From the pensieve 4

Last week, a good friend quite humorously told me about her tryst with writing (http://idyllsbythecreek.blogspot.de/2013/12/of-short-stories-and-social-studies.html). She brought back the memories of the first poem I ever wrote.

I'm not sure if anybody would call it a poem. It was in Malayalam (luckily!) and was constructed with commonplace words. But it was perfectly rhythmic. It was about a friend I never had! The lines would go something like,

Weren't you the swan I always longed to see
Weren't you the answer I always longed to seek
Why did you go away from me
Please come back to me.

If you try to find the deeper meaning between these lines, I have to warn you that you wouldn't find any. None was intended.

I was eleven and a half and had recently moved to Trivandrum. Perhaps I was missing all my friends in Calicut. I hid that piece of paper in my cupboard beneath the stack of folded clothes. I really did not want my brothers to find it.

How do I put this, well, I never had a good rapport with my brothers. The eldest was freakishly bright and studious and the second one was quite a bully. When I first came to Trivandrum I had a doll with me. Her name was Tintu and she was a cherished friend right from the days of vaccination blues. One of my brothers thought it was funny to cut off her nose! Sometimes they would make me sit in a chair and tilt it and make the back of the chair rest on a table in a way I wouldn't be able to move. I would stay almost suspended in air and scream! They would let me off minutes before mother came back from office. She never really heard anything I was trying to tell her back then. She would just say that she had had a long day at work! If I continue anymore on this, I would probably lose the peace I worked so hard to achieve. In short this could explain why I didn't think it was necessary to have a second child.

My tryst with poetry soon gave way to a deeper romance with short stories. Everybody had perfect siblings in my stories. loving brothers and sisters!  But soon I got tired of such imaginary brothers and sisters and started writing something more realistic in nature as far as I was concerned. Spooky stories!! Horror and Terror!! I guess that was the time I read Bram Stoker's Dracula. I wrote about mysterious disappearances and apparitions, I was thrilled by the knowledge that I could create a whole different world with a little bit of imagination.

My readers were mostly the girls from my class, well, I had an adorable northern accent, everybody in the class wanted to my friend! One of them forced me to take part in writing competitions. I did win some school level prizes. Somehow it never went further than that.

After class 10, since my readers club had diminished to 2 or 3 of my cousins and as I had many tuition classes to attend, I gave up short stories and started writing poetry again. (Of course, my parents didn't know, I was supposed to be preparing for the entrance exam!). I wrote love poems mainly, sometimes inspired
by what I read, they were all sad , and sometimes even a little romantic too. I often wonder why I wrote them. I remember a few lines even now.

But when I actually fell in love, I stopped writing. I stopped it completely for many years, then one day I felt that I couldn't live with out writing, even if my poems were still juvenile in quality.  Why do we do the things we do? Does anybody know?

 God, let me find a way,
through laughter and tears.
 

Since its a time for new philosophies...

 

 

 

Do pal ke jeevan se,

 

ek umr churani hain.

 

zindagi aur kuch bhi nahi

 

teri meri kahani hain.

 

 

 



 

I guess I'm addicted to this song!

Too much of a good thing

My little science enthusiast has started questioning the existence of Santa clause! I really don't know what to tell him, if I confirm that his suspicion had been right, he would go and announce that in his class. I don't want to be the cause of destruction  of the entire class' belief system!

He has been questioning all stories from the puranas lately. A few months ago, his grandfather was telling him the story of Ramayana. On hearing that Ravana had 10 heads , he laughed and said.
"Achacha, arenkilum angane undavo..?" Will there be anybody like that?

Last month when his first tooth fell, he refused to take the money from the tooth fairy.
"I don't want any tooth fairy to take away my tooth, you give me money, I'll take it."
As simple as that! But we are living in a country where the tooth fairy keeps track of little children's lose teeth with unfailing punctuality!

The other day he was explaining the structure of an egg carton to his grandfather over skype. And his grandfather in an attempt to tease him, asked if the hen would go and deliver her eggs in a carton to the super market. Navneeth explained that the hen's brain is too small and hence the hen cannot do such complicated tasks!

Ever since his father had been too kind to explain him the digestive system,  he says that the acids of his stomach are not working properly, whenever he doesn't want to eat!

Sometimes after hurrying through his morning prayers, he would look at me and ask me the one question I really don't want him to ask.
"Amme, Swami sarikkum undo..?" Is God real?






 

Someone recently told me, that they found God in this song!
What I find in this song- if only there was a way to express it in words!!

 

 

 

Dil ke mere paas ho itne, phir bhi ho kitne door

 

Tum mujch se, mein dil se paresan, donom hain majboor

 

Eise mein kisko koun manaye...?

haa.. Divinity....

From the pensieve 3

This one is not about a particular memory; rather its about a group of memories or perhaps all the memories connecting with a person.

My maternal grandfather did not live long enough to see me and I have very faint recollection of my paternal grandfather. My valyachan was all I had to relate to the word. When I look back, with my judgemental adult eyes, I might have to say that he was an over-idealistic man who lived for the 'noble causes' of the society that he ignored the wellbeing of his family completely. I hate to say it, but he was a failure as a family man- People like him should never get married.

But the less analytic eyes of my childhood, did not absorb any of these facts. All my earliest memories are linked with him, I remember walking through a gravel pit holding his hand, I remember hiding under his office table, doodling on some office paper as he talked to his clients, I remember getting up early just to join him in his morning walks and I remember ceaseless tipping of the typewriter.

Sometimes when he had a meeting, he would take me with him. I would sit somewhere in the crowd and listen to the speech, once I even stood up and shouted out 'Lets go home, I'm bored'.
I remember meeting some great people with him, Nityachaitanya Yati ( Valyacha, do I really have to touch his feet?), Kunjunni Mashu (  tayi tayi mitayi, hihihi..) etc. Every time he was given a bouquet I took it from his hand as if it rightfully belonged to me. World really looks different in the eyes of a child.

During my Aksharasloka days he helped me with the preparation. In that house we never played anthakshari, we played Aksharasloka. Valyamma and Valyachan had read most of Ashan, Ulloor and Vallathol. But I had by-hearted almost half of Kannuneerthulli, the famous dirge by Nalappat Narayanamenon. I still stood a fair chance against them.

When I was a little older, he insisted that I read some religious text with him every evening for half an hour. We would read Bhagavat Geeta, the Upanishads, the Holly Bible, the Quaran , Athmopadeshashathakam etc.

Both of them thought  I was brighter than what I actually was, mainly due to the hours I spent in the upstairs corridor, around the book shelves and stacks of old magazines. The fact was, I was just fascinated by the books, I actually thought life was one big Russian fairy tale, with castles and dragons and talking dolls and babayaga, the wicked witch on a broomstick.
Did I understand a word out of Katopanishad? No, I did not.

I would remain eternally grateful to them for loving me the way they did. Of course my parents took care of a lot of their financial responsibilities and they were obliged to bring me up. But love me, no obligation could include that. They are the reason why I always doubt whether the blood is really thicker as people say.

In 2007 December, a few days before he had his fatal stroke, his children celebrated his 80th birthday in style. His law books had been taken into the university curricula by then. I tried to reach one of my cousins to wish him that day. But I could not, or may be I did not try enough.

Unanswered letters, Unmade phone calls, Long overdue apologies , Never getting a chance to tell some one how you feel about them - Life indeed is a strange malady!
Someday, when the weight of the world do not burden our shoulders so much, we would think of these things!!

 This sloka just came to my mind,

അനന്തമജ്ഞാതമർണനീയം
ഈ ലോകഗോളം തിരിയുന്ന മാർഗ്ഗം
അതിങ്കലെങ്ങാണ്ടൊരിടത്തിരുന്നു
നോക്കുന്ന മർത്യൻ കഥയെന്തു കണ്ടു?
 

Rudolph the red nosed reindeer came to cheer me up

 

Poetry in Malayalam film songs

Malayalam music industry has a rich history graced by many master composers and lyricists. Not to mention the perfection of Dr K.J Yesudas' golden voice.

There are a few songs where beautiful poetry is sung in the traditional way, with out many classical notes. I miss such songs!

Here are  a few..

1.Himasaila saikatha bhoomi from Shalini ente koottukari

 

2. Bhoomiye snehicha devangana from Neeyethra dhanya

(Once a very sad 13 year old , asked God to give her a sign if he knows what she was going through. There was a music program on tv and this song suddenly came to her mind. And it was the next song they played.)

 

3. Oruvattam koodiyen ormmakl meyunna from chillu

 

 

4. Sharadindu malar deepanalam from Ulkkadal

 

5. Irulin Mahanidrayil from Daivathinte vikruthikal

 

I could die for the lyrics here..

 

6. Padunnu vishu pakshikal from Punaradhivasam

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJNvprMQ3ow

 

 

7. Palavattam pookkalam from Manichitrathazhu (of course, of course)

 

8 And last but not the least, a song from a 2012 movie

Maranamethunnanerathu from Spirit

 

 

 

 

From the pensieve 2

The pensieve is a place to store the memories, this magical instrument holds the silver strands of the long gone days randomly, irrespective of the chronological order of events.

We were walking down the narrow lane in front of my school, Miniechi and I, we were going to a certain tailor's house to get a blouse stitched. We walked and we walked, pebbles rustled under our slippers, as our feet relentlessly made their way through the old beaten down lane.

Miniechi is my cousin. She is a good 15 years older to me. She usually came to my school to pick me up. The confused eyes of  a four and a half year old, sometimes tried to see a mother figure in her. But it did not matter that she was not my mother, what mattered was that I looked forward to seeing her face at the school gate every evening.

I had always loved those lanes, from the time I could remember, I could even walk up and down all day, aimlessly, looking casually at the houses and trees. Its better when it rained, I loved to feel the little streams of the muddy water under my feet.

Sheema konnas were in bloom. The purple bunches of flowers smiled at us from every corner, I had heard of a time when the compound boundaries were marked with Sheemakonna hedges. Like the left over of a different time, a few shrubs still grew stubbornly near most compound walls.


Miniechi paused for a moment and looked around, the house had to be somewhere there. As she was one of those people who were mature beyond their years, she didn't want to show her apprehension. We walked again , through another lane.

I felt cold. The gust of wind which brushed against my face had a certain familiar chill.

"The river!" I yelled.
 
We were walking parallel to one of the quiet branches of the Kallayi river.

The river revealed its shy face after the next bend. It flew calmly, brushing against the rocks and pebbles teasingly. There were Sheema konnas on the shore, a few bent branches were touching the water.

I had seen this river before, she was an old friend. But this new, beautiful face of hers , took my breath away. It did not look the way it did, down from the bridge near Puthiyara market, it did not smell the way it did, at the timber mills. It was fresh and beautiful. The water looked invitingly calm. I sat on a rock and dipped my feet in that flow of ancient love. I was too young to express it with words, but I felt one with nature. For a moment I was aware of its mysteries and dubious ways and I smiled in the knowledge that I was also a part of it.

Miniechi held me by hand and pulled me back. We walked again, my wet feet moved uncomfortably.

We did make our way to the tailor's and reached home before dark.  But my life would never be the same again.


 

Out of the pensieve

In July 1995, when my college admission was confirmed, I finally got to pack my bag and go to Calicut. I wasn't particularly excited about the trip, I wasn't going to stay at my grandfather's house, at that point of time nobody lived there. Valyamma and Valyachan had moved to small house in another part of the town. Nobody had asked them to leave, its just that sometimes pride takes better of people and they end up doing exactly what they shouldn't have done.

I sat on the train and thought about death. I don't know why, I had a feeling that I was going to die. Soon.

She waited for me at the gate. She said I had grown up. She had not seen me in a year and half, I was 5 feet 4 inches tall and I had long hair. She stared at me in disbelief.
"I am starving." I told her.

Later that day, I lay down on the bed complaining of a bad head ache.
She was talking to another of my aunts, who stayed near by.
I closed my eyes listening to their conversation.
One of them came and checked on me. I didn't open my eyes. I felt a hand on my forehead.

"You think her mother would agree to look for an alliance in Calicut?"
"We should tell her."

That's exactly what my mother had in mind, but certain things came in the way!
But nether of them were there to find out!

A few days later we were listening to a  Vayalar poem.

"swrgavathilpakshi chodichu, bhoomiyil sathyathinethra vayasayi?" She sang along with the voice in the tape recorder.

"sixteen and a half" I told her, smiling. I felt it was funny to imply that the universal truth was only as old as me, or rather,  that I was the universal truth.

She laughed. "You have not changed at all, its just that you have become taller."
I felt she was feeling relieved with that thought. "Don't ever change..."

A week later I had to go back.
I am not usually a fan of public display of tears, but I cried uncontrollably that day. I didn't know what I was crying for. May be on some level I sensed the imminent end, end of my childhood, end of her life.

Later, I was really embarrassed that I cried in front of people. I did not reply to her letter. I put it off.
Shopping for college, clothes, books, T scale...

I guess that was the last time I had been a child.
 

The Post master and other stories

I've been reading this wonderful collection of short stories by Rabindranath Tagore. They are probably the best ever written, but since I read rather emotionally, they made me feel hollow inside. They are beautiful as well as heart wrenchingly sad..

I love the way he writes about children, especially little girls. ..For his little girls are not young goddesses with model behaviour, they are full of mischief and fun. They run around, trouble their parents, throw tantrums, shout at street mongers, write nonsense, whimsical verses on the wall, pick fights with friends and smash musicals instruments in fits of anger. Sometimes they go down with cholera and malaria and die unexpectedly. Even if they don't , their childhood dies at the age 9 or 10, because that's when they get married and start the dutiful life of a 'kulin' wife.

Today I cried for Tagore's little girls, especially for the nine year old who wrote childish verses in an exercise book,  which got destroyed by her writer husband.

Sometimes when we blame time for its ruthlessness, we don't consider the history of tears.

Thank you again, dear brother..

The Tom bombadil song

Tom Bombadil is a character from Tolkien's Lord of the rings, who never made it in to the movies. His songs remind me of the evenings a decade ago, when I used to sit in the office reading room, reading Tolkien, waiting for my husband to finish his work. The perfect phase of my life, only I didn't know of it back then.

This is a fun song!
 

 Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo!
Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow!
Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!

Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!
Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.
Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,
Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,
There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,
Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.
Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing
Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?
Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o,
Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!
Poor old Willow-man, you tuck your roots away!
Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.
Tom's going home home again water-lilies bringing.
Hey! come derry dol! Can you hear me singing?

Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle!
Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle.
Down west sinks the Sun: soon you will be groping.
When the night-shadows fall, then the door will open,
Out of the window-panes light will twinkle yellow.
Fear no alder black! Heed no hoary willow!
Fear neither root nor bough! Tom goes on before you.
Hey now! merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!

Hey! Come derry dol! Hop along, my hearties!
Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.
Now let the fun begin! Let us sing together!

 Now let the song begin! Let us sing together
Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather,
Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather,
Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather,
Reads by the shady pool, lilies on the water:
Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!

 O slender as a willow-wand! O clearer than clear water!
O reed by the living pool! Fair river-daughter!
O spring-time and summer-time, and spring again after!
O wind on the waterfall, and the leaves' laughter!

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
 

Some more detour philosophy

There are a few, old, moth eaten books in my house in Trivandrum, which originally had their place in one of the huge book shelves of my mother's ancestral home. I had brought them over in the hope of finding the same ambience there, to tell myself that I will always have something of where I belonged, to turn those yellow pages over and over and smell them whenever I feel sad... It sounds kind of pathetic, I know, but the physical presence of those books always made me feel better.

There was a small book among them, which inspired me a great deal. The first or second edition print of Uroob's first novel, Amina. Amina is the tragic story of a Muslim woman, caught in the violence of partition. Like any other book written on the subject, it is deeply disturbing. But there was another reason which made the book all the more special for me, it's original owner had scribbled a few lines on the first page, just below the title. As a pre-teen, I by-hearted  those lines, I think I even taught some of my friends. Every time I said those lines aloud, I felt strong, every time I thought about them, I felt proud, that I was related to the person who wrote it.

I cannot translate those lines, if I even try, that will be an insult to both languages. It began something like this,

"മനുഷ്യത്വത്തെ മാനിക്കാത്ത മാനവസമുദായത്തിനുമുന്നിൽ മനുഷ്യനെ മനുഷ്യനായി കാണുന്ന മാനവർ മഹാസമരം തുടങ്ങിയിരിക്കുന്നു. കരുതിക്കൊൾക !"

The book had belonged to my uncle, my mother's elder brother, who is probably 14 or 15 years older to her. I had grown up hearing stories of his vibrancy, he was both the legend and the black-sheep. After graduating from Madras medical college, he worked as a tutor in Calicut medical college during its initial years. He was very popular among his students. He then went to UK to do his MRCP, married a British lady and settled down there.

His decision not to return, was a blow upon his family and probably the cause of his father's sudden demise. As a little girl, I used to play in the outhouse which was once his consultation room, his father, my grandfather, had constructed that for his son with a lot of love. I have wondered about both men, their lives, their believes, and their pain.

When my uncle left for UK, he probably thought it was only for a year or two. Then his life took a detour, he fell in love; he knew his family wouldn't approve of his love, he decided to make the detour, his way of life.

I met my uncle for the first time when I was 24. He spoke to me in English. I heard him talking to my valyammaayi in effortful Malayalam. I tried to see the traces of the idealistic young man who dreamt of a better nation, wrote excellent Malayalam and liked to read Uroob.

Sometimes small decisions change our whole life, our whole being. Sometimes we lose ourselves on detours, irretrievably..

And sometimes we have to succumb to changes, sometimes they are just too strong for us to fight, that there is no point in fighting.


I have finally enrolled myself in a German language course. My classes start in January. So I guess that's where this detour ends.

Every end is a new beginning as well. I will be a student once again. I will try to find a job and of course, I will still find time to write.. For somebody who lost way, many, many years ago, life is nothing but a sequence of detours.

I want to end this on a lighter note. One of my young second cousins got married to his Italian girlfriend earlier this year. His parents (my cousin and his wife) and siblings travelled to Rome to attend the wedding. the cultural difference was the theme of the celebration. Those photos were passed around on FB, there were a lot of smiles, a lot of love. Our world is changing, and change doesn't always have to be 'for the worse'.

So lets celebrate the changes.

Dankeshoen!








 

Navneeth and the village

 

 

Revisit to wilderness

A month ago I had an interesting conversation with my 10 year old niece. She was telling me how she generally finds people boring after she discovered the wonderful world of books.
'I would rather read than talk to uninteresting people,' she said shrugging her bony shoulders, 'Sometimes I cannot distinguish between books and reality.'

She then told me about her favourite book, George Orwell's Animal farm, which she had just finished reading.
'What do you like about the book' I asked her.
'Oh, I liked the animals, I liked the pigs, and the horses too, I liked their song. I thought there was something wrong with the ending, but then my father told me that its really about politicians, power and things like that.'

I think she was really impressed with herself. I could not help smiling, she looks like me, sometimes I think, that I'm talking to my 10 year old self.

When I was her age, I used to read books well beyond my level of comprehension. Not because I was particularly bright or anything, but I grew up in an old house, with a lot of old books and that was the most natural thing to do. I would judge the books which I do not understand as 'utter nonsense'.
Some of the books subjected to my biased review were real classics ( Daivathinte Vikruthikal - who in their right mind would write awful things about children, Mayyazhipuzhayute theerangalil - Did that guy really die or not? Nalukettu - Everything gets really weird after the first chapter, oonjal- More than 800 pages, really? for this?) but what did I know, I was just 10 or 11.

There was a book I read when I was 11. My review would have been something like this, 'Its about a forest, and how a city man has to go there and live. Its also about different trees, plants, flowers, birds and animals.  And people too, These people are farmers , they are really poor and they do not have anything to eat. well, its all about the life in a forest, basically.'

The author had a big Bengali name, which I did not care to memorize. Little did I know, that after a few years, I would read another of his novels and literally fall in love with it.

I reread Bibhutibhushan Banerji's Aranyak after 23 years. I really don't even know how to describe the experience.

May be it is really about the life in a forest, but the forest was alive too, it breathed the chaste air of prehistoric times, it held many ancient secrets, it witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations and it protected the life with in. And then men found it, the untrodden earth was ploughed, sowed and reaped, it bore all the wounds and gave away to their cruelty. Did the Goddesses of the forest try to protect it? Did they give up too?

Aranyak is the story of young man who takes up a job as the manager of a private forest. As he goes on finding contractors and farmers for the land within the wilderness, a deep pang of guilt grows with in him - the awareness of what he is destroying, the knowledge that it is as much alive as himself, this thing of incomparable beauty, of impenetrable secrets and of unfathomable depths.

Do read Aranyak, if you can!






 

Satyajit Ray's years with Apu

Satyajith Ray's Apu trilogy probably belong to the finest class of movies ever made in the world. Since I am a big fan of the 2 novels it was based on, I always had a few questions in my mind about the places where the movie went away from the original.

Now , reading Ray's account on his journey through Apu's life, I finally got my questions answered.
Thank you, dear brother, for this wonderful gift.


I have wondered about the absence of Leela, to me she was one of the most important characters in the novels. Its a great relief to read that the original script had considered Apu-Leela equations, but whenever the shot was ready the girl's fiancé made problems in the set. Leela was just unlucky, as she was in the novel.

Apur sansar ends when Apu sees above his own sense of loss and reunites with his son, Kajal. I have wondered why he threw the manuscript away. I wanted Apu to be a successful writer , I did not want him to throw away the manuscript, its pages flying in the background as Apu and Kajal starts their journey together.

I guess it must be a totally liberating experience for any struggling writer, to throw away the manuscript. What should we do these days? throw away the laptop? crack it open and do a tap dance on the hard disk?

Ray elaborates on different aspects of the film, right from the day he fell in love with the abridged version of 'Pather Panchali', his quest to follow the dream, how he found fellow film buff friends, his struggles with the child actors, ever diminishing fund and resources. Well, classics are not born in a day.

 

Hirek Deepti

Deepti cried for her lost dreams, and unreached potentials.
She longed for distant horizons and unknown thrills
She sighed in her shackles looking at the limitless sky
When Hirek came into her life, she discovered this whole other side of herself
The simple fact that her body had potential too.
Was it love? We do not know ,
But it was enough to make her insane.
It was enough for her to throw away her world with all the people in it.

That's enough Sunil Ganguli for me. I do not wish to read any more of his works.

 

He has grown several inches taller. Well, he is a big boy now, he is seven and a half. His tears have dried out, he understands his situation , he has grown wise and strong. But when he hugged me it felt the same.

He is the reason we wanted to stay for Onam. He can only come here, to his grandparents' , during the vacation since he went to live with his father. His mother has lost his custody.

He seems ok. His innocence has waned away. He takes care of himself. He shrugs at unwanted memories. He would rather talk about cricket.

He casually tells me about his stepmother. The wedding was fun, he says. They all went and brought home his new mother. What fun!

I do not know what to say to him. Part of me wants to cry.

'You know what, aunty,' he tells me,' now I have 2 mommies'

He smiles. So do I.

He is protected by childhood, he can see the bright side of things.  May be I should learn that trick from him.

Malancha - The garden

I read Malancha , by Rabindranath Tagore.

I don't know why, I am disappointed and sad. (Am I allowed to say that about Tagore?)

I am sad about what the novel represents too, human emotions are not always tangible. Has anyone ever really understood love? Does that thing really exist? Or is it just an illusion?

 

Why does this happen in our country, again and again? Will there ever be a time when women are safe?

The fault in our stars

I just finished reading The fault in our stars, by John Green.

I don't buy these books, last book I bought for myself was Tagore's Gora, but people around me are generous when it comes to gifts. Sometimes they lend me books or forget books at my place. Sometimes they talk me into reading stuff I stay away from. (I read 'The Notebook' last month, somebody talked me into it).

But this book, it literally left me devastated.

Hazel Green and Augustus Waters could have been star-crossed lovers, but their stars are all wrong. They meet at the young cancer victim support group. Hazel's lung cancer is diagnosed to be terminal, Augustus's bone cancer has made him an amputee, but he is on remission with an 80% chance for survival.

They bond over her favourite book, he uses his 'one genie wish' to take her to Amsterdam to meet the writer(as she had used up her wish to go to Disneyland). The writer turns out to be an insensitive drunkard, but Hazel and Augustus have a good trip nonetheless. Of course, they are young, in love, and mostly alone during the trip.

But soon Augustus has bad news. His cancer had spread all over his body, 'My body is made of cancer' he says. Now Hazel, has to watch her handsome, good spirited boyfriend deteriorate day by day. He even makes her write a eulogy 8 days before his death. Hazel had always wanted Augustus to write her eulogy, as she was supposed to be dying and he had a pretty good chance for survival.

She meets the writer again at Augustus's funeral, his way of life turns out to be the casualty of a loved one's death.
Hazel now wonders about her own life, and death, which she knew would reach her soon. She hunts for the missing page from Gus's notebook, and it turns out to be a eulogy, hers, which she had wanted him to write.

I know this doesn't do any justice , its just really , really sad. And it is meant to be that way.

So really, blame the stars!

Some more of my favourite 60's mystery flick songs.

 

If only her tears were real! This could have been one of the best love songs of Hindi cinema.

 

 



 



I am stuck on these lines.

Hum ko mili hain aaj ye ghadiyan nazeeb se,
Jee bhar ke dekh leejiye hum ko kareeb se,
Phir aap ke nazeeb mein ye baat ho na ho
Shayad phir is janam mein....

Only Love is real?

Memories..

The ineradicable footprints of time. They follow us right from the tender years of childhood, we see them lurking behind every corner, as shapeless shadows waiting to pounce on us, to drag us back into the past, to a long-gone day, to some lost bits of laughter and tears, to some long-buried emotions.

But do they have to be linked to the definite past? According to Dr Weiss, we all have memories of past lives, only we have no control over them. They are triggered at odd moments though we do not identify them as memories. An unknown fear or an unreasonable affinity, to a place, a thing, a person...

Sometimes they are triggered by a touch, something as simple as a casual handshake. Suddenly you are overwhelmed by a feeling that something was oddly familiar about that touch. There are emotions linked to that touch, it could be fear, it could be annoyance or it could be pure love. You would have spent a lifetime hiding from those hands, they would have given you unforgivable blows, or you would have lived in their protection, their comfort, their love.

Since love is a superior emotion, let's forget anger and fear. Only love is real.

Love doesn't always have to be romantic love,  according to Dr Weiss, souls do not know of a thing called romantic love, they just want to be together.

Those hands would have picked you up as a child, soothed you when you cried, fed you your first meals, held your hand when you took your first steps.....


Or you would have spent your childhood fighting and making up with those hands, you would have held them on your long walk to school, shared secrets, made promises...

Or may be, those were the hands that held yours in a solemn vow. They would have loved you and cherished you for a lifetime.May be those hands were wrapped around you on the night you discovered the music of your heart, when you lay half-awake , gazing at a lonely star through an open window, half-observing the stillness of the night, not wanting to change a single thing about the world. May be those hands secured a blanket over you after you fell asleep, or took the stray strands of hair away from your face. You would have found your dreams in their comfort and caresses, found courage with their support,  you would have told them that you wanted to hold them till the end of the world, even when they're all wrinkled and shaky with old age. Then may be, you would have fallen short of the promises of eternity, and they would have held you when you took your last breath. You would have been aware of their untimely shakiness even as you were slipping away, and you would have used up all your remaining strength to tell them that you are not done holding them.


Or may be, just may be, those were the little hands you held with great joy, you would have counted those fingers nervously and kissed them a thousand times. Or may be you just wanted to hold them so much ,  but you were taken away from them before you even got to see them..
Well, life is, you know, ......

Only love is real, is the story of Elizabeth and Pedro, two of Dr Weiss' patients who had sought past life regression to recover from the trauma from personal loss. After many individual sessions their doctor understood one thing, these two, who did not know each other, who did not share cultural or social backgrounds, had been clearly talking about each other in their sessions. All the doctor had to do was to make sure that they meet in his waiting room  a couple of times. A little help from destiny, a delayed flight, a few smiles, a handshake, the two fell deeply in love and got married, without knowing anything about their role in in each other's past lives.

A touch can awaken your soul, it might confuse you and confound you with strange emotions and trigger vague memories of some other life. Sometimes your whole life changes over a handshake.

It's  amazing, if you believe in these stuff, that is...
 

Serious thoughts on serious reading

I 've never been a serious reader.  It's not like I've never tried. I've read Marquez and Kundera, but I am incapable of staying highbrowed when it comes to reading. Is that a crime?

I was talking to my uncle the other day. He happened to have seen that 'long story' I wrote. He is a serious reader, and probably a member of 'Chetan Bhagat should stop writing' club. Years ago, he had read few of my Malayalam stories and had remarked that they are not completely hopeless. This time he was not that kind. He said that a general awareness of literature is not enough if I really intend to write. He suggested that I should start reading, seriously.

So I went to the books stall and bought some books.

There was a time in my life when I was totally into Russian literature. From Gogol to Sholokov, I 've read something of many of the great  Russians. I admire Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Chekov and Turgenev, but if you ask me which writer influenced me the most, I would say Nikolai Dubov.

Dubov wrote about children, he did not write for them, he wrote about them.  His characters were children in complicated situations. Very few writers have captured a child's mind  as well as Dubov.
Dubov's children come from different walks of life, they are puzzled by the unsolvable riddles life throws at them, they make important discoveries, they tackle grief and they live.

And I think I'm not cut for literature.

I was just about to start Benyameen's Aadujeevitham (Goat days- These days it's considered a crime not to have read it), when someone gave me a copy of Only love is real by Dr Brian Weiss. Instincts tell me to stay away from this book, but before I know I am on page 116. True stories of past lives and soul recognition - how in the world will I stay away?


 

My ultimate feel better playlist

These songs always make me feel better, even when I am in the depths of despair. May be it's a good time to share them.


10, Mein zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya from Hum Dono ( Statutory warning - Smoking is injurious to health)

9, Kisi ki muskurahaton pe ho nisar from Anari

8, Zindagi pyaar ka geet hain from Soutan. I wish I could do house work like that.

 

7, Hanste Hanste from Khoon bhari maang

6, Aaja piya tohe pyaar doom from Baharon ki sapne



 

5, tadbeer se biqdi hui taqdeer banade from Baazi

 

4, Ruk jaana nahin tu kahin haar ke from Imtihaan

 

 

3, Aa chal ke Tujhe, mein leke chaloom from Door gagan ki chaon mein

 

 

2, Raahi Manwa Dukh ki chintha kyoom sathathi hain from Dosti

1, Ye jeevan hain from Piya ka ghar

There are some Malayalam songs too, but I'll create a separate playlist for them.

Little drops of water, little grains of sand

I dread reading the news paper these days, they make me terribly upset. New details of the 'scam' unfold everyday, revealing ugly faces of our respectable statesmen. We had 2 harthals in the past 2 weeks.

Couple of days ago I made the mistake of going to the city. My errand list was simple. I had to go book shopping , pick up a cake for my nephew's birthday, buy a present and get some exotic 'real' fruit juice for the boys. I went in full confidence that no harthal was declared that day. But almost all the roads were closed due to some student strikes , I could not go anywhere near dc books and I ended up spending hundreds of rupees on auto rikshaw rides. I felt tired, hopeless and agitated, and strangely I felt guilty too.

I always believed that I want us to come back and settle down here in Trivandrum. My husband works for a German company now, but I always thought I could talk him into moving here when its time. Now probably my arguments will not have the same strength and vigour.

It got me thinking about the society. How can people be so greedy? Given a chance, they want to swallow the entire world. Why?

Then I reminded myself that, this is not a rule. There are exceptionally good people too..

My mother and my mother in law dragged me to see a doctor last week. I am not overly fond of the clan of doctors. They are mostly greedy and vague (with the exception of a certain radiologist, of course!). But this gentleman turned out to be an extraordinary exception. He works for a Govt hospital and spends most of his hours there. If you go for a consultation at his home, he would receive you, but would refuse to take any fee.

And then there is this family friend, who spends her pension and family pension to sponsor bright students from poor families. She has been doing this for years and years, I don't know how many engineers and doctors owe their success to her, how many of them are still grateful.

Her granddaughter is getting ready to go to Canada for higher studies, on student loan.
'I have given her an acre of land, she can sell some if she wants' The old lady says with a smile.

Though this makes me think about, 'how much I'm not doing',  I cherish the thought that I made acquaintance with some selfless and motivated people who are clear about their take on life.

May be some of those successful engineers and doctors would stay grateful and would care enough to pass on the torch. 'Little deeds of kindness' do have their vibrations.





 

 A rainy afternoon in Trivandrum. I'm in my old room, staring at the old creaky ceiling fan. I'd been counting days just to be here. Now I'm haunted by the same ghosts.

There are 3 different reports of child abuse in the newspaper. Parents beating children to death. The words parent, father, mother, guardian etc have lost their meaning.

State is battling political unrest over a new scam.

People in general, care about only one thing. Money.

I'm tired of saying ' No, I'm not working now'. I will have to explain why. So I just say that I did not get a job. Job is the only thing that matters.

Ok. Not the only thing. There is one more important thing. Looks, especially when you are beginning to lose it. I've been reminded over and over that I have put on some weight. Apparently, it is a terrible offense to let yourself be out of shape.

My nephews are here from Doha. Thankfully, they are not concerned about any of these things.
I relate more to them.  I'm glad they are here.

Lets be good to the children in our lives.

A beautiful song from Ayalum NjanumThammil.

When hatred dissolves

Someone once told me that hatred is the easiest way to get over pain. Any kind of pain, lost love, fall out with friends and family, memories of abuse and violence, bad career moves, pretty much anything which messed you up. You just hate that person, that organization, that group, that memory, so much that you cannot bear to think of them. And then, eventually, you'll stop thinking of them.

But it doesn't always work that way, believe me, I've tried.

Hatred is a poisonous emotion. If you keep on feeding it, it will suck the life out of you. Sometimes it is raw and looks like the only way, but when life urges you to move on, when time heals your wounds, you probably have to let it dissolve.

I was a victim of a college prank. Like all college pranks, it was thoughtless and cruel. It could have completely ruined my life, it did not, but it could have. For years I carried the baggage of deceit. I tried to figure out 'why me'?  How could they do that to me?

I was just an easy victim. I was an awkward teen, shy and reluctant, at least a year younger than my batch mates, I did not have the attitude for a professional college, I did not have the attitude for anything. I was completely, one hundred per cent, messed up. I felt like an outsider at home, I was not close to parents and siblings, the person who raised me had committed suicide, I felt alienated from the very thought of life, and above all, I was only coming to terms with the 'understanding' that I had been sexually abused. ( At 13 or 14, you don't really know why that 'concerned person' wants to pat you or give you a hug. May be it doesn't feel right, but you don't know how to react. May be you know you should tell someone , but you are not close to your family, so you don't have anyone to tell. The same story indeed. But I was lucky enough to come off unscathed, though the memory still burns my very skin. That's just another story of hatred. All of you, take good care of your princesses, and princes too)

I did not do anything to get noticed at college. I was perfectly happy being faceless. But somehow this group of loud kids decided to take it on me. I don't want to go into the details, but it really hurt me when I found out that 3 girls from my class had actually devised the whole thing. We were not close friends or anything, but I was civil to them. I helped them in computer lab, I let them copy my assignments, in short I did not do anything to deserve their deceit. But I guess they were just bored.

Whatever it was, it kind of defined my life. Sometimes I still shudder at the thought, that I did let some insolent kids take control of my life. But again, I was lucky enough, it did not ruin my life.

After college, everybody went on their separate ways, to find the glory of life, or to be confounded by it. The 'master-mind' got married and moved to UAE. I lost touch with her and her gang.

Then many years later I got an email. It was not an apology letter or anything, she told me about her family, asked me about mine and genuinely asked me to keep in touch. It was strange, not just because she emailed me after many years.  She had , actually, been keeping a low profile, both online and offline. Nobody knew anything about her, not even her best friends.

We've been in touch since then. If she sends me an email, I reply. If she finds me online, I chat with her. She sends me her daughter's pictures. She never actually said she was sorry, but I guess that's just difficult for some people. This was probably her way of saying sorry.

Everybody has grown up since college. I try to understand that they were also teenagers, God knows what they were going through.

She says she wants to come and meet me when I'm in India. And surprisingly, I'm also looking forward to meeting her.

 I still cannot help rooting for the possibility  'everybody shook hands and went to Disneyland'.










 

Heavily inspired from 'Milkshakes'

Lost in the wind,
Caught in the current,
We drifted away,
A thousand lifetimes

Plastered smiles,
Bogus identities,
Melting away,
In silent tears

All these songs,
Of undying love,
Holding hands,
Till eternity

What about sad,
Long lost whispers,
Tormented souls,
And unyielding distance?

The river still flows,
With age-old secrets,
Ancient depths,
Of unsaid promises.

I'll think of you,
You'll think of me,
That's our destiny,
Nothing more

Sunrise Sunset Midnight

18 years ago, an American boy and a French girl met on a train en route to Paris. They got off at Vienna and spent an entire day, roaming around the streets, reading old tombstones, listening to poetry, and drinking wine. And they talked, shared thoughts, argued and laughed.
But she had to board her train by sunrise, and he had a flight to catch. They were both poor students who could not afford frequent trips across continents, they agree never to contact each other. But love is a strange emotion , when her train was about to leave , he told her that he would wait for her at the station exactly 6 months from that day. They smiled, kissed and said good bye (not forever, just for 6 months, or so they thought)

Then after 9 years we found out that they did not meet as planned. Something unexpected had happened and she could not make the trip, though he waited for her. They moved on with their lives. He got married and started a family. Then he wrote a book. What was it about? Oh it was about a French girl he once met on a train.

He met her again on a press meet in Paris. She had read his book of course. He told her about his family. She told him about her boyfriend. Everything was lovely with both their lives, and everybody was happy. But as they walked around the streets of Paris, again bound by time, they realised that they had let love slip through their fingers by not exchanging phone numbers. Again he had to catch a flight by sunset.

I have been a big fan of the Before Sunrise-Sunset movies. It is not one of those 'chick-flick' movies , men flinch away from . Its about 2 very intelligent people and their spontaneous intelligent conversations. For years and years I, like most other fans, had wondered about Jesse and Celine. Now at last, I got to know that they are married,  they do have occasional tiffs, but who doesn't.
Thanks to Wikipedia and other reviews of the new movie, Before midnight, the last in the trilogy.

I haven't seen the movie yet., but I am just very happy, for Jesse and Celine

 

The girl and the garland

Early one morning in the late eighties, I got up and sat sleepy eyed on the kitchen steps. She was singing in a low voice as she cut vegetables. She must have been in a good mood that particular morning, usually she never sang while she was busy in the kitchen. Her voice flew, high and low over the crest and base of the lines from a beautiful Malayalam poem. 'Aa poomala ' by Changampuzha Krishnapilla

This woman who raised me - she breathed poetry! If she had not stopped studies after inter, probably she would have pursued a degree in Malayalam literature. She would have done a great job as a Malayalam teacher. Then probably, she would have lived a happy life teaching poetry for a living, not worrying about money and the lack of it. But no.. That was not the way it was to be.

The beauty of  'Aa poomala'  lies in its simplicity, it is not a report of a deprived society, it is not a tragic tale of two un-united lovers, it is not about death, it is not about social evils and  no universal truth hides menacingly between the lines. Usually valyamma is an admirer of well-crafted sorrow and unobserved truth, 'Aa poomala' was definitely not one of her usual favourites, it did not come from the alcove of her soul, but I guess, she was just happy that morning.

The poem is a vividly sketched image of a little girl with a garland, crafted with only the most beautiful words from Malayalam language, as only Changampuzha could have. The girl stands there near the courtyard of a palace and sings! She sings of the garland made with the finest flowers of the garden, she sings of its fragrance and grace, she sings for the crowd of potential buyers. The poet, (who was as sleepy eyed as I was) is fascinated by the beauty of the girl, her voice and the garland, watches her from distance. She does not sell the garland, on her way back home, she gifts the garland to a young shepherd boy (with a hint of some puppy love there, how sweet!- God, why am I so wicked these days)

I only had one question to valyamma after her soulful rendition of the poem. Why was the girl standing there in the sun and yelling at the top of her voice, if she had no intention to sell the garland? She could have easily gone into the woods and given it to the boy instead of making a spectacle of herself. Why did she have to insult the rich men who offered her gold?

Valyamma told me that poetry was not meant to be analysed.

I don't know why, she saw her protégé in me. She wanted to teach me the art of feeling the soul of a poem, she wanted to teach me the art of recitation, the art of enouncing the words musically. And I let her down. I was shy and reluctant and above all I could not learn the lines by heart. I did not continue the Akshara sloka classes, I did not understand many of the slokas, I did not like the game of mutilating poetry. My voice was almost irritatingly sweet.

But when I first started writing poetry ( or something close) in Malayalam, I took care to make them as musical as I could. I never learned big words in any language , so they were just too plain and simple. I often wondered what she would think of them, would she have cared enough to recite them? I was reluctant at first to show them to anybody, and then she did not stick around for long.

I happened to find 'Aa poomala' on youtube, apparently it opened up a whole treasure chest of memories!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RT2K1u0rQA4
 

Watched Celluloid. I don't even know what to say.

Today is also about the last stanza of this song.

I'll steal the tunes from a cuckoo-bird,
And sing the torments of my heart, when it rains.
All in the hope, that my voice would reach you,
And soothe your aching heart.
 

Mechanics of a twisted ankle

I fell down on the road and sprained my ankle.

This is not about my swollen feet, I have enough sense not to write an essay on minor ailments, when half the world is struggling to retain existence.

Its about this new thought:
How easily life takes an unplanned detour! How easy it is to fall down!

I was coming out of my neighbour's house, I help her son with his English lessons, I was standing there on the curb, wondering whether I should go and get my rain jacket before taking a bus to Navi's school. Then I slipped and fell down.

One minute, I was subconsciously working out the list of things I have to do in next two days and the next, I was in unbelievable pain.

As I half-embarrassedly picked myself up, I strangely thought of my mother-in-law. She had slipped and fell down on the kitchen steps a few years ago. I had asked her, if she was in pain, over the phone. She had said 'yes' , and then she had laughed.
'' Its always funny when someone falls'' she had said.

So I tried to laugh at my fast-swelling feet, and went to pick up Navi.

I've been lying here all day  today, watching the dust accumulate on the floor, thinking about the dirty dishes in the sink and the unmade bed. And my ridiculously disfigured feet laughs at me.
Not that I am a domestic goddess all other days, but just when you cannot do anything, you want to put everything in order. Even the carelessly thrown little pair of shoes irritates you! Then I told myself that I did not have to feel guilty at least for today.

Today is my day to fall asleep thinking of half-forgotten conversations from many years ago.  Today is my day to vaguely remember the underlined lines from a book I read long ago. Today is my day to lose myself in dreams and to wake up to promises.

All of you, watch your feet when you are standing on the curb!

 

Sleep literally knocks me out these days. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation I find myself unable to resist sleep. I usually try to write during my mid morning loneliness, sometimes I will be thinking over a word or a phrase, BAM, I wake up an hour later. I wonder what this is all about.

Is there anything sweeter in the world than Mohammad Rafi's voice?

Apparantly, Navneeth has been recording his own music video when no one is around.

And then he got caught!

Zayan Smiles

Two long emails, a phone call, a new blog,
A few mouse clicks,
And a new friend!

Thank you all!

I want to tell you about Zayan, my new friend. He is a man of few words, our conversations have been short, yet meaningful.He doesn't speak my language, but he listens and looks at me compassionately. Sometimes he nods his bald head. His days are long, almost as long as years, and he shares his wisdom of 45 years.

I have been helping a friend to take care of her baby since her husband had to go to another country. Its been a while since I've held anything as fragile as a 45 day old baby and I clearly seemed to have forgotten that babies do cry a lot! The maddening catena of dirty diapers, feeding bottles, projectile vomits and never ending cries  is overwhelming for any new mother, especially when she is recovering from postpartum blues. But sometimes Zayan smiles, and that makes up for everything.

I got a chance to revive my memories, to sing old Malayalam poems that I used sing for my son, to understand how precious, how vulnerable children are, to build trust. I also learned to mix formula milk. :-)

Babies always make you think that life is simple when you look at it that way!

By now I should have figured out what to do with my life. It's been almost a year since Navneeth started formal schooling, but I'm still clueless. I had made some perfect plans on what to do when we settle down in India, since that's not going to happen in near future, I need to make new plans.
I've been making excuses, excuses for not trying for a job ( German, I don't speak German), excuses for not joining a German language course ( I'm not good with other languages and its the toughest of all), excuses for not brushing up my long lost technical skills (Everything looks different now, a cloud of ambiguity hangs over the whole cloud computing thing), excuses for not leaving the house enough (its too cold, chilly, windy, cloudy, sunny), excuses, excuses...
All that has to change now, though I still don't have a clue.

I'm just sad and disappointed with myself. :-( 

About another old house

Do you believe in Karma? I do know that some of you are incurable nonbelievers , who probably smirk at the very thought of such 'metaphysical nonsense'. (Well, I know how nonbelievers think, a lot of my friends are skeptics- how do these people find me God?). My intention is not to convince or make you buy Indian Karmic principles, as always, I am just telling stories.

This is about my father's ancestral home. Though my father worked, went to college, got married and spent his good years in Calicut, he hails from a beautiful village near Trivandrum. His family home was a thing of its own, I am avoiding the pictures as it kind of looks scary now, after the renovations. I have a love-hate relationship with this house. Or let me put it this way, I never felt that I belonged there and I secretly disliked it a little bit, but life did not leave me until I made peace and fell in love with it.

As a child I used to vacation there with my brothers. My first memory is the haystack, I remember hiding behind it as a child. I remember running through the rice paddy fields with cousins, swinging in the creepers of sarppakkavu ( the sacred abode of the serpent God), going fishing - all that should have been great fun, it was, in a way, but there was something that made me uncomfortable, to a point that it burnt my very skin. I was never at ease there. I felt that I did not belong there..

My father's folks are an interesting lot. They are loud and cheerful. They read 'big' books but talk like regular villagers. Most of them are incurably tactless and bluntly original. My cousins were fun too, only they would tease me for my northern accent. I was not used to having so many children around me, back at mother's place I was a spoilt princess. I just couldn't wait to go back to Calicut.

Around the time I was seven or eight, I decided not to go there for summer vacation anymore. I bluntly told my parents that I was not interested and they did not force me. Even after we moved to Trivandrum city, I visited the place only twice or thrice a year. I stayed as alienated from it as before and never made an attempt to feel its pulse or even remotely understand it. Then I grew up, fell in love, got married and moved away.

Then one day my parents announced that they were renovating the place and that they want to live there partly to get away from the city. I was working in New Jersey and I self importantly offered to bear a share of the renovation cost. (who did I think I was, really?)

Due to ' a series of unfortunate ( or fortunate, but definitely unplanned) events' I found my self living in that house after a year. My husband was away in another country pursuing his MBA, and I lived there with my infant son, to be near my my parents. I was absolutely jobless, if you don't count taking care of an infant as a job.

I would sometimes sweep and rake the yard- oh the trees did not show any mercy on my 'homecoming' and roam around the village with my son. I would open my windows and stare into the lazy afternoon stillness for hours. Sometimes I wondered about the way my life had changed, a little over a year ago I was looking at Manhattan skyline across the Hudson, through my office window. A part of me would really cling to my old 'self-important' life. And I was missing my husband too.  But as it went on, things, strangely, started to make sense.

When Navneeth started walking I started this habit of taking him to the family temple every evening. The villagers do not know me there, still they would talk affectionately. They would take me for just another village woman whose husband is away working in one of the Gulf countries. And I kind of liked being that.
I would then take him to throw stones in  nearby ponds or for a walk through the rice paddy. And yea it was wonderful.

Sometimes we would sit on the veranda after dark and listen to the chirping crickets. Sometimes we would count starts and sing songs about the moon ( ambiliammavan - uncle moon, in Malayalam). Sometimes we would just watch the rain.

I used to meet a very good friend who was visiting her parents in a nearby village. ( Dear, please smile if you are reading this). I had to wait for a long time at the bus-stop. A couple of times I shared auto-rikshaw rides with fisher-women  from other villages, and they would chat with me in their unpretentious way. It was totally liberating. I am not making this sound like I am superior to them in anyway, to learn that I was not superior and that I do not have to be superior, was really liberating.

There is nothing like the serenity of a Keralite village, it's poignant summers and sudden downpours. May be we do not have the right to disown anything we are born into. And we do not have the right to deny anything  we acquired on the way either. All those, places, people and houses, are so much a part of our very being, whether we like it or not.

Pictures of my son taking his first steady steps.

Rising from the graveyard of dreams

What happened to all those dreamers who went to college with me? Most of them are in my FB circle, so I do know what they are doing, but what happened of their dreams?

I am really grateful to some of these people, as they stood by me during that dangerous phase of my life.

I don't know if I ever really believed in my dream, I used to daydream about being a writer in my childhood, but enough reality had dawned on me by the time I was in college. But I did hang out with some people who really believed in their dreams. What happens to people when they lose their dreams?

The army-brat who grew up dreaming of fighter planes and their technical designs, now wears a suit to work. He is OK, at least I think he is. But this is not about him, or his wife.

The political-visionaries, all of them, work in IT now. Do they still give fiery speeches once in a while?

The philosopher-poet is a senior manager in a multinational corporation. Does he still write symbolic poetry about mannequins?

The technology-evangelists , they got their dream jobs. Are they all happy living their dream?

The fiery tomboy, who spoke highly of her revolutionist father, got married into 'the most religious family' in Kerala. She now says 'Om Nama Sivaya' while answering phone calls.

The rebel, who boycotted exams, who wanted to do a lot of things in life other than engineering, went on to be a successful architect.

The one with all the answers, who vowed not to take a career in anything short of civil service, had to give up her dream and take up a bank job.

I talked to the last one in the list this weekend. She is one of my very best friends, (though she doesn't know of the existence of this blog, she is just too busy anyway!)  and we have seen each other through ups and down, through job-pressures and joblessness, through dreams and disillusionment. I have known her in her 'IAS, IES' hopeful days, her 'I hate marriage' phase and she has known me in my 'I'm in love' phase, 'I sold my soul to a soulless job' phase.

We have both turned spiritual over the years, she cannot complete a sentence with out quoting Osho and Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. And I tell her that I learned the same thing by observing life, and of course by digging up 60's film gossip. She is still fierce, still wants to fight for the world, still believes in revolutions.


Life changes and sometimes we have to change ourselves with it, but certain things should always remain the same. These are the things which constitute a person's integrity. We might not always achieve our dreams, but we still have to stay true, to ourselves and to others.

So this is to all dreams , lost and conquered, and to all vows of eternal friendships, lost and standing.