A recluse to another....

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……

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...

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.

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...

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

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.

........................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

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

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...............................

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??

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

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

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

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………..