Memoirs and More...

So a random casket opened up in the cellar of my reminiscences, and out tumbled a memory from years ago:

I was about eight years old. My very first dog, Candy, had succumbed recently to old age. And to my eight-year old mind, she had already become a direct-line messenger to God. So whenever I wanted something, I would ask Candy to ‘put in a word’ to God, simply to expedite the process of having it.

Back then, my school was located close to my dad’s office. So in the evenings, the car would pick me and Rohit (my neighbor who also went to the same school) up, and then we would wait for Dad outside his office.

On one such day, Dad took longer than usual. Rohit and I, restless and grumpy after a long day at school, couldn’t sit still any longer. So we jumped out of the car, and put our eight-year-old brains to work, on how we could get home sooner.

Suddenly, I brightened up. “I know, I’ll just ask Candy to send Papa out faster!”

Rohit looked at me like I had lost my marbles. “Err…What? Are you out of your mind?”

“Oh yes! She is my hot-line to God! You wait and see, she’ll send Papa out soon!”

I think Rohit restrained himself from pooh-poohing my plan further because he thought angering me would not be a good idea at all, considering he still wanted the lift back home. So when I started my conversation with Candy, he just watched quietly.

Now, the thing is, I didn’t just ‘talk’ to Candy that day…I thought it would be better if I could improvise and do something more ‘impactful’, for quicker results. So, I began a little tribal-esque practice of sorts. I marched round and round, all the while saying, “Candy send Papa fast!! Candy send Papa fast!!”

And then, I do not know what came over Rohit, but after a while, he probably thought he might want to give this weird prayer/request thing a shot too. So he joined me in the circle, and started marching briskly as well. Only, he didn’t mention Candy at all. (Umm, did I tell you he had been scared of her all throughout, while she had been around?)He made up his own chant, which was, “Uncle, Uncle, come fast!! Uncle, Uncle, come fast!!”

So there we were, two eight-year olds, marching round and round, and chanting away to glory, outside a big iron gate that demarcated the corporate world from the outside world.  To several amused onlookers, we must have seemed like quite a crazy pair of kids. But we did not care. We were focusing on our prayer: that of getting Papa out of the office at the earliest, so we could reach home quickly. And when he did come out ‘sooner’, we conveniently credited the outcome to our chants.

Looking back, I wonder if any of the onlookers that day might have been tempted to forget their grown-up lives for a little while, and join us kids in our little charade. Or if any of them who understood what we were doing, might have wanted to shed all inhibitions and ‘demand’ something from Nature in the same way.

Sometimes, even if only for its limitless imagination, interesting observations, and the lack of inhibitions, I think Childhood should be considered a SuperPower J

So long,

Mishree.

Gachchi : A Playground For The Memories

I read the word “Gachchi” on my friend’s FB wall yesterday. Almost immediately, a very funny thing happened. I realized immediately that there was something very warm, honey-like and familiar about the sound it made in my mind. And I wondered why it had begun to trigger a jet of memories.

Then, in my head, I heard a little girl asking me, “Gachchi var kheluya?” (Shall we play on the terrace?)

For the uninitiated, “Gachchi” is Marathi for “terrace”. And for this post, I will refrain from using the English equivalent, simply because it will not sound even remotely as magical.

As a kid, I lived on the top floor of a fairly old building, and two flights of stairs – seventeen steps exactly – took me to the Gachchi.

It was an ordinary C-shaped structure, with little blue-green-white-mosaic chips that ran along its expanse. The parapet walls were about four-feet high, coarse, stone-grey structures, and at irregular intervals on them, stood old TV antennae, the kind that had to be adjusted everytime there was a transmission problem.

There was nothing spectacular about the Gachchi, really.  But to me, the Gachchi was my perennial source of merriment, my wonderland. Back then, I remember preferring the Gachchi to the playground. Perhaps because I never did enjoy games that involved too much running around or that came with a set of rules. 

I think I loved the Gachchi so much because it let me be. If I had a friend with me on a particular day, we could begin a game of charades or Badminton or ‘House-House’ or Antakshari. If I did not have company, I would begin making my own stories and enacting them. There was no one to judge or criticize, and my imagination could be as freewheeling as it wanted to be.

The Gachchi listened if I wanted to cry. Or vent out anger. If I wanted to study, it allowed me to. If I needed to sing myself hoarse, it became my audience.  If I wanted to play a make-believe game, it humoured me. If I wanted to write, it played the unintrusive companion.

Sometimes, my entire family would get together, and we would have impromptu potluck dinners on the Gachchi. We even had a table specially meant for such occasions.

The Gachchi allowed me to discover the wonders of the night sky. Often at night, my parents and I would climb up those two flights of stairs, go to the Gachchi, and they would teach me to identify constellations. Great Bear, Orion and Big Dipper are names I’ve learnt standing on that Gachchi, tracing and memorizing patterns with my fingers.

Then, there were the birthday parties. On those days, the Gachchi would be transformed into a different world altogether, with armchairs, gaddas, chataayees, lights and balloons.

We left that house in many years ago, and I have never had a chance to see the Gachchi since. Sometimes, little snapshots of times spent on the Gachchi appear in my head. Of red chilli peppers or raw mango strips left out to dry in the warm sunshine. Of the special blue and white table that patiently stayed put until summoned for a Gachchi-dinner. Of certain faces that were there during those parties, but are no more around. Of the night sky that was my blackboard. Of me sitting with my childhood friends, exchanging schoolgirl chitchat. Of TV antennae that frequently malfunctioned. Of the water tank that I was bold enough to climb on top of but too cowardly to come down from.

In a very strange way, I think spotting one tiny word out of so many, was no mere coincidence. Because even as I list memory after memory that the word triggered, I realize that I have really, really, missed an old friend. And I feel a certain calling to go back to the Gachchi, and relive bits and pieces of the yesteryears.  

So many things change over time. And so many remain just as constant. Perhaps in our quest to deal with the variables, we forget that the constants are still around. And that they are waiting for us to re-establish contact. Strange as though it may sound, I think one such constant just found out a way to reach out to me. And I cannot wait to do the same!

PS: Did I mention I love discovering magic in the most random occurrences?

Much Love,

Me.

The Girl In Ivory White

I see a little girl

Dressed in ivory white

Her brown locks curl around her face

Her eyes dance a happy dance

And when she giggles,

Her little button nose crinkles

And makes me smile.

She prances around from corner to corner,

Like she owns the world.

From time to time,

She breaks into a song,

Tuneless, but soulful.

She makes me smile.

Then, she starts to dance.

Her feet possess the rhythm

That her voice does not.

She is free, uninhibited, inspired,

She has a magical quality about her,

That makes me smile.

She picks up something from the ground,

Something that has caught her fancy.

It is a triangular blue piece of glass.

She holds it up against the sun,

Chuckles at the triangular green patch on the blue sky.

Her laughter makes me smile.

It is only if you look closely,

That you spot the holes in her ivory white dress.

That you see the cracks on the tiny feet.

That you realize her brown hair,

Is because of more sun and less food.

That the piece of glass is entertainment she has chanced upon,

Maybe today is her lucky day.

She continues to sing, she continues to dance,

But now holds her blue treasure close to her heart.

She is careful to not let it fall on the road below,

Because she does not want to lose it.

Just the way I hold on to that treasured moment tightly,

Because I do not want it to fall out of my mind,

Because I do not want to lose it.

The Ceremony

I am sitting in a plush, well-decorated room. The room is a mishmash of the smells of smoke, incense and flowers. Neatly arranged on the cream coloured floor are steel plates - some with flowers, some with fruits, some with betel leaves, one with a red and gold cloth. The priest recites Sanskrit chants with practiced fluidity. A lamp stands in the centre; its flame flickers restlessly, almost like a defiant child. And on a little green stool, covered under heavy yellow and pink garlands, lies a photo-frame. The frail old lady whom everyone fondly referred to as ‘Mashima’ peers out from behind the flowers. She strikes me as a meek, inconspicuous element in the surroundings. Not as the person the ceremony revolves around.

The portly fifty-something daughter-in-law has the most flagrant presence in the room. She welcomes the guests as they arrive. She scuttles between the kitchen and the drawing room, sometimes doling out orders to the servants, sometimes handing over to the priest what he requires. She animatedly tells visitors stories of her deceased mother-in-law. I perceive an almost cheerful demeanour that seems jarringly out-of-place for the occasion.

The son, the Executive Director of a firm, walks in and out of the room intermittently. He is a very busy man. He has put his meetings and conference calls on hold for the first half of the day. When it is time for his part of the rituals, he sits down cross-legged in front of his mother’s photograph. From inside the frame, his mother seems to look at him almost apologetically. She knows she cannot demand her son’s time – she hasn’t been able to do that for over thirty-five years now.

Five minutes into the ritual, the son begins shifting in his seat impatiently. “How much longer, Thakur Moshai?”, he questions. “Do I have to read this entire book of hymns?” The women of the family burst out laughing. How amusing you are, you poor thing, they tell him. The priest smiles. “Only a little more time, Ghosh Da, and we will be done.” The son begrudgingly sits on. From time to time, he glances at the wall-clock.

“You know, in the last few months, Sunil couldn’t spend much time with Ma. He would probably get very upset seeing her like that, all frail and helpless, you know? That is why he wouldn’t go into her room too much”, the daughter-in-law explains to the guests, almost as a defense mechanism. The guests nod sympathetically.

Maanu, the resident household help, takes care of little details pertaining to the guests and the ongoing ceremony. I remember Mashima telling me that he came to their house as a ten-year old orphan. He has learnt early enough to shop for groceries, to cook, he even knows how to drive. He has shaved off his hair as a part of the mourning rituals.

 “We did not want to put her in the hospital. She liked it here at home. But then, on the last day, the doctor told us her BP was falling rapidly. So we admitted her”, the daughter-in-law tells us.

“How long was she in hospital?”, a guest asks. “Oh, only a day. She went peacefully, Dada, no pain, no discomfort”, says the daughter-in-law. “After my father died, the crooks at the hospital put him on ventilator for half a day. Money-minting mechanisms, these, nothing else!”, says another guest. “What else can we expect, Dada? In times of so much corruption ruling the State, especially, bolun?”, the daughter-in-law offers. The guests nod. The conversation spins off into a discussion about the latest political scamsters. And then, football, Rituparno Ghosh and automobiles.

The maid enters the room with a tray, an ornate, delicately carved wooden showpiece (“Oh this? Sunil got it from Sri Lanka!”). Little gold-rimmed porcelain cups (“And these are a gift from my brother. He picked them up from Italy.”) stand on it with dignity. The daughter-in-law coaxes her guests to drink tea. Some of them pick up the cups, some others politely decline.

“Sunanda here took care of her in the last few days”, the daughter-in-law says, gesturing towards the maid. “She managed to persuade Ma to eat something at least. Otherwise in the last one month, she had practically given up eating. Like she had lost the will to live, you know?”, the daughter-in-law narrates.

Sunanda smiles politely, then gracefully retreats into the kitchen.

The grandson sits inside his room, showing his friends his new mobile phone. Occasionally, peals of their laughter wander into the drawing room.

“What is Rohit doing these days, Mala?”, a guest enquires of the grandson. “Oh, he will begin with his MBA now. You know how important these MBA degrees are. And so expensive, no? But then, what to do, he is our only son. So we encouraged him fully. It is a very good college, one of the best”, the daughter-in-law informs loudly enough for the other guests to hear. She somehow forgets to mention the hefty donation the son paid for the admission.

The priest asks for something. The daughter-in-law hurries inside the kitchen and steps out with a plate. “All of her favourite things, you know? Samosa, begun bhaja, dhoka-r dalna, and most importantly, icecream! How she loved icecream. Could eat so much of it at one go!”

I hear one guest murmuring to her husband, that a lot of the actual rituals aren’t being followed, and what kind of casual ceremony is this.

A wisp of a memory crosses my mind. It is a summer afternoon, about a year ago. Mashima is on her rounds in the colony garden. Alone. She spots me as I walk past, and calls out to me. I detour, walk up to her, then lead her brittle body to a bench. She is happy to see me. Asks how I am, how everyone at home is, how work is, and everything else she can remember. I answer her queries one by one. When she sees my mobile holder, she exclaims that it is beautiful. “Can you get me one like it? I will pay you”, she offers. I tell her I will be happy to. But then, her face falls. She changes her mind. “Mala won’t be very happy, let it be”. Then she asks me to store my number in her mobile phone.

“Asha, let us go downstairs to the community hall, we will be starting with lunch shortly,” someone says in my ears. I am jolted out of the flashback. I realize the ceremony is now over, and that the guests have started vacating the house.

I walk down the stairs, into the lawn. At the other end of the lawn, the son, now relieved of his personal duties, stands with a lit cigarette in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. He has ignored his professional commitments for more than pardonable time.

I cross the grandson too; he is making plans to play football after the ceremony. And the daughter-in-law is telling a new family how Mashima had lost the will to live. I finish my lunch (an elaborate affair) mostly in silence, making small talk with some neighbours I know. Before I leave, I walk up to the daughter-in-law and thank her for the hospitality. “How did you like the food?”, she asks. I tell her it was very good. “We got these caterers from Kolkata, you know? So difficult to get them at such short notice, but we managed!” I smile, and request to take her leave. She says good-bye, and moves on to talk to more guests. As I walk out of the hall, I hear her thanking someone for coming, and telling them how Ma loved visiting their house.

In my building lobby, I notice Gupta Ji, the watchman, staring at the community hall. “Sab kuchh theekh se ho gaya, madam?”, he asks me. I smile and tell him it all went off smoothly. “Bahut acchhi thi Mashima. Woh hum se kabhi-kabhi bolti thi dukaan se saamaan lane ke liye. Unke ghar mein kisi ko time nahin milta tha, na”, Gupta Ji recollects. I am not sure what to tell him.

For one last time, I turn around and look at the colony lawn, where Mashima used to walk. Alone. All at once, there is a vision, of Mashima ambling past with her walker. Alone. She seems to look at me, and waves. I smile, and in my heart, ask her to take care. And with that, I turn back towards home.

Of Factors, Equations and More...

I do not remember very much of how that day began. But I do recall that it was a very early morning in the summer of 1993. I was woken up gently by Ma, who helped me get dressed, and then the three of us – Ma, Dadu and I – left for Allahabad. I had no idea who lived there, or why we were going. But we boarded a crowded train that trudged reluctantly along inconspicuous stations, farms and kachcha roads, as if protesting the relentless heat all along.

Seven hours later, we were knocking on a grey door. Then we were being greeted by the surprised shrieks of family members who had not been informed of our arrival. As Ma hugged relatives she was seeing after many years, I kept looking around, lost. I knew no one there. I distinctly remember feeling that all of those people, our relatives, were very, very loud.

Eventually, Ma realized that I was there. And bit by bit, over the next four days, the Allahabad connection was unfurled to me. I learnt that the house we were in was where Ma had grown up. I learnt who was who. I was asked to call certain people by certain names. And I was pampered to the core. I was Mitali’s daughter after all; Mitali, who was the youngest of her generation, and the apple of everyone’s eyes.

Over those four days, I experienced many ‘firsts’. For one, I had always lived in a fairly small apartment in Mumbai. It was a quiet life, with just my parents for the most part, and occasionally with my grandparents. In that huge ancestral home in Allahabad, there was a courtyard, there were fruit-trees inside the house, there were staircases, there were two terraces, and there was a “choubachcha”, or a water tank. And there were aunts, uncles, cousins, grand-aunts and grand-uncles and neighbours all the time. It was chaotic, but it was beautiful. I realized for the first time what it was like to be in a joint family, and I loved it. But the best part was that I had resident playmates all the time, in the form of my siblings. And to an only child like me, that was complete bliss.

After that trip, my cousins and I began writing to each other. I would wait to spot the blue of inland letters or the beige of postcards with familiar scrawls. My life in Bombay had plenty of other distractions, but I looked forward to those intermittent bits of communication. And on birthdays, there would be the much-awaited phone-calls.

I made subsequent trips to Allahabad over the next few years. In the interim, our games had matured; from Blind-Man’s Buff and Chor-Police, we graduated to Charades. Occasionally, we fought, then we made up. Allahabad was a small, unambitious city, and power cuts were commonplace. I remember hot afternoons of no material comforts in the form of fans or coolers, but of the solace of lots of laughter and mad company.  There were many more rooms and many more beds in that sprawling house, but somehow, despite that heat, we slept huddled up on one single bed, using each other as side-pillows.

One morning, two of my cousins had a fight. Bubul Dada was picking on Tumpa Didi, she said a few nasty things in return, and they fought. Bubul Dada sat down quietly in a corner of the room. The rest of us continued with our games, glancing at both of them from time to time.

After a while, I noticed a tear trickling down Bubul Dada’s cheek. “Bubul Dada is crying!” I shouted. Tulu Dada, our eldest brother, who was normally very quiet, swooped in on the scene at once. He hugged Bubul Dada, wiped his tears, and told him to not pay attention what Tumpa Didi had said. And then, with the stern authority of a father, he commanded Tumpa Didi to apologise.

Tumpa Didi flatly refused. “He was the one to provoke me”, she said. “I am not saying sorry, no way”. The rest of us, much younger than them, started wheedling to Tumpa Didi to apologise so that everything would go back to normal. I, in particular, wanted it to soon because I was leaving for Bombay the next day. All of a sudden, I do not know what happened, but Tumpa Didi burst out crying as well, and ran to Bubul Dada screaming out multiple sorries in quick succession. The next minute, all three of them were hugging, and we were watching them, amused. Five minutes later, it was as if nothing had happened.

That memory is still vividly etched out in my mind, because that was the first time I had seen so dramatic an argument between my cousins. Now that I think of it, back then, Bubul Dada was twenty and Tulu Dada twenty-three. I had seen a grown-up man crying, so uninhibited, and only because of something his little sister had said to him. And Tulu Dada had cajoled him like one would a little boy of four.

*********************************************************************************

Today, Bubul Dada is thirty-six years old, and is the father of a five-year old. Today, Bubul Dada, as per his wife’s orders, does not speak with the rest of us anymore. After a series of incidents, we have learnt the hard way to cut off from them. To not call. To not convey enthusiastic wishes on birthdays. We have not seen him in many months, and doubt we will again. We have also learnt to consider his absence from our get-togethers normal. We know we won’t see his son growing up, the way we see the other babies of the family. When we have our family con-calls, we do not mention him. When we send each other forwards on our Whatsapp group, we know he will never get to see them and laugh. I still want to send him a Rakhi, but even if I do, he won’t wear it. When family members die, Bubul Dada won’t think of a perfunctory condolence visit or phone call. Things are different. Very different.

I recently recounted that childlike fight of sixteen years ago to another cousin of mine. “Do you remember how simple things used to be then? I wish they still were”, I told him. “That’s alright”, he said. That was one kind of life, this is another. We made the most of that life, we need to thoroughly enjoy what we have in this one as well.”

*********************************************************************************

As we grow older, we begin to realize that certain things that we considered ‘factors’ in our life weren’t really factors at all. We learn to live without people, without things, without abilities. And we discover new possibilities and new lives with new people, new things, and newfound abilities. Sometimes we look back and ponder over things that aren’t the same, but then, that is only momentary. And we are back to this life. Just like that.

Maybe this is wishful thinking, or the emotional fool in me talking, but sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if once more, something else or someone else intervened, like Tulu Dada had back then? What if someone could swish a magic wand?

But then, I know the answer. Those things will never change. The good thing, though, is that we have our own magic wands, with which we can change our expectations.

And in the end, that is really all we need to do.

Much Love,

Me.

Because I have ignored you for a long long time...

Blog,


I am sorry. I just haven't been able to concentrate on you for a while now. 


Today, on one of those trips, where I hop from blog to blog, and read bits and pieces of what other bloggers  have written, I wonder how they get time to write so beautifully. Rather, I wonder how they manage to make time.And then I envy them, envy their patience and calmness of mind, and I feel a teensy bit of anger on my own self, for not trying too hard, probably.


I don't think words come to me as easily as they used to. At least, the big, nice words.(Have I actually ever managed to use big words??)


My blog followers have been stuck at 48 for the longest time now! :-(


I guess it is a mix of too much work, and lots of travelling, and very little peace of mind.


But I guess for hyper freaks like me, peace of mind doesn't come easy. Maybe it is time I made my peace with that. (Ironic, hehe.)


I think this is the first time I don't have any qualms about sounding silly on my blog. 


I am also happy I am writing here, devoid of inhibitions, after a long long time. No premeditated, rehearsed, written and deleted and rewritten thoughts - just an easy flow of words. It is like talking to a close friend, with no one around, no one eavesdropping and making judgements, you know?


Thank you for listening, Blog. You are always so unconditional.


I love you too.


I'll drop by again later, okay?


Don't miss me too much. And if you do, call out to me the way you do and I'll come, the way I do.


XOXO.

silly.

I want to make a silly poem, with you.

:P

Ramblings...

Let me see.
I want to write,
About what,
I do not know.
I think,
I want to ask questions.
To whom,
I do not know.
I want to argue,
About things unchangeable,
With whom,
I do not know.
I want to frame sentences
Sentences that explain,
What they should explain,
I do not know.
I want to speak my mind,
And say what I feel,
What I feel,
I do not know.
I want to break into a song,
A song that describes it all,
What it should describe,
I do not know.


But
I do know,
That there is Hope.
Hope that will never die.
Hope that will keep rekindling the Fire,
The Fire of Dreams
The Fire of Belief
The Fire of Passion
The Fire in my belly,
The Fire that is Me.


So I may fall,
But I will Rise,
I may bleed,
But I will Heal,
I may err,
But I will Learn.


And that is all that matters.

"Something Called Polo"

The year 2008 changed a lot of things for me. I began with a new stint academically. I met new people, I formed new equations.I started pursuing a lot of forgotten interests. I developed some new ones. I also learnt that I could love again – I only had to try a little harder, and believe a little more.

This isn’t a story about how a lot of things changed me, or about how I changed a few things around myself – that will take up a lot of time, and make for many little stories. This is about one of those little stories – about how, among all the changes, something called Polo happened to me.

The first I remember of her is on an Orkut Community for our college. She struck me as bold, really bold – and definitely not someone I could be friends with. But then, we got talking. And we would speak for hours every other day. About the man she loved and wanted to marry, about the man I loved so much but could not marry, about her cocker spaniel, about my pomeranian, about our XLRI and IIM Dads, about the active social life that she led, about the boring existence that was my life. And somewhere, in this jumbled equation of startling similarities and crazy differences, I found a friend. A rock-steady friend.

We decided that when we both moved to Chennai for our MBA, we would be roomies. I was unsure, but I needed the madness, the difference in lifestyle, the change that Polo would bring into my world. And I was really looking forward to it.

But then, I received an offer to study in Bombay. And it seemed like a practical thing to do, because my mom was alone in the city. So I chose it over the other life that I had already started to construct so imaginatively in my head.

Once the MBA course began, we lost touch. But a year and a half later, Polo’s parents moved to Bombay, and soon, Polo followed, with a transfer to my campus. We finally met, and spent the last semester together.

In what would turn out to be another coincidence, we both got placed on the same day in the same organization. While choosing our locations, she opted for Gurgaon and I for Mumbai.

The day before she left, I went to meet her. Both of us were on the verge of starting another phase of our lives. This time too, we were eerily parallel.

With the jobs, staying in touch became difficult again. Once in a while, we would speak and update each other on our lives. She seemed to love her role, I hated mine.

Last year, I changed jobs and moved to a profile of my choice, a job that I love. Earlier this year, Polo got married to Anand, after more than five years of a beautiful, fulfilling courtship. I couldn’t make it to the wedding.

Recently, I went to Gurgaon on an official trip, and met Polo (now Mrs. Anand!) after almost two years. Things were just the same - conversations were easy and from the heart. I told her my parents were groom-hunting and that sometimes it got scary. She told me I was “gorgeous and honest and creative and fun and caring bloody brilliant” and that “I shouldn’t settle for something or someone less”.

I met Anand as well, and absolutely loved the couple. Polo asked me for my approval (yes, after five and a half years of courtship and two months of wedded life!!) and I very willingly gave her the thumbs up.

Last week, I received a random phone call from her early in the morning, when I was at work. “Tanu!!” She shrieked into the phone, and continued, “So I called my mom some time back, and said to her, Ma, go find Tanu a nice guy!”

“Erm…o…kay??” I responded. “Yeah!!” She went on, excited.  “And then I called my mom-in-law, and I told her the same thing! So you are in any case looking right? Always better to have someone who knows you look out for you!”

I wanted to tell her that her mom-in-law hadn’t the faintest clue who I was, but her earnestness, her enthusiasm were way too touching. I laughed and told her she was crazy. And we hung up grinning and went back to work.

After four years of knowing Polo, I think we were destined to connect in the craziest ways. I think back to that first day I saw her on Orkut, and of how convinced I was that she was “too cool” for me to gel well with her. I realize, off and on, that we have counted more and more similarities between our lives every now and then.

Today, four years later, she is still crazy, still bold, still unconventional, still forthright. She is also still one of the warmest, most honest, most genuine people I have known. I wonder what made us click, despite hiatuses in communication and distances in location. And I realize something that I am now putting in words for the first time…Polo and I may keep counting our similarities all our lives, but it is the differences that have kept us really strong. And for those differences, and the intermittent crisscrossing of our destinies, and for the time that something called Polo happened to me, I will always be grateful!!

Much Love,

Me.

"Invisibility"

I want to fade away

into that realm of oblivion

Where I can scream out my deepest fears

Where no one will hear me.

I want to write

Freely, sans inhibitions

On a clean slate
That no one can see.

I want to paint
Images in garish and subtle colours alike
On a canvas
That no one can judge.

Invisibility,
How I long for thee.

On Today...

I coax sleep into my tired eyes 
And mind
And soul
Wake up in the morning
To the same uncertainty
The day begins on a wrong note
Things happen
Things that I do not like
Things that daringly question my new-found belief
A belief that is supporting my sanity right now.
I almost break. I feel the tears stinging my eyes.
But I hold on.
I pull on
Not letting go of the goals that I have set
I do my bit to achieve every one of them.
Then 
The day ends
I leave
To begin another journey.
I wonder if I will buckle,
Somewhere, in the middle of the rut
Of one journey after another.
Of one challenge after another.
But I know I can't give up.
I know I won't give up.
That is the other belief.
In the mean time
There is the warmth
Of unknown, unseen 'strangers'
Of the familiarity of family
Of the wagging tails of my dogs
Of actual jokes on Facebook that make me laugh,
Because they are genuinely funny.
I like that variety of laughter more
Than the kind that sarcasm or irony evoke.
And that is how it shall remain.
Oh
Did I forget to mention 
The simple joy
Of a triangular block of Toblerone?
(The strongest chocolate by design, apparently!)
Anyhow...
In this way,
Piecing together bits and chances of happiness,
I get through Today,
And wait
To welcome Tomorrow.

I miss...

Laughter.

Enthusiasm.

Expression.

Singing.

And so many other parts of 'me'.

Today...

Well, quite simply, what marks the end of an era.


At least I think so.


(12:38 a.m., 26th November 2011)

Simply.

...And they are only dreams
Dreams that remain unfulfilled
That do not kiss reality, 
That do not even see it from a distance
But then, 
That is how
Dreams remain what they are,
Simple, Untarnished,
Dreams.

One day,all this will come true...

One day, the running around will cease to be,
One day, this city will have emptier roads,
One day, we will think of pollution in 'flashback mode',
One day, the fatigue will stop creeping in before it actually does,
One day, the air will be fresh and clean and inhaleable again,
One day....some day....some day in the future...
All this will come true.




Hah, now that is some serious wishful thinking.


What is your craziest dream?

The Child In Me...

Devoid of inhibitions,
Fearless, Spirited & Free,
Another time,Lord,yet again,
Let the Child awaken in me.

Randoms

I am beading my dreams together
One, by one, by one,
On a silken peach thread,
Most of them will remain where they are,
A few will sprout wings and fly...
Who knows where?
A few will break free and fall,
One,by one,by one,
And Life will go on,
Dream, by dream, by dream.

"For I Have Promises To Keep"

I sit by my window, sipping a cup of piping hot herbal chai, staring at the rainy greenery outside. As the rain plays on its steady, pleasant rhythm, I subconsciously begin to hum a song I learnt as a child. A monsoon song that my Auntie Flavia taught me. And I am transported back in time.

She was the odd - one - out in all our get-togethers. While these social gatherings were usually excuses for my neighbours to parade in all their dazzling traditional finery, she always came in wearing  flowy pastel dresses. She was also the only senior-citizen in the motley group of couples who mere much younger, couples who addressed her as Auntie Flavia. That is how I ended up calling her Auntie Flavia too, even though she was old enough to be my grandmother.

I do not know what drew me to her. Maybe it was the  fact that I did not have a grandmother. Or maybe it was the fact that both of us had no contemporaries in the whole group. But I grew attached to her in a way that I secretly like to consider priviliged.

She and Uncle Frederick had been a childless couple, and shortly before I was born, Auntie Flavia was widowed. If she did have relatives, no one had never heard of them. But, like my parents have often told me, Auntie Flavia never seemed to complain. She seemed content and secure in the midst of my family and our other neighbours. Her most special affections, however, were reserved for me. Looking back, I realise I was much more than Auntie Flavia’s god-daughter. I was, in fact, Auntie Flavia’s way of filling up a void in her life.

Auntie Flavia was my Santa-Claus.  Her gifts were unambitious, often home-made, but very frequent. Sometimes she made me cardigans, sometimes little handicrafts, and sometimes sauces and pickles. I loved all her little surprises, but what I enjoyed the most were her home-baked cookies. She could rustle up batches in the most unimaginable flavours, in the most intriguing shapes possible.

Once, seven-year old me proudly told her that my art-teacher had declared me the best “drawer” in class. She’d been delighted. “Will you make me a drawing for my birthday?” she’d asked, earnestly. I’d nodded. “Promise?”, she’d ventured, and I’d nodded again.

But her birthday came, and I remembered nothing of my word. It was then that she told me something that I was too little to understand at the time, but carry with me everywhere now. “Promises are little treasures,” she said, “Learn to keep as many as you can.” “Why?” I asked. “Because each time you keep a promise, you make someone happy and allow the person to trust you a little more. And, as you grow older, you will realize that few things matter more than trust.”

If you look at Life closely, you will realize that everyday, something or the other is changing. And you will discover that somewhere, some changes are getting to you. Suddenly Life seems different, and you want to run away from it all, and hold on to that one constant that makes you feel secure. That restores hope, simply because it is the way you’ve always seen it.

To me, Auntie Flavia was that constant. She saw me through some of my most challenging phases. Whenever things became too much to handle, I would run to her for comfort. The fact that her house remained brick-red, with the same doorbell, the same furniture, the same plants, the same antique piano, the same porcelain dolls, the same wall-hangings, the same unmistakeable freshness of the cookies and the same bedcovers I saw being rotated periodically, year after year, gave me a lot of solace. In more ways than one, Auntie Flavia and that house kept me going.

When I turned seventeen, my parents decided to migrate to Canada. Auntie Flavia was seventy-nine at the time. Knowing that we were the only family she had, and also how difficult her life would have been without me, we offered to take her along. I know it was a very difficult decision for her too, but she declined. “I am too old for a new country now,” she told my parents. “I cannot wake up in an unknown land. And besides,” she smiled wistfully, “I have promises to keep.”

All the persuasion that I could manage did not work on her. Eventually, we came to the eve of our departure. I went to her house for my last cup of tea before I left the country. Auntie Flavia brought me my favourite cookies.

“Promise me that you’ll come and visit me whenever you are here,” she said to me. “I do not know if I’ll live to see you again, but still, promise me you’ll come.” “I’ll come only if you promise to bake me your cookies again whenever I’m here”, I said, in what was probably a lame attempt to lighten our moods. “I promise”, Auntie Flavia said, a hint of tears in her eyes.

We left the next day.

Canada was a beautiful country, and we settled in eventually. Over time, we also made a new set of friends there. Once in a while, news trickled in from India.

One day, I heard from a former neighbor that Auntie Flavia was very unwell. Since I had some money saved up, I decided to travel to India.

It was a clear morning when I went to meet Auntie Flavia. Surprisingly, walking into that old neighbourhood, and past my own home of seventeen years did not make me as nostalgic as seeing Auntie Flavia’s house did.

I rang the doorbell. Once, twice, thrice. No one answered. Fearing the worst, I decided to walk over to another neighbour’s house to inquire about her. But just as I turned towards the driveway, I heard the door open.

I turned around. There she was, my Auntie Flavia, frailer than ever, but smiling. I ran up to her and hugged her tight, the tears flowing freely. “Thank you, God,” I kept saying in my mind. “Thank you SO much.”

I drank in everything - her familiar homely smell, the same furniture, the same plants, the same antique piano, the same porcelain dolls, the same wall-hangings,and the same unmistakeable freshness of the cookies. For a while, I was frozen in time. I could see myself, at different ages, running around from one room to another, Auntie Flavia keeping an administering eye on me all the time.

I held her tiny little palm, and asked her to sit down next to me. “Wait,” she said, and hobbled in to the kitchen. Five minutes later, she came out with a bowl of chocolate-and-roasted almond cookies. 

“Just like I promised,” she said, with a twinkle in her eyes.

“I kept my promise too, you know,” I replied. Auntie Flavia smiled.

“You know, Frederick and I met at my Uncle’s anniversary party”, she began, all of a sudden. “He heard me laughing at someone’s joke, and decided right then that he wanted to marry me. He proposed to me soon after. Told me he would never let me feel unloved, even for a moment, for as long as I lived. I said yes, and we got married in a few months. Life was more beautiful than I’d ever imagined. And Fred lived up to his word of loving me incessantly. Even though we never did have children, I did not miss having any because Fred made me so complete.”

I wondered what had led to her suddenly talking about Uncle Frederick. But I kept listening.

“When Fred died, I did not think I could survive on my own. For days, I would go to bed at night, praying that when I woke up, it would be in Heaven, next to Fred. But that did not happen.

And then, one day, your parents moved into the neighbourhood. And you were born soon after. Between you and me, I think Fred sent you to me, because he wanted to keep his promise of making me feel loved for as long as I lived. Because after I saw you, Life seemed worthwhile again. You’ve been a wonderful child.”

We spoke throughout the afternoon, about our life in Canada and her life in India after our departure. Everything seemed just the same, like the good old days. And then, it was finally time for me to leave.

 “Will you do me a favour, Chickie?”

I nodded.

“I haven’t been able to visit Fred’s grave in weeks. My health hasn’t allowed me to venture out. Will you visit his grave for me, with his favourite flowers?”

I smiled and said I would.

“And I hope they haven’t laid anyone to rest in the patch next to his grave. Remember how I had promised Fred that whenever I died, I would lie down right there? I had sort of ‘reserved’ that place for myself,” she added with a little smile. 

How well I knew that promise of her’s.

I got up with a heavy heart. Something told me I would never see her again.

 Auntie Flavia read my mind. “You’ll see me soon,“ she said. “I promise.”

I wondered what she meant, but I assumed she was just trying to make me, and herself, feel a little better. I hugged her tightly and left.

An hour later, the red and white roses in my hand, I walked into the graveyard. I knew where Uncle’s Fred’s grave was; Auntie Flavia had brought me along several times. But as I stepped up to the grave marked ‘Frederick Mascarenhas’, my face fell.

The formerly vacant patch next to it was now occupied.

Part anger and part sorrow gripped me. I thought I’d let Auntie Flavia down. I knew this was her last wish – that she be laid to rest next to her beloved husband. I wanted to scream out in anger at whoever had dared to occupy Auntie Flavia’s ‘reserved’ spot. The flowers still in my hand, I bent down to see who had been buried there.

And then I froze. It couldn’t be.

I sank down onto the grass, blank, weak in the knees. Her last words kept echoing in my ear - "You will see me soon. I promise".

In the distance, the sun was slowly setting, and the world was becoming darker by the moment.