thirst attacked us. I had my tongue begging for a drop. Like nomads we set in search of water. An engineer, a journalist and a cloth bag in blue. Into the Railway station minus the platform tickets. A fear lurked inside for an offence getting noticed. Luck favoured the seller. “Paani Thanda Nahi”(water isn’t cold) His broken Hindi politely muttered. So, did the tall Tamilian take me for a Northie? Anyways he earned Rs 10 for a thirsty soul is quenched by anything in the name of water. Thou we cheated the Govt to save a worthless Rs 6. Inviting glances from the rickshaw-wallas for they took us for the unknown fish ready to catch the waiting bait, only to be indolently neglected.
She hadn’t winked a bit till now. Her brows I saw were eager to hug and slip into the world of lost dreams. But our ordeal was far from over. Tender coconut was the next mission. An old lady, plugged with her hearing aids, (don’t please mistake it for the Bluetooth). Her broken teeth. The gaping holes. The wrinkled skin. An impression of the late 60’s. What a beautiful smile she furnished for free when Reni paid her handsomely. Independent old lady, I salute you. The coconut break-FAST, brought to an end the poisonous travelogue. seena supped it greedily. She had tears, not for us but for her fate and her guy.
Liberty at last. Blue sky, green buses, yellow rickshaws, multihued people dappled in the choicest of post modern dyes. We could discover colors. A new gained freedom. Still I felt a little gloomy. My selfish ego had been echoing the night be endless. Praying for the sun sleep endlessly. But nature has its own work to be perfected. Time never waits.
The conversations seemed endless like my favorite quote – ‘life is short, enjoy every moment of it.’
Reni stands a towering testimonial of her charm unsurpassed. Her quality imbibed in the pages of serenity. Her stamp of independence framed in the corners of the chronicles. Every page I flipped had the aroma of coincidences, treading along the sidewalks of the unknown horizons. Now we met to realize it. Rebirths are my hope for the souls to unite
Am glad to have stacked yet another present. A slice of time from the life she lived. Those very few ever gifted. Others know not that gifts are priceless, for we forget the sweets they bring, once the taste fails to linger in the buds. Memories remain, and with it the bitterness and sweetness alike, etched in the mysteries of tomorrows. A great time together. A greater experience unveiled. An individual understood!!! Time and fate remains loyal as ever to the supreme power unknown.

2007-08-01T02:13:00.000-07:00

........................The Sweet Scent Of News..........................

Fag end of teenage. Lazy college days. Freedom and exuberance in full swing. Waking up late, a ritual. Bunking morning classes, a hobby. Auto-switch off on alarms. No bed coffees. Plummeting results. Sagging spirits. But something stimulated me more than the aroma of a bed-coffee. A fresh smell that replaces the lost nights immortalizing HOPE - the intoxicating scent of newsprint.

It’s my roommate who struck on the novel idea - ‘Newspaper near the nose’ so that I would wake up in a jiffy to sup on the scoops.As time progressed, I could identify the scents of different newspapers. More than that it dawned upon me the associated flavors and it’s spicy invigorations. A special odour for the advertisers, another for their clients and yet another for the readers.

Is it the papyrus or the ink that lends the aroma? The real aroma is the newspaper professional that puts in his/her creative efforts to gift something new every morning. Change and innovation as swords and deadlines as the Armour nurtures the daily competition. Good Nights make their day or say good days make their night.

The impression that newsprint heads for the shelf by noon is debatable. It’s a phoenix, essentially experiencing new forms of life. In school, newspaper clippings enhanced my assignments while in college it helped win the collage contest. Even now when the plastic bags turn a menace, heads turn towards the humble newsprint. And for my friend it’s an umbrella in a drizzle or her sunshade when hot. Yet again my fan when power plays spoilsport.

I lament not wearing a journalist’s attire. Forgot to get one in the rush to engineer a society’s need. Like a daily that infuses a fragrance of hope, I too hope to reprint the forgotten annals of nostalgia. Once again being a maverick journalist who had once published four-page newsletters. Yet ever morn I remember the nocturnal sacrifices by a bunch lauded and denigrated alike. Hats off to the press.

My Kera La Carte

2006-12-05T01:03:00.000-08:00

Emerald: Green

“The color of life”. Where she dons a role anew – God’s gardener. Web-sights of dew-glistening Tea & Coffee plantations. Mother Nature’s hairpins strewn in the hilly curves. Mist clothed hill stations adding life. Tropical evergreens painting its own wild image. Then you know you existed for this day. Go - romance the woods. Then romance in the woods. And know one secret-every leaf grows green with envy on another to live as the greenest, creating the innumerable shades of green.

Amber: Orange

“The tone of creativity”. She has woven a tradition that has mirrored every finger as skilled. Help the creator in you come out of the shell – coconut shell or a sea shell is up to you. Every coconut creates life. Tired with coco crafts?? Try Screw-pine and bamboo crafts. And to freshen memories take back some souvenirs from God’s treasure.

Note a point: Sculptures are so real that many a time strangers may be mistaken.

Aquamarine: Blue

“A tint so cool and soothing.” The blue invitation to bank on her banks. Backwaters to surge you forward. Palms yearning to kiss her blue waters. Look through the azure blue to know what aqua blue is. Snakeboats exhibit her power to unite. Monsoon ripples appear as magic on her lake bed.
Surging rivers reflect the young, yet waterfalls remind the graying of nature. Boats ne’er honk, lest they disturb the multi hued marine life. Rooms sailing in water!!! No wonder, it’s the houseboat. Like a bolt from the blue may come the monsoon, but do dance in the shower and Remember - Count every ripple.

Ruby: Red

“The hue of energy”. Traffic stops at red. Let’s have the cuisine of God. Intoxicating aroma of spices. Pepper to pep you up. Cardamom and clove to tease your tongue. If fish fried is taboo, try fish dried. Nuts those stand in and out of the fruit. Chips dancing in oil to be the hot and crisp. Coffee beanz and tea leaves to invigorate. The taste of heaven on earth. Hope your heart doesn’t leap into your mouth.Quench your thirst on Toddy or tender coconut water as your mood may be.

Morganite: Pink

“A tinge for relaxation”. When cities disturb your balance, migrate to her country. Let nature prescribe the best. When corporate pressures mount, call nature to apply a bit more pressure to soothe. Make the cells ask “what is aging?” Recharge your dead batteries- 100%. Rejuvenate the body, mind & soul. Revitalize every nerve & whisper to them – “relax”.Ayurveda – science & nature to heal, to awaken your sleeping beauty to a newer dawn. Be back to the pink of health. Let nature’s lap take care.

Topaz: yellow

“A shade to express one’s thoughts.” The prominent color lend to all her dance forms. Night is here - watch the elaborately painted portrayal of her folk epics. Dramas mix in a proportion of poetry, music & dance. Martial arts dances to yet another tune. Where else can you see ornately decorated and disciplined elephants? One in pageants, processions or festivals is due every day. If not, see the butterflies enthralling with its dainty dances.

Absence

2006-12-04T00:40:00.000-08:00

Treading the unseen paths,
walk down we the memory lanes,
skimming moments to cherish.
There overfloweth a chest of past,
love, tears and joy.
Dig deep our minds for more,
opening treasures unwoken.
As pearls etched in shelly niches
forever as new, they glitter,
reflecting a rainbow of friends.

Stood alone I on the road,
waiting, hoping one to guide.
Moved all very swift,but..
clutched one emanating affection,
yet slipped my grasp and meandered,
plunging again in teary pools.

Jealous I feel to stars,
having one to wink an eye.
Enveloped the mystic mist in 'me',
whispering 'unleash a new dawn'.

My Bhavnagar Trip...............................

2006-12-03T20:16:00.000-08:00

Days dawn as if the future is decided in a day’s time. Decisions are so fast that we know not where we have to travel the next day. Electronic-tickets or e-tickets as we say have helped me immensely in this ‘quick style’ life. The same happened on 17^th October 06 when I was directed to Bhavnagar for a ship inspection.
And the 1^st surprise was when I saw a person holding “Alcock Ashdown shipyard welcomes Rejil” and a thought went through my mind “am I really so big a person!!!” then slowly I told my mind to be quiet and this placard is just to identify you and not because you are important, but again I was stumped when it dawned to me that my accommodation was arranged in a 3 star heritage hotel -Neelambaug. The palatial hotel swathed me the ambience of my ancestral house with the Naalukettu (quadrangular buildings with open courtyards), the walls displaying pictures of the Gujarati culture in the Dress and jewellery. Also hung on the walls were their rich culture in art and tradition. After my shower, the waiting safari took us on the three-hour drive in my itinerary. And where were we heading?

To a place called Chanch, a name derived from the Hindi word chonch meaning beak. Yes, just have a look at the map and u will know that Gujarat somewhere resembles a beak. My eyes spotted the lone temple on a mountain, was the Palitana Jain temple, as explained by Mr. Rajguru, our guide cum quality inspector.
As my vehicle swished past a cart, I noticed a peculiarity. Neither an Ox nor a cow drove the carts. It was indeed towed by a camel. And the surprise was short lived, as it became a common sight. The garlic, onion and cotton crops lined the road like soldiers guarding the border, not to forget the dehydration plants for the onions. A small halt at Mahuva quenched my thirst with the honey sweet tender coconut.
On our way my mind longed to experience the drive in the chakda, the always-overloaded Enfield remodeled auto rickshaw, flouting all the rules in carrying passengers, but poor my prestige never allowed me to.
The environment went on to be rustic and the earth chocolaty as we drove on. Greenery was some lone Neem gardens and the fodder producing thorny bunchy shrubs. As our automobile turned to the dust spooking roads, we enquired the shepherd for any nearby tea stall, and you know what, he wasn’t grazing goats. It was all sheep.
Surprises awaited me again at the mud house shop, in the form of PEPSI as I was amazed by the market penetration. PEPSI where people lived in countable.
But the rusted road signs took us forward. No life moved on either side. Square salt farms spread to the entirety divided by mud bunds, but never did Gujarat miss its true saffron color. The triangular flags fluttered at every flagpost.
A matter of true appreciation was for the water pipelines at every village.
And then the work started, but I was truly waiting for the mouth-watering dishes made my Rajgurus mom, and so was it different because it was tastier than ever thought of by my taste buds. The Thepla was a speciality, a dish prepared in Methi leaf. As I got into my Qualis to enjoy a movie, the shrill cry of a bird requested my attention, wow my goodness – a peacock and later on more of it. Surprise that a place devoid of anything lively had such a beautiful bird to entertain, and people considered it god for being the vehicle of Kartik Swamy or as we call him in southern India as Murugan/subramanian.
Still as dusk came setting in, the sun started its way back to its mom’s place, leaving all the ships orphaned in the horizon. The red hue always changed to a mix of orange crimson and vanished for pitch darkness to rule the roost.

India shining??

2006-12-01T21:15:00.000-08:00

Landmark to a friend's place made me to sit-up and ponder. How aware are the young about our country's golden past and the freedom struggle!!!!
The entire anecdote unfolded when I was unable to find the statue of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru .And I enquired the same with a boy almost 12yrs old. "WHO?" greeted his quizzed face. Patiently I asked him again in a child's language -" Where is Chachaji's statue?” Suddenly a flash of familiarity brightened his expression and he answered in a scholastic tone " Over there, behind the building, stands a statue of a bald uncle. Is that the one you mean?" but I never knew that Nehruji had gone bald. Anyways without another query I walked a few meters more to confirm the newfound info. Lo!! There stood a statue of Ambedkar. That pushed out the final puff of breath left in me. But Thank god!!! He didn't guide me to the nearby Hanumanji's statue. I whispered to myself and to almighty.
I was confused, surprised, and angry all together at once. A torrent of questions showered deep inside me. Didn’t the boy know Ambedkar too? Isn’t he going to school? If not isn’t he missing primary education and we a valuable citizen? But he had already merged with the market crowd, absolutely ignorant that he had misled me. And I felt pity on myself, not to have corrected him.
And as the truth slowly dawned on me on how lucky I am to have received the bounties on earth and also on how much India lags behind in certain arenas, even if the figures showcase a potential power in the making.
As for Gandhiji’s teachings and principles, Munnabhai essayed the role in enlightening the masses. Maybe if it were a Gandhi statue, the boy would have identified correctly. Now who will hold the Munnabhai mantle for the other great personalities who walked our country? Still pondering!!!!

My TRAINing

2006-10-29T12:21:00.000-08:00

I got to know what life in the fast lane is once I became another local in the locals of Mumbai. 7:44am- time to run to Thane station for the 7:46am fast. Wow!! What a great crowd, I say to myself not when they wait like thirsty dogs, but when the public touches the fast moving metal box with respect. My 40 minutes of mixed human-jam processing starts. The rush in and the flush out are so meticulously executed that I learned the value of seconds in my watch. People get so evenly distributed that, once if a count is taken, it will be exact in every compartment. Now the concentration shifts to getting a space to stand. Once you know to board the second class, the net sessions are over and you are deemed fit to be a local train passenger. Here I was enlightened on why a square feet of space is so dear and costly in Mumbai. Balancing life on one foot and one hand and sometimes just on a finger of my toe made me dearer to my dear life. In the mad pursuit to acquire a seat the word civic sense remains out of question, yet even the ruthless who never lent a helping hand are forced to help the co-passengers by placing and handing over their bag from the rack. Anyone and everyone are packed airtight as the locals turn a rare locale where no discrimination based on class and creed is entertained. Now I read the amusing advertisements announcing the cure for AIDS with a new drug, and I wonder why they didn’t earn a Nobel.
These days I have even stopped pressing my shirts, as am sure that it's going to be. And who knows!! Years later some folklore will fascinate the world with a tale that the Mumbai locals propelled the invention of wrinkle free dress. The sandwiching crowd that eats away my breakfast calories replaced my morning drills. And if you are like me, not too tall with a frameless specs, then there is nothing much to do than to stand like a buffalo, holding its head out of the water while swimming. Mostly the dancing lobes in the trains are not required for me to hold on. Occasionally as sweat and dirt mouths an awful smell, the ceiling fans and tubes too join the game of hide and seek. But all in between flows the chimes of the hymns and my peace of mind, as ‘Ganpati Bappa’ lends the air a charm inexplicable.100 different poses on how to sleep, 100 different ways of reading a newspaper- these are not books published, but my Mumbai local views. Different languages, different cultures and what not other a mini India is my daily train. Surprises never stop here, as I watch with disheveled hair on my forehead, all the classes merge on arrival, busy as usual, to carry out their individual responsibilities. A remarkable wonder is this mode of travel which gives the proud feeling of victory, on a journey accomplished. I know I had tamed the local, some thing which can never be done in my god’s own country.

Gods Own Country Kerala

2006-10-29T01:30:00.000-08:00

Gods Own Country Kerala

Gifts galore in the glitter green,
Oceans open ornated.
Dances divine dress dazzling.
Smells so spicy splendid soars,

Or onam odour oozes out.
'Welcome' woven wildlife wave the,
Niches natures, nicely nutured.

Climate,cocos,cashews cozy cool,
Over oneself or others.
Unveils underwater wealth unlimited,
Network naval,natures
Tales treasure temples tranquil,
Rains racy roam roaring.
Yearn yogis to yonder.

Keeps kerala kalari keys,
Earns education esteem equal.
Rivers random, 'race'refreshing,
Agri active alluvium.
Lure the lovely,lively lakes lagoons,
And ayurveda ancient alive.

My S-experiences in GOa

2006-10-27T12:14:00.000-07:00

First day

Waking to the sunrays of goa was exciting. Reclining in the Volvo and watching the splendor of goa brought back memories of Kerala. As I stepped down at panjim to take a nonstop Mazda to vasco-da-gama, the aroma of fishes and spice lent my nose the forgotten nostalgia. Dropping anchor at my friends home was prime now, and maybe I missed out a little of the beauty in thought. The route to Vasco was a treat, and the road lining the backwaters like the bordered sketch with a pencil. As it neared the quietness of that little hamlet, I forgot the shrilled cacophony in Mumbai, a deep breath, disguising itself as the sigh of relief thanks to zero urban populace, yet lively in makeup, that was goa in my platter.
Plans on where and when to go started scratching my hair, and I decided-enjoy every moment in goa in the goan way. After the cool shower we embarked on our tour mission titled - GOa. My first beach-MIRAMAR- sensuous warm and curvy like the woman who was skimpily clad for the sunbath, Virgin like the village belle, but not amongst the notorious nude beaches that once existed as a black mark on the forehead of Goa. And we in swimsuits enjoyed the dusky evening amidst the waves, diving for the catch practice. After the cruise at twilight laced with music and dance, night started showing up its dark tentacles in the hazy sky and we decided to leave for the special goan dinner.
The special preparation of fish deep-fried in rava touched my palate; indeed a novel way to let the spices remain indolent in the fish itself and Goan delicacies of chicken rechãdo and xãcuti took away any other lingering tastes from my taste buds. Then someone came up with the idea of local brews- cashew and coconut "feni," strongly aromatic, but as overheard not for a silly stomach, so I had my share of tender coco and a glass of sweet-salty lemon juice.

Second day

As Saturday dawned for a fun-fuelled start, we decided to do better, go on a drive and be efficient. Clato was waiting in his white Hyundai, and forgot to introduce Clato, my driver, but by the end of the day was promoted as my guide. Imam was another guide, my official helper and watch keeper, and alongside were my friends Ashok and Sujith. The engine puffed off by 9 am, driving the misty road, swathed on sides in green-blanketed shrubs. The scent of air engaged me in contemplation, and to a daydream that slipped me to a catnap. The brakes woke my eyes to the colorful line of boats at Dona Paula, the place which set the tale of a heartbreaking love story, a small paradise gifted with the expensive yet adventurous ride of the fastest scooter boat available. 30 minutes of stay at this piece of heaven whispered to my heart to view more of the stupendous present than being nostalgic of the past. The shops lined in the rainbow hues hooked me to get a souvenir hat for my yet to be discovered girlfriend. And the drive proceeded to the Aguda fortress; where the memory of Dil Chahta Hai movie and being compared to Saif for the character was all revived!! The walk around was a prose in non-abstract. And then came a juicy lady in black trousers and white tee’s and I had to hold on to my poise. And a sigh is all what remained in me as we were destined only to drive, next to fuel my stomach. The ‘Ghar Ka Khana’ term by Clato was true to the core in essence, as the red hot KINGFISHER painted home offered us the simplest and perfect Goan lunch of fish curry-rice pepped with the rava pomfret fry. My palette didn’t finish, as I had lots more to color at the series of beaches at Calanghute, Vagator, Baga and Anjuna. At Candolim-sinquirim was an experience of a lifetime with the dolphins and my paragliding journey, but on the horizon laid Sinquirim’s sorrow M.V River princess stranded in the sand the past 6 years unable to budge, eating away the coastal line. But carefree were the honeymoon couples romancing the only few sweet days of marriage. Never to forget the young girls who rush towards the waves to embrace and get drenched. As she stands a shadow dripping water on sand, lends their soul a charm and for me an enigmatic fascination, sprouting a burning desire, while locals gawk at the sunbathers. As memoirs remain etched, I reach droopy eyed after a siesta to Baga and Anjuna where the red cliffs embrace the white sand. Secluded in the white sands are the recliners under the inviting umbrella, but I had to leave for a little shopping, an embellished blue scarf was the find of the day. And how would it look on my Cinderella!!!!!! I pondered. Driving back was sad because I knew it’s again a haunting memory for me. Still my weary eyes reached the ambience of ANANDASHRAM, a brilliantly lit inn. Started with a chicken manchow soup and chicken pakoda starter, then mackerel fry and prawns filled my table and with it squid masala filled my stomach. Next was the turn of Tissreo and Xinnanneo to appease my appetite. Topping the whole menu was my favorite butterscotch scoop and I slept as if I hadn’t for a year.

Third and fourth day

As another day raised its hood in the calendar, I had an idea of visiting the nearby Sawanthwadi, a two hour drive from vasco. We regrouped at my friend’s house for the best vegetarian lunch in a long time. Started with sweets to chapatti, plantain dish with coconut grating, salad, Biriyani laced with lots of cashews and kismis, plain rice and buttermilk and a very special dish known locally as PURAN POLI and kheer. Thanks to Ashish’s mom. WOW!!!!!!! is all what I could say.
The last day opened its tender eyes in my itinerary- A short drive to the church of St Xaviers, St Catherine and St Assisi. Adorned with tiled roof, the chapel of St Xaviers is embellished with a peculiar style of architecture and where the mortal remains of the 450 year old St Xavier lies in a beautiful casket, and St Catherine caresses a tower on either side of the edifice not to forget the St Assisi with murals portraying the life of St Francis of Assisi and golden floral designs inspiring awe. Nearby is the grand galleria-the museum housing an eclectic collection of 60 portraits of the Portuguese viceroys and governors of Goa.
As time slipped in my TITAN I had to return to my own Mumbai, nonstop, except for a place where there was real looting in the name of food.
And you all maybe still wondering why the title S-experiences in Goa!!!! Right? Those of you who noted clear know that it’s not sex-perience and it’s Superb-Experience what I meant. Sorry for making u all read my rubbish which would have been longer except b’cos I am sleepy to type more………..