Parvathamgalil manjumazha..
Thanuppinte valappottukal, thazheykku
vishudhiyute puthappu neyyaan.
 

My thoughts, they are free
To fly where they want to
To cross all the oceans
Or to find reasons
No darkness to blind them
No shackle to bind them
They fly fearless - My thoughts, they are free

No rule would deny them
No ruler would chain them
No power would hold them
No law would define them
They float on my wishes
In search of happiness
They fly fearless, My thoughts they are free

A friend sang a German folk song today, and I almost cried. Meine Liebe Damen und Herren,...Die Gedanken sind frei.

 

 

Lyrics and Translation taken from a site.

Die Gedanken sind frei, wer kann sie erraten,
sie fliehen vorbei wie nächtliche Schatten.
Kein Mensch kann sie wissen, kein Jäger erschießen
es bleibet dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Ich denke was ich will und was mich beglücket,
doch alles in der Still', und wie es sich schicket.
Mein Wunsch, mein Begehren kann niemand verwehren,
es bleibet dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Und sperrt man mich ein im finsteren Kerker,
das alles sind rein vergebliche Werke.
Denn meine Gedanken zerreißen die Schranken
und Mauern entzwei, die Gedanken sind frei!
Drum will ich auf immer den Sorgen entsagen
und will mich auch nimmer mit Grillen mehr plagen.
Man kann ja im Herzen stets lachen und scherzen
und denken dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Die Gedanken sind frei!

        

Thoughts are free (modern version)

Thoughts are free, who can guess them?
They flee by like nocturnal shadows.
No man can know them, no hunter can shoot them
with powder and lead: Thoughts are free!
I think what I want, and what delights me,
still always reticent, and as it is suitable.
My wish and desire, no one can deny me
and so it will always be: Thoughts are free!
And if I am thrown into the darkest dungeon,
all this would be futile work,
because my thoughts tear all gates
and walls apart: Thoughts are free!
So I will renounce my sorrows forever,
and never again will torture myself with whimsies.
In one's heart, one can always laugh and joke
and think at the same time: Thoughts are free!

 

Resonance

My heart sings with the spirit of the fading year,
In full resonace with the distant voices of cheer,
I flow like a tear drop in time.
 

From the pensieve 12

I remember my 5th birthday for 3 reasons. First of all it was the first birthday that I actually do remember (I still remember thinking that no one could tease me chiming 'Nalam vayassil nattapraanthu' anymore), secondly it was the first day of my first standard Christmas exams and last but not the least, the gifts!!! They were not extraordinary, but still they were gifts, what other day do you get a box full of lollypops all for yourself.

Though it was not a direct gift to me, this was around the time the unused store room near the kitchen was finally organized and cleaned. The junk that was in there for decades were all sorted out and Valyamma proudly arranged the aluminium boxes of grocery in the new shelves. I was very pleased with all this, as I had found a few things of interest in the junk that was thrown away, and I got an extra room to play and to hide when I don't want to be seen by anyone.

The things that caught my interest were few broken toys, I had found some old diaries in there too, but I threw them all away, as the letters had not begun to fascinate me yet. The toys, though broken and unusable, were a totally different matter. Among other remains of some lost childhood I had found a big orange wheel cart and a doll which could play an audio cassette (of course in another decade, it was all broken). It was really a good find. I spent the whole afternoon in the storeroom munching on my candy's and wondering about the child who played with such sophisticated toys.

And of course, I had the exam which I did not want to remember ever in my life. I was hardly the wonder kid people wanted me to be. School was not really my thing, I was secretly rooting for retaining my Kindergarten drop out status.

Today I turned 36, how fast the time flys. Incidentally I had an exam today. Do I want to remember it ever in my life ? Nein...

We are done with chicken pox.

 

 

 

ദിവസങ്ങൾ കൊണ്ട് എന്തെല്ലാം മാറ്റങ്ങൾ, എന്റെ ജീവിതത്തിൽ. ഈ പാടുകൾ എന്നെ പഠിപ്പിച്ചു എല്ലാം ക്ഷണികവും നശ്വരവും ആണെന്ന്. നിമിഷങ്ങൾ കൊണ്ട് നഷ്ടപ്പെടാവുന്ന പുറംകാഴ്ചയ്ക്ക് ഞാൻ എത്ര  പ്രാധാന്യം കല്പിച്ചു.
ഞാൻ വീണ്ടും പുറത്തിറങ്ങി, എന്റെ പുതിയ മുഖവുമായി. അതുമായി ഞാൻ പൊരുത്തപ്പെട്ടുകഴിഞ്ഞു. ബന്ധങ്ങൾ വെറും പുറംകാഴ്ചയിൽ നിന്ന് ഉടലെടുത്തവയല്ല  എന്ന വിശ്വാസത്തോടെ.
സമയത്തിൻറെ സാന്ത്വനത്തിൽ ഈ പാടുകൾ മാഞ്ഞുപോകും. എനിയ്ക്ക് നഷ്ടപ്പെട്ടതെല്ലാം അതോടെ തിരിച്ചുകിട്ടുമോ?

എനിയ്ക്ക് ഭയം തോന്നുന്നു. ഈ പാടുകളോട് . അവ എന്ന് പൂർണ്ണമായും മാഞ്ഞുപോകും? അതോ ഈ വിചിത്രമായ ദിവസങ്ങൾ ഓർമ്മപ്പെടുത്തുവാനായി  അവയിൽ ചിലത് ശേഷിയ്ക്കുമോ ?

 

Ever since I got sick, I've been thinking of her a lot. The wicked disease just whisked her away. She was so full of life.

  

 

The chicken pox experience

I have heard many times, that chicken pox is a mild disease, a classic childhood ailment which allows the kid to stay off school for a couple of weeks. No one had told me that its not so simple for adults. I would have then taken the shot for sure.

Well, it started off quite promising, a mild feverish feeling a couple of cute red spots, 'One week at home to work on my small project', thought I. Boy, was I wrong.

In a day I developed a high fever, that was foolishly delirious, and my whole body was covered in blisters. 

By day too, fever got worse and blisters started growing their own blisters.

Day three, I'm dreamt that I am a child bursting bubble wrappers, but actually I was breaking blisters on my head one by one.

Day four, I couldn't swallow food or open my eyes fully. I thought about the minority that developed serious complications. I cried, partly deliriously, I love my life very much, I love the laughter and the tears.

Day five, the army of blisters slowly started to recede. Or at least lost their aggressiveness.

I still look quite scary, but I am relieved that I can sit up straight.

 

വർഷങ്ങൾക്ക് മുൻപൊരു പനി  ദിവസം.

ഉച്ചയ്ക്ക് വീട്ടിലെത്തിയത് വല്ലാത്തൊരു മന്ദതയോടെയാണ്. അവർ എന്റെ നെറ്റിയിൽ കൈവച്ചുനോക്കി.
"നല്ല ചൂടുണ്ടല്ലോ.." അവരുടെ മുഖത്ത് പരിഭ്രമം. "രാവിലെ തന്നെ ടീച്ചറോട് ചോദിച്ചിട്ട് പോരായിരുന്നില്ലേ. ഇനിയിപ്പോ ഉച്ചയ്ക്ക് പോണ്ട ."
"എന്റെ ബാഗ്‌ സ്കൂളിലാണ്." ഞാൻ പറഞ്ഞു. ചുമരിൽ താങ്ങിക്കൊണ്ട് ഞാൻ കോണിപ്പടികളിലൊന്നിലിരുന്നു.
"അത് സുപ്രിയ പോയി കൊണ്ടോരും."
അവർ ചൂടുള്ള കഞ്ഞിവെള്ളം ഒരു കോപ്പയിൽ പകർന്ന് കൊണ്ടുവന്നു. ഞാൻ നിസ്സഹായതയോടെ അവരെ നോക്കി അത് വാങ്ങി.
"മോളില് കെടക്കണ്ട, ഇവിടെ താഴെ കെടന്നാമതി. വിളിച്ചാ കേട്ടില്ലെങ്കിലൊ?"
"എനിയ്ക്ക് 'ഗംഗ' പാടിത്തെരോ?" ഞാൻ ചോദിച്ചു?

തുറന്നു കിടക്കുന്ന ജനാലയിലൂടെ പടിയ്ക്കലെ പേരമരം എനിയ്ക്ക് കാണാമായിരുന്നു. ഉച്ചവെയിലിൽ പേരയിലകൾക്ക് വല്ലാത്തൊരു തിളക്കമുണ്ടോ? അതോ പനിയുടെ മന്ദതയോ ?
 

എന്റെ കണ്ണുകളിൽ വീണ്ടുമൊരു പനിയുടെ ആലസ്യം. എന്റെ കൈകാലുകളിൽ ചെറിയ നീർക്കുമിളകൾ. എന്തോകൊണ്ടോ ഞാൻ അവരെയും ആ പേരമരത്തേയും ഓർക്കുന്നു.

changampuzhayute matoru kavitha..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAe8-s3UwiE

 

തണുപ്പ് രോമാക്കുപ്പായങ്ങൾക്കിടയിലൂടെ അരിച്ചിറങ്ങുകയാണ്. വീണ്ടും.

ഞാൻ എല്ലായ്പ്പോഴും നിരീക്ഷിക്കപ്പെടുകയാണ്.
സ്വകാര്യത എന്നത് ഒരു മിഥ്യയായിരിക്കുന്നു . എങ്കിലും ,
എന്റെ കണ്ണുനീർത്തുള്ളികളെ ഞാൻ ഭയക്കുന്നില്ല. കാരണം അവ എന്റേത് മാത്രമല്ല എന്ന് ഞാൻ അറിയുന്നു.
ഈ തണുത്ത കാറ്റിനും ഉണ്ട്, കണ്ണീരിന്റെ നനവ്‌.
 എന്റെ ചിന്തകളെ ഞാൻ ഈ തണുത്ത കാറ്റിന്  സമർപ്പിയ്ക്കുന്നു. അവ അന്തരീക്ഷത്തിലെ മർദ്ദവ്യതിയാനങ്ങളിലൂടെ സഞ്ചരിക്കട്ടെ. ആകാശത്തിൽ ഉയർന്നുതാഴ്ന്ന്, മഞ്ഞും മഴതുള്ളികളും എറ്റുവാങ്ങി, വൻകരകൾ താണ്ടി, വെമ്പലും വേദനയും അടക്കാനാകുന്ന ഒരിടത്ത് ഇരിപ്പിടം കണ്ടെത്തട്ടെ.
വാക്കുകൾ നുകരുവാനാകാത്ത മധുരമാകട്ടെ.

മണ്ണിൽ പതിഞ്ഞ കാൽപ്പാടുകളോട്  ഞാൻ ചോദിച്ചു. നിങ്ങൾ എവിടെ നിന്നു വന്നു? എങ്ങോട്ടു പോകുന്നു?
നീ മറന്നുവോ ഞങ്ങളെ? അവ അമ്പരന്നു. ഞങ്ങൾ അത്ര വേഗം തെഞ്ഞുമാഞ്ഞുപോകും എന്ന് കരുതിയോ ?
പൊടിക്കാറ്റും പേമാരിയും ഞങ്ങളെ ഇല്ലാതാക്കും എന്ന് കരുതിയോ?

മറന്നതല്ല. പക്ഷെ ഇവിടം എന്റെതല്ലാതായിരിക്കുന്നു. എന്റെ ചിന്തകളുടെ നീർകുമിളകൾ പൊട്ടിപ്പോയിരിയ്ക്കുന്നു.

A2 exams next week. :(

 

I woke up from a feverish dream an hour ago, thinking of an old Air Supply song, remembering the time I used to listen to air supply with a couple of cousins, trying to learn the lines. ah Time goes by, even if it is so slowly.

 

When Tony stood up and spoke to us , she was probably a little self-conscious.  She smiled, rather deliberately, trying not to waver the eye contact.

She is 31 years old, a health inspector by profession. She has given up on all elaborate, work out plans. a touch of hopelessness comes over her face when the subject was discussed.
Being fit, is probably important, she says, important for life. But my life is my art. That's who I am, that's how I live. She then told us about her art studio, her poetry, her three books, and her theatre ventures.

It takes courage to smile. She does, no matter what.

I love to live in the moment when I spy that special spark in someone. I feel like my heart is singing a cheer song for them.

I wish I was that brave.
I wish I was not afraid of life.
I wish I was not ashamed of who I am.

 

From the penieve 11

 Village of Chelannur was perhaps a 20 km from the city , only a half an hour drive from the house I grew up in. But in my childhood it was an exciting half a day bus tour. I still remember the names of the bus stops in the village, oddly, they were announced by numbers instead of names. 7-2, 7-8,8-4 etc.. It was in 8-4 that we had to get off. We had a 15 minutes walk from the bus stop through the lush greenery of the paddy fields.

And on the other side of the fields was the mountains. I would never forget the mountains, Of course they were always there, but I could never get enough of them.

It was Valyachan's village, he had an old house there amidst acres of greenery. I don't quite remember the first time I went there. But that place was always there in the back ground, as the alternate reality. Valyachan was deeply attached to his small refuge- the village, the two acres that was actually his', the small house with an usually large veranda and all the trees around it. From time to time he would make plans to move back there. He was getting tired of the city, the city was getting tired of him too. In the late 80s when the mass agitation was going against 'the big fabric factory', he was on the front line of the protest, while one of my uncles was a senior manager in the company.

 But no body actually thought, that one day, he would just do what he had said. When I came back from Trivandrum  when I was 12, I went to the village to spend my vacation with them there. Only one of my cousins was married off then. Valiachan had stopped practicing law completely, though he wrote articles (even books) and did radio talks. Miniechi, the homeo doctor, had set up a small clinic in the village. As for the other two, the lawyer and the nobody,  they were yet to make any sense out of their life.

Valyachan busied himself with new agricultural ventures (and toddy shop picketing). There were new tree saplings and seeds. There were mangoes, tamarind, jack fruit, and banana. I still remember a young tree which he was sure, was a variety of apple. He called it the golden apple. But to my knowledge no fruit ever came in it. That 'exotic apple tree' always remained fruitless.

Even at 12, I couldn't resist the temptation of climbing a few trees. I made friends with the children in the neighbourhood, Ramla, Rehna, Imbi and Gafoor. They took me to other parts of the village, the cashew groves in the valley had a indescribable serenity, every breeze smelt of ripe cashew apples. Every child I knew in the village had their own portion of the grove, they tended to it, the money that came from those trees, made sure that they had new books for the next school year. They fought over the trees like cats and dogs.

Up in the valley was a huge rock, which in no way resembled an elephant, but still bore the name Anappara - the elephant rock. We would sit there and watch the world below. The sweet smell of lemon grass lingered in the air there. I would never forget the haziness of those afternoons up there.

The kitchen in the house had a different theme. Valiamma had toned her dishes with the ingredients available in the garden. But everything tasted heavenly. She never uttered a word of complaint.
I wish the village had brought the kind of peace in their life, that they had then hoped for. But of course, there was no way of knowing.
When you look back, somehow, everything becomes a story.

Even after everything, I still believe in love.


 

Unfinished books, Unfinished work

In 2008, when I locked the door and took the suitcases out, I had a feeling that I had forgotten something. A friend had agreed to drive us to the airport.  We gave him the keys and requested him to water the plants.

As we drove through the familiar roads of Iselin, I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten. My copy of The Indian Clerk, the novel by David Leavitt based on Srinivasa Ramanjuan's life. I was half way through it, I wanted to finish it in the flight.

But of course, we didn't go back to get the book, actually we didn't go back ever. I never got to see the house or the book ever again.

I often wonder about that book, somehow I never replaced that copy, like I did with some other books. Some day I'd read it again. (I don't know how much of it was pure fiction, the novel detailed on the intricate relationship between GH Hardy and Ramanujan, the outlook of the mathematical society, certain theories that the death could have been avoided)

Unfinished books, like unfinished work keep haunting me. But maybe, they remained unfinished for a reason. I actually didn't want read about Ramanujan's death. Or , someday, I would pick it up from where I had left it off. I would finish the other things I left half way too, perhaps.
May be the time was just not right.

Tomorrow, I am going back to my language school, to give myself a second chance at learning German. I do not know where it would take me, but since we live in a world where not being busy is a crime, I might as well be busy with something, be it crazy DIKTATs or Prufungen.  Or perhaps, I would really get the hang of it this time, who knows.

Alles gute!

This old song cheers me up, though its in no way related to the situation.

Tum jiyo hazaaron saal..

 

Today, I am alone in this house. I've been going through the book shelf as my father is planning to donate the books to the local library. Maddened by that threat, I've been searching for some titles I had last read at age 14 or 15, trying to save them for myself , worried that I might want to read them again sometime in the indefinite future. Who knows what lies ahead for all of us , the key to my good fortune could lie hidden in those yellow faded pages.

Then I suddenly remembered an old issue of a magazine we had saved though the twists and turns of time. It had once been under our coffee table, we had proudly shown it to people, then somehow one day it found it's place in the book shelf, still remembered and looked at, at times. When did it finally slip into complete oblivion?

It was one of the leading women's magazine at the time, and in those days those magazines had very few pages to devoted to fashion trends. They, in their simple, uncomplicated ways, inspired women to  the rise above the clutches of the society.

The article was about women in unconventional jobs, and that issue featured a lady who was then, the assistant director of Fisheries, at a small port in northern Kerala. The 35 year old talked about her demanding job of raiding unlicensed motorboats and the talented journalist had flourished the article with many water chase scenes and encounters. Even now I doubt the authenticity of those details, but those were as thrilling as an old Sean Connery movie. There was a brief outline of her family, her supportive  husband and three very young children, the youngest being only five years old. There was a picture of her, with three gawky looking children. She had thanked her loving elder sister for helping her raise the children as she had lost her parents at a young age.

I do remember the time when my mother worked at Beypore, she would often leave for work as early as four in the morning. She did stay with us at the time, but I remember feeling distant and unbothered.

I also do remember meeting a boat owner whose license was cancelled by her. I was at another aunt's house, he had come there to make a plea with my aunt. But he had threatened me, though I was only a child. I still feel a chill running through my spine remembering his bloodshot eyes. Life did 'turn the page', but I remember that incident crystal clear.

 I do wish to look at those faded pages once again!

 

From the pensieve 10

A girl walked into my physics class wearing chained glasses, midway through the lesson, and sat next to me. She looked distracted, as if she was stuck at a wrong place. I believe the lesson was about relative velocity, she tapped her pen continuously on the desk as we solved the mysteries of moving trains, which always ran faster or slower than we thought. During the break, she incoherently started talking about her music lessons, how her sister, the music teacher was giving her a hard time.

I walked with her to the bus stop that day and I found out, that the music was not the only thing. She painted, played violin and wrote poetry. I'm sure she was glad to find a good listener. She jumped from one topic to another with the inherent impatience of a multitalented mind. She removed her spectacles a few times and rubbed her nose when she took a moment to breath. And then she continued, of course there was a lot to say, and good listeners are hard to come by.

I often wonder, what are the odds that we stick to people, keep having them in our lives year after year, decade after decade, listening to brilliant yet completely crazy ideas, the hits and misses with success?

Anyways, here we are 21 years later.

 

Months ago my sister in law had told me that she was planning to send my niece to a new school. Its a full day, six days a week school which focuses only on academics. I was surprised as the child was already attending one of the best schools in the city and does her schoolwork like her life depends on it. What was reason behind this sudden quest for higher standard of education?

My sis in law gave a speech about tapping higher potentials and preparing for a dog eat dog world. But the real reason, even if she hesitated to say it aloud, was the simple fact that she could be at peace at work thinking that the 11 year old is at school till 5 in the evening, instead of being alone in the apartment.

School was always considered to be the safest place for a child after home. Children would always be under the watchful eyes of the teachers and staff. But recent happenings in our cities have proved that school could be as unsafe as any other place. Parents could no longer be at peace, thinking that their children were at school.

How could we really protect our children? We could probably tell them scream out loud if a stranger or a 'friend' tries to  touch them in a bad way? We could encourage them to discuss everything that happened at school?

World is probably losing its sanity, lets weave a net of love and care around our loved ones. Lets take time to talk, lets make more phone calls. Love probably is the only thing that could make our twisted lives find some balance. Lets say it aloud 'No matter what happens I would be there for you.'

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I think I could change everything. I could give life to old trees, I could take people out of their sophisticated lives and urban homes and bind them once again with love and remind them of the things they have forgotten. I would change everything until there is no evidence  change, no evidence of time passed.

My four cousins were an integral part of my life once, I grew up with them, of course they were all much older to me. I looked up to them, they took care of me.

Now, in the dubious ways of the present, they are all battling different kinds of middle age problems, health issues, property issues, lack of money, excess of money, children getting married, children not getting married,  being somebody, being nobody. Why does life change people the way it does ? Why do 'somebody's move away from 'nobody's?

In a time when life hadn't torn them apart, took sides or played favourites, they all lived in harmony. They were jovial and fun. They stayed away from their father's idealism and  their mother's sense of self sacrifice. They moved with their college friends, organized college events and sang songs.

I used to listen to their college stories, sometimes with out them knowing. When they had dance rehearsals they would let me watch. I still remember the gaudy costumes they used bring for oppana and folk dance.

Today, I somehow remembered a song one of them used to sing all the time. I found it here (youtube ki jay)..

God, I still remember melting for the line 'kalamaamilanjiyethra pookkale kozhichu'.

I would always be grateful to all of them for being kind, irrespective of what life has made of them.

 

ഞാനീ നിഴൽക്കാട്ടിലാണ്ടുപോയാൽ
ഈ വഴിയെന്നെത്തിരയുമോ നീ ?
ഈ കനൽകാറ്റിൽ ഞാൻ മാഞ്ഞുപോയാൽ
ഈ പടുംപാട്ടുമറക്കുമോ നീ ?

 

I've always had this image of a perfect Indian village in my mind. Its not entirely formed by my stay in my father's ancestral place or the trips I've taken with friends and family. Its a mixture of all that plus the images from the novels I adore. Soothing shades of tall trees, fresh smell of grass, small ponds with water lilies, all-forgiving  rivers and acres and acres of fields (rice paddy, wheat, mustard seed, vegetables- the crop doesn't matter). All the years that I've been away from my country, I've kept it close to my heart. The beauty and the serenity - but have I really given a thought about the real rural India, where people struggle for basic needs, where illiteracy is still at large, where prejudice and inequality still rules, where 'the wild beasts' lurk in the shadows waiting for the prey?

I feel indignant and ashamed.

 

 അലകൾപോലോർമ്മകൾ , ഹൃദയത്തിൽ വന്നടി-
ച്ചൊരുകൊടുങ്കാറ്റിന്നുയർത്തിക്കടന്നുപോയ്‌.

 

I have a couple of friends who cannot get enough of Paulo Coelho and Deepak Chopra. Everyday I find my facebook page rolling with inspirational quotes. I would look at them , admiring the dedication my friends have to spread good messages. But today, this picture actually made me smile.

I do love to think that we are living in a universe, where we could never lose the ones you love.
Love is after all an all-encompassing emotion which could set you free, not something to hold you captive.
Peace!

And of course, Love, always!
 

From the pensieve 9

We were swinging on the big iron gate when he suddenly kept one foot on the ground and asked, 'should we get married when we grow up?'

He had said that exactly like how he would usually say, 'Should we get ice creams?'

I rubbed my nose against the string of rain drops on the iron grill and wondered what I should say.

We were about seven. He was in 2nd standard. Since I had started the school a year earlier, I was already in 3rd standard. Our families had known each other since ages. We were next door neighbours. Decades ago, my mother and her youngest older brother had played with his father and uncle.

I felt it was really silly of him to say something like that. But he was my best friend. So I sat down on the small parapet near the gate and explained to him the realities of life. I told him that this thing called marriage always followed a set of rules. And since he was younger to me by a few months, I couldn't marry him. He nodded thoughtfully and said he should then ask one of the girls in his class. I told him that it sounded like a good idea.

Our movies and literature usually romanticise the close friendship between a little boy and a little girl, but that is, so often, not the reality. Ok, saying that doesn't mean that I and my best friend didn't plan future together. We were going to be business partners. Our grandfathers might have dreamt of setting the conservative society free of the shackles of caste system; but our dreams were different. We were going to do something great and make tons of money. Often in our games, our clay models were sold for lakhs of rupees, our medical inventions saved the world ( Look Doctor, I accidentally mixed hibiscus with guava leaves and made cancer cure!.. Oh great! Now we are going to be rich!), our discoveries often made new chapters in geography text books (Captain, isn't that a new continent across the lane?... Oh great! Now we are going to be rich!) and our space research found new planets (Of course, we are going to be rich!).

Though we often played together all day during weekends and holidays, our school day routines were completely different. Around 8 in the morning, he would start polishing his shoes, looking for his tie, school badge and uniform and would be at the bus stop  by 8.30, waiting for the school bus. He attended one of the best convent schools in the city. I, on the other hand ,would sometimes sleep in till 8.30, and would happily walk to school at 9.45. But in the evening, we would sit on the compound wall and discuss school. He would tell me about the nuns in his school, how he often pulled pranks on them, and I would tell him about the mysterious, abandoned, dilapidated house near my school.

His father was a budding politician. His family was rich. Though my parents had good jobs, I lived a very simple childhood. I was always aware of the difference in our lifestyles. His birthday parties were often the talk of the neighbourhood, the district collector's kids sometimes came over to hang out with him, and when his cousins came from Bangalore I often felt hesitant to go over to play as they always talked in English. But still, on holidays free of English speaking kids, he came over to play. During festivals we would pick fights with other kids in the neighbourhood (Perentha? perayka. Nadetha? Narenga..) and steal betel leaves and paan packets from the feast table.

But as we grew up, we drifted apart. There were no tear stained good byes when I was taken away from my grandfather's house. We had made other friends. He was a cricket freak. I was a book worm.  Neither of us were into silly pretend games anymore. We had out grown them. We had outgrown each other too. And neither of us were sad.

Though we have met each other a few times later in life, our exchange of words were limited.(How's college, which year, how's work, where are you now..) Our lives had diverged like two branches of a river. He was educated in Chennai, Bangalore , UK and US. But he was the one who came back home to live there. He is running the family school now.

A few years ago I went back to Calicut to attend his wedding. I smiled to myself when I saw the betel leaves and paan packets on the feast table.

His, would be a story I would someday want to write. Rich boy, chasing one rich dream after another, coming back home to run an old city school (even if he is turning the place upside down to make it profitable. - I think that is just a phase). Dear friend, brother, I'm proud of you!










 

May be someday you would look back and wonder what this day was all about. Colours would fade away, along with songs. Faces would fade away too with passing years. You would learn to forget, and to forgive too, perhaps. Time would wash away the tears as you explore the wonders of life. This is just your story, not anyone else's.
- To ARJUN who turns eight today.

Some more random thoughts

I was wondering about history, the history of a country,a city, a place, a person.

I was thinking of Rome, the old city with a new face. The history is still alive though, as the ruins of the old empire, where brave men fought to death, where the first Christians were burnt alive, where the emperor 'fiddled while Rome burned'. I thought about all those merciless, gruesome murders and how the city's new face was trying to hide all the horror that happened there.

The country I live now, has a little bit of a history too. Often when I'm walking through the streets I feel it breathing down on me. But the people I meet always smile, some of them came from other countries, the  countries that had been torn apart, the countries breathing horror, the countries stuck in poverty. They all came looking for a better life, or at least life in some cases. And they found it here, where once tyranny claimed to seek the utmost purity by wiping away a race.

That takes me to vibrant Amsterdam, the city of canals, bike and guilty pleasures. The city where a lively little girl and her family once tried to hide in a 'secret Annexe', where she dreamt, lived and wrote, where someone gave  her away. She was crazy about movies and had secretly dreamt of being a movie star! The movie posters she once had in her bedroom are viewed by hundreds with utmost deference.

Not to forget my home town(s), every time I'm in Eastfort, Trivandrum, I think of the royal era, the pleas held, the battle fought. Every time I'm in Kappadu beach, I think if the history could have been different, different for the city, different for the whole nation.

People have history too, though we all try to hide it. The little girl who was a guest at my home last few weeks brought a little bit of history too. She is 11 now, she brought the first story she wrote, just so I could read it.
I want to smile. I really do.

Her little cousin is missing her now. I've been trying all day to cheer him up..

Life!

May be its a little late, but what does it matter? Happy Vishu to everyone.

Its not that I do not read signs anymore
Its not that I forgot to dream
Its not that I don't hear the distant melodies.
I'm just afraid, afraid of the time
Of yesterday, today and tomorrow
But it too will pass
Like all things, good or bad.
But I'm happy,  happy for you,
happy for you all..

I'm going away for a while.

From the pensieve 8

My parents often worked in other districts when I was a child. My brothers, since they were older, usually moved with one or both of them. Just a few months before we moved to Trivandrum, I was taken from my grandfather's house. At that time, my father was working in Trivandrum, and I stayed in Calicut with my mother and brothers.

I didn't really give a thought about the changes happening in and around. I missed the old house and people, but as the house was still accessible and the people were not far off, I tried to make the best of both worlds. We stayed in a Govt quarters and I played all the time with the kids in the neighbourhood. We would go on expeditions on our own, climb all the trees, have picnics in the ground eating raw mangoes and guavas. We plucked flowers together for Onam and faithfully followed the tradition of 'not touching a book' during puja. During festivals, we would walk up hill as a group, early in the morning to the Durga Temple. It was beautiful up there, the temple, the hilly terrain, the cave...

I had to take a bus to school. I didn't mind, as it gave me some extra time to dream. On the way to the bus stop, there was a small colony of tribal folks. I loved walking past that one row building. Each family, had a small veranda and a room. The children would be playing together in the small yard and the elderly women would be sitting on the pavement weaving baskets out of bamboo strips. Manohariechi, our maid, had told me scary stories about them, so every time I saw a pot and smoke, I looked at it suspiciously. But my inquisitiveness to their life could not easily be put to rest.

They looked happy, a little annoyed, perhaps by the city, but they smiled and laughed revealing their stained teeth. The children seemed to be having a lot of fun all the time huddling together in groups. I would imagine the life in their one room homes. Sometimes I felt strangely guilty, even a little ashamed of my clean clothes. I would remember my life in the old house, when I had the whole outhouse to myself. I would toy with the idea of letting those people  live in the outhouse. The outhouse did not belong to me anymore, but I never really accepted that fact.

A year later, when I came back from Trivandrum on summer vacation, we went by that place. The early 90s were a period when the city went through major architectural and structural changes. I couldn't find the colony there. It was gone, with out a trace. What would have happened to all those lives, all those toothy grins and greasy little faces which huddled together plotting new games?

 Come Monday, it'll be alright.
Come Monday, I free myself from German..

Night fell,
From the unknown morrow,
Leading me on to a distant shadow.
I call out your name
My songs had been about you,
But Perhaps I've lost my songs
Would you still know me by my sobs?



 

Grandmothers and stories

Ever since I read Orhan Pamuk's Silent House, I've been thinking of my paternal grandmother. We were not really close. She was not the kind of grandmother who would pamper children by telling them stories and watching them fall asleep. She was unemotional, efficient and hard. Or perhaps, the real she, was hiding inside a shell.

After her husband passed away, she continued to live in their house in the village with her sister. The two women looked after the land and the fields efficiently. They would work all day and watch TV late into the  night. After we moved to Trivandrum, she came to live with us briefly, as her health, at that time, needed frequent medical consultation.

I was 12 then, lost in my own sorrows and distant dreams, perhaps I did not try to form a bond with the poor old woman. My mother had taken a few months off from work, she did administer the medication and managed the diet as prescribed and advised by the doctor. Grandmother was allowed to watch TV as much as she wanted and the relatives visited her frequently . But as soon as she recovered, she wanted to move back to the village.

At home, all of us except my father perhaps, talked in stark northern accent, and my mother, even with the help of the maid, had not quite mastered the Travancore cuisine. The poor old lady couldn't have waited any longer to move back. I still remember how she used stand there in the veranda, leaning on a pillar, staring blankly at the road.

She passed away when I was 15, after having been hospitalized for a week.

I am intrigued by the way the grandmother character in Silent house dreams of the innocence of her youth. She had had a bitter life with a man who repulsed her, had secluded herself from his believes, non-believes, adultery and madness, had been horrendously cruel to his mistress and her children and had witnessed her son and daughter in-law being taken into grave. She just lives on, cursing her servant and being unpleasant to everybody and everything in the present, but secretly holding on to the memories of her childhood, the time she and her mother made lemonade together, the time she visited her friends in the city, the time they read a novel together...

How do this ordeal called life, transform a young innocent girl of 14 to a bitter old woman?

I wonder what my grandmother was thinking when she was standing there leaning on that pillar?
The perfect silence of a midsummer afternoon in the village? the old glory of the temple? the lush paddy fields? the day she got married? or simply an old movie which gave her quite a thrill?

On a lighter note, I over-heard a trio of old ladies last week at a restaurant. They were talking about Shwagertochter, the daughter in-law.

Here in this country, even women over 70 carefully wear their make up. Since its a rich country, their clothes are expensive, their jewellery rare. Those who are single, still boldly sport a mini-skirt and a sleeveless T in summer. I admire their zest for life.

I am thinking of all grandmothers back home, who go to temple every evening, who chant their prayers even in sleep. I hope their spirituality is not just a way of withdrawal.

What is right? Believing that you still have the power to turn things around and enjoy life, meet someone, even fall in love..(What is love at 70? I wonder) ..Or just giving up on life and waiting for your time?

I don't know actually, I do not want to judge either group.
This is to all grandmothers, those who wear lipstick and those who don't, and their stories, told and untold.








 

From the pensieve 7

The little girl was sitting on the pavement, playing with some stones and sticks. Her hair was dishevelled and her face greasy. She was 7 or 8, probably too young to be all by herself, but I guess the world did not really care about her. And from the self-involved look in her face it was evident that she did not care about the world as well.

My father had parked the car there and had gone to a shop nearby. I was waiting for him.
It was many years ago. I was still in college.

The little girl raised her head and looked at me. I smiled at her. She came close to the window and stood there, staring at me with out even blinking. Then she smiled.

She stood there and smiled at me for some time, then a man came and tried to take her away from there. She just stubbornly freed herself . She said something to the man pointing at me. All I could hear was 'chechi chechi'. She came back and we continued to look and smile at each other.

Then my father came back. She waved at me when we took off.

Why do I never forget the look in her face?

In a second everything could end, doesn't it? With everything we believed in....
Prayers...

 Dead-tired,  dog-tired....

I was reminded of this song for no reason..

 

The other day, a kindergarten group, got into the tram that I was in, and a 4 year old sat next to me. He stared at me for a minute, as if puzzled by my appearance. Then he came up with the most logical question, taking into account my unmade-up face and unstylish hair.
'Bist du eine frau?' Are you a woman?

If a grownup had asked this, it would have been an insult. But 4 year olds, generally get away with everything.

He really seemed to be interested in the book I was reading and took it from my hands.

"Look at me, I am reading too." He told me and began to flip through pages.

Since he soon got bored with acting all important reading a 'big book',  he wanted to know what was there in my bag. He opened my bag and looked through it. He announced, the things he found in there. Book, pen, more books...

"You do have a lot of books," He said thoughtfully, "do you have one for me?"

I gave him my pocket dictionary to hold. He was happy that it was small.

How do children do this? How do they make spontaneous conversations with out inhibitions? How do they just ignore, racial, cultural barriers?

Prayers..

We've toned ours ears to brutality and violence. We read about them everyday in newspaper, and we try to forget them.  Will we ever find reasons for such madness?

 I am praying for the angels in heaven. And I'm thinking about the survivors. Children almost beaten to death by their guardians, sexually abused preteens, children who have witnessed extreme violence.. Would time ever heal those wounded torsos and souls? Would those shattered lives ever resurrect, would those scared little faces ever learn to smile ?

 The natural ending I had for 'Unravelled' was that Naveena never finds Sunita, but accepts the grave reality that life doesn't always answer your questions and moves on with it. That perhaps would have been a better ending, but I simply couldn't let myself to write it. I wanted Sunita to survive. I wanted to believe that it was possible for her to have a normal life, I wanted the reader to believe that it was possible.

But is that really possible? How many completely survive childhood trauma?

Back when I was 12 or 13, I did face the stark realization, that I was not a child anymore. someone I really, really trusted had started to make me feel uncomfortable. The fact was, I didn't even know that this person was trying to feel me up. It took me a while to figure it out. I did not know what to do. I never really talked with my parents. I could not tell them. I did try telling 'I do not like that 'person'', but they did not take the hint. Actually I did not have anyone to confide in. I had friends, but I could not tell them as well. I wanted to be normal and happy in front of them. I hated my slowly changing body, I hated everything about my life. In my absolute helplessness I sought refuge in God. I cried and I prayed. I tried to avoid 'that person', I read almost all the books we had at home, I imagined living in those stories and I tried to forget the reality. Those dreams, protected me in a way!

I did not have any focus in life. I did not dream of being good at anything, I did not look into the future and tried to figure out what to do with it. I never really prepared for any exam. I never dreamt of getting married. I just avoided thinking about all prospects of real life. But I laughed and played with my classmates all the time.I guess it is difficult for a child to accept that she is going through something abnormal, children would only try to suppress such things.

Again I was lucky to come off unscathed. But I never thought I could completely move on. I never thought I could just stop blaming everybody. I never knew I could talk about it with out reliving the fear. But the fact is, I moved on, completely.

Though perhaps this could not compare with real acts of horror we read about, I do believe resurrection is not impossible.

Many a time , I've found myself making long phone calls to friends, just so the person on the other side could just cry, and talk, and cry as much as they wanted to. I have heard people saying, how they wanted to kill themselves, how they slashed wrists, swallowed pills etc. I have seen them moving on also. Completely!

Lets pray for resurrection. Let's watch over our children, let's teach them to protect themselves and hold their head high. Lets tell them about the reality and lets hope that they learn to dream as well!


 

Old songs... Old songs..

 

A lot of my memories are linked with old Malayalam poems. I was made to memorize some lines from N.N Kakkad's Saphalamee yatra. I do not exactly remember why. I remember associating 'athira' or 'Thiruvathira' with old age and death, which was weird, because back in the day, in the city I grew up in, it was festival of happiness. Thiruvathira was our take on Halloween and Fasching. Children would dress in costumes go to other houses in the neighbourhood and perform whatever they could. I don't remember fasting, may be I was too young for that.

Today I stumbled upon a musical version of the poem, a bit too musical for my taste, actually.
I remember the festival, I remember the poem and I remember her voice as she sang the line 'Ormmakalundayirikkanam'.

Ormmkalundayirikkatte.. Let's remember, everything.

 

I'm always tired these days. I guess I should just accept my defeat and remain happily bilingual, for the rest of my life. I would stop in April.. and then.. I don't know what I should do then.

Since I'm around people from different parts of the world, I get to hear interesting stories. I wish these people spoke English, just so I could ask and find out more.

Ceca from Serbia thinks she would never have enough girly fun to sacrifice herself to marriage. Still she admits that she occasionally misses her college boyfriend. And in her opinion everybody is entitled to have one big love.

Maria misses her daughter who is in Colombo. She feels the pressure of being a single parent, and hopes to find a job soon so that she could bring her daughter to stay with her.

24 year old Ron misses his girlfriend and twin 4 year old boys. How does a 24 year old manages that kind of a responsibility?

Tini misses her parents in Romania, but she is getting married soon and she is excited to be in Germany with her fiancé.

Of course, all names are fake.
Stories are stories, but even they fail to make me feel better.
 

When friendships die

For most part of my life I thought I owed my life to friends. For most part of my life I went out of my way and did things for them, nursed them through heartbreaks and other blues. For most part of my life, I've kind of been a fool. Well, that's just a side effect of growing up with out a primary care person.

When one of my friends got married while we were still in college, I literally had to fight with my parents to let me attend the wedding. The semester exams had got postponed that year due to some strikes, and unfortunately we had an exam the next day of the wedding. Of course, my friend's parents couldn't change the date of the wedding, she had to get married and then attend the semester exam the next day.

The wedding was in another district and I would lose the entire day if I go. And my parents knew very well that I would only open my books a day or two before the exam. But I pleaded with them and I cried, what would she(the bride) do if her best friends didn't attend her wedding? How could we even let her get married like that? Isn't that sad?

They did give in in the end and I, with two other friends, attended the wedding. We had a very difficult, question paper the next day. I was very lucky that I scraped through pass marks for that paper. My parents would have killed me otherwise!

I hardly even talk to her these days, in fact, its been years, since I talked or sent a personal message to her. We just grew apart.

But back then, I honestly thought that we were going to be friends forever. We were going to be in each other's life always....What happens to friendships when they die?

Some friendships only last for a season. Then they die an unmourned death. May be they are meant to be that way. The world around us just changes every year, and so do we unfortunately, and so do the people we used to know!

I once used to try to keep in touch with everybody I had  good laugh with, everybody who told me their stories. But since the time I lived in my father's village, I realised that I didn't have to do that. I still cherish all the laughter, I still cherish the stories, but may be they are better off as memories. I do not miss the people, they do not miss me..

There is this other lot. People I would always care about, but would be perfectly ok not hearing from for years! I would always keep their phone numbers and emails, just not to lose them, an email once in 6 months, a phone call a year... This boy who worked with me in citi, who had been more of a brother to me than the real ones, this girl who worked with me in Chennai, one or two of my school mates, college mates, two of my cousins..

And then of course, there's this other lot, who knows my struggles, my madness.. I would be completely lost with out them.

Sometimes, even with out us knowing, we make lifetime promises. To be there, always, even if its miles apart, never to change, never to give up, never to be lost in the crowd, and to keep going..
The promise I've made would always make sure that I'm the same person.

















 

Sometimes I feel silly, searching for the voices of my childhood in this foreign land frantically trying to reconstruct days, places and faces, trying to relive memories, holding on to them as they slip away....

Today my mind for no reason went back to the evening I heard this song on the radio, when I was playing just outside the window.

 

Old trees and old songs

When I see old videos, I try to see more than just the actors. Like the trees in bloom with their leaves dancing in the wind. Those flowers withered and leaves fell, all buried and decomposed in the continuous cycle of life. Yet they graced an old video with their passing grace, and the image of a long gone spring or summer is captured forever, with the effect of a long gone breeze and the sunshine from a long gone day.

And the people too, not just the main actors, the passers by, the crowd, common people who got to save the images of their youth for another centaury. They would have lived their untold lives thereafter, but they did make their mark in the history of time, however small. There is something to remind the world of their life.

And the main actors, the dreams in their eyes, the effervescence of youth, yea, we do know their stories.

Take a look at this song from Suhaag raat 1948, a young Bharat Bhushan and very young Geeta Bali in their Himachal outfits (?). This was her very first movie, her only chance to turn the life around and save her family. Did the horror of the past(not just hers, the whole nations, or so to speak), haunt her when she was putting her make up on? As we all know, in her short life, she would  find success and love and ultimately fate would take her away while she was reaching for stars.
Bharat Bhushan on the other hand would live a life, full of up and downs. But in this eternal moment, they are both fresh and hopeful. And the trees, look at those trees..

 

 

 

This is another song from the movie.

 



 

I wonder what she was thinking when she was walking through the fields. Her whole life was ahead of her, a life of promises. And I love that lonely tree in the background. What would have happened of it?

 

Life indeed is capricious, but may be we shouldn't just let it pass by, when we have a shot at finding our dreams. Lets all reach for the stars!

 

 

 

 

 



 

My first German poem

 Ich sehe
Ich verstehe
Ich falle
Ich stehe auf
Ich hoffe
Und, ich vertraue
Immer, Immer, Immer
Du auch?


Since I don't trust those translators, as my German is perhaps untranslatable....

I see
I understand
I fall
I get up
I hope
And I trust
Always, Always, Always
You do too?

From the pensive 6

A chilly winter evening of year 2007. Tired after a days work of staring blankly at the computer monitor, doing almost nothing other than entering the timesheet, I was waiting for my train home at Princeton station.

It was pitch dark even though it was only a few minutes past 6. It had snowed earlier in the day and the patches of white, here and there, gave the evening an eerie feel. I sat on a bench wondered why I was even there.

It was my first job in the USA, I had a very long commute home, the work was hardly interesting and the pay was less than the industry standard. Everyday, up and down, I would worry if I really had to take this up. I would try to read, while on the train, and take my mind off.

An old lady came and sat beside me. I smiled and nodded and wondered if she would talk to me.

She spoke with a strange accent. She said she was visiting her daughter in New York. She was thrilled to make a trip all the way from Europe, she liked to explore the places all by herself, but she had been having trouble making herself understood. She told me about her daughter, her grand children, their life...

She then received a call from her daughter. I heard her talking in an unfamiliar language which sounded more like a strenuous vocal exercise . At one point I even doubted if she was clearing her throat.

Later she told me that she was really proud of her daughter and grandchildren for not losing touch with their language.

Their language, of course, was German.

She then told me about her life in the post-war Europe. She was an engineer too, an electrical engineer, who had to struggle for acceptance in a male-dominant society. She told me how tough it was for her and she thought it's still tough for women from developing countries. She told me that she was proud of women like me who fought against all odds, who tried to break free of shackles and rise above the oppressions cast by the society.

She didn't know that she was talking to the wrong woman.
Yea, I was brave enough to stand up for my choices, but I never thought of myself as fighter or a pioneer of anything. I had made up my mind that I would give up my career when we had a baby. Again, that was my choice, society hadn't asked me to do it.

But the nice German lady was smiling at me affectionately and I acted like a pioneer. Yea,  the shackle.. Tell me about it..

We talked all the way to Newark where I had to get off. She called up her daughter a couple of times and talked in that 'funny language' and I tried my best not to laugh. I reminded her that she had to get off at Newyork Penn Station, before I got off.

 I met a friend in the path train to Jersey city. I told her how funny German sounded. |I imitated it as best as I could and made her laugh.

But when I walked home from the station, all alone and cold, I felt sad. I looked vaguely at the Christmas light which was still there, even if it was almost the end of January.

How is it possible that sometimes, random strangers could make you think about the possibilities, make you reflect on the past or even  glimpse into the future, how does it all work, this infinite matrix of people, friends, relatives, acquaintances, and strangers.

I felt that I shouldn't have made fun of that language.


 

Songs that make me cry

I've been listening to songs like crazy as words are slipping away. Some songs make me happy, some annoy me for no reason and some make me tear up whenever I listen to them.

 

These are my favourite sad songs at the moment. That reminds me, I have a dictation again on Monday.

 

10,  Jaane kya dhoondhti rahti hain from shola aur Shabnam

 

 

 

9 Tum pukarlo from Khamoshi

 

 

 

8 Kannodu Kannoram from Ente Mammattikuttiyammaykku

 

 

7 Unnikale oru kadha paryam from Unnikale oru kadha parayam

 

6 Suhani chandni raatein from Mukti

 



 

5 Zindagi ki safar mein from Aap ki kasam

 

 

4 Tum na jaane kis jahan mein from Sazaa

 

3  Na ye chand hoga from Shard

 

2 Aayiram kannumai from Nokketha doorathu kannum nattu

 

1 And of course...Oru ragamala korthu from Dhwani 









 

Butterflies in cement gardens..
We're done chasing them.
Wake me up now,
Tell me it was all a dream!

I dread Fridays now. I have a test every Friday.
100s of new words, their crazy spelling and gender, grammar rules and exceptions.....
I am becoming less optimistic day by day.

I hope every one is doing good and ungermanised..

 

The tidings from Dreamland

Navneeth usually has trouble falling asleep. Even when he is tired, he tries to fight sleep with unfailing dedication. He would challenge the very idea of 'retiring to bed'. I'm often at loss telling stories, singing songs and answering questions. I would then yell out 'Off we go to Dreamland'.

Now, the question is where is Dreamland. Is it anywhere near Deutschland? Or is it near India? Is it near the equator? Is it always sunny there?

No! Dreamland is not a country. You won't be able to locate it on the globe. Its simply the place little children and their tired mothers go to, when they fall asleep. Its a beautiful, beautiful place with green meadows, rainbows and trees. There are flowers everywhere, roses, jasmine, tulips and daisies, the whole place is covered with flowers and there are fruits in every tree. Birds sing the songs of the spring and the leaves dance to the effervescence of the sweet, fragrant breeze.....

"Stop, stop...Did you say there are birds.." Navneeth asked sitting up. He looked at me sceptically.
"Yes, These birds sing songs too."
"Angry birds..?"
"No, Not angry birds. Regular, friendlier birds.."
"But, why can't angry birds come there too."
"No one can ever be angry in Dreamland."
"But I want angry birds in my Dreamland. I want them to eat those fruits.."
"Hmm..Ok. As long as they're not messing around with their sling-shots."

Children run around everywhere, plucking flowers, eating fruits and chasing after squirrels......

"Are there shops in Dreamland? How do I buy toys. I want toy shops and candy shops and houses with toilets."
"Ok, you can go to your Dreamland and I'll go to mine."
"Mine is better than yours. Mine has Angry birds!"
"I'm fine with no Angry birds."
"Amme.. You can come into mine, if you want to.. There are shops."
"I don't want shops."
"But I don't want to be alone, will you come into mine..?"


I'm sitting here with my German course book worrying about unpronounceable words and incomprehensible Grammatika. Its almost midnight here and I have a test tomorrow.
I find myself clinging to the thoughts of Dreamland, where anything is possible.

Don't we all have our own Dreamland, our own refuge from crazy reality? And don't we all wish to have someone to share our dreams?

This chilly winter night surrounds me with a dreamy silence, in moments like this I think I can almost merge dreams and reality!

Happy thoughts and Smiles!

The silence is lovely, but I would let this beautiful song to break it.

This is my 100'th post.. :-)


 

Who am I ? What am I?

 Since I left my job, since I stopped preparing for job interviews, such questions and their answers had disappeared from the horizons. Last week, they came back to my life, in another language.

First thing they teach you in a language class, is to introduce yourself, your name, profession, age, family status, hobbies etc..
I wondered if I should say that I'm a homemaker, just that.

But the fact is, I could not! First of all, I didn't know the German word for homemaker.
Secondly I couldn't bring myself to admit that I'm just a homemaker. So I answered that I'm an engineer by profession.

Ich bin ingineerin von beroof.

I've been trying to tackle the ego, when I meet people I try not to advertise that I once had a well paid job. But deep inside, I'm still insecure, there's always this struggle to  not to be labelled a housewife.
Why? Sometimes even I wonder. Why shouldn't I just say that I'm a housewife and be happy about it? Why do I still say that I left my job to take care of son?
I guess ego is not an easy thing to burst off!

I'm still trying to figure out the real answers of those question..




 

I remember watching the movie Dosti a long time ago. Dosti is actually a saga of friendship between two teenagers.

I watched it again last week, after a couple of decades, as I'm obsessed with its songs, now my polluted mind wonders what its really about.

But the film will eternally be remembered for its songs. I guess I have already shared most of its songs, I actually don't know which one I like most.

Here's another

 

 

The lyrics, kind of, makes me want to cry!

 

 

chupa hua sa mujchi mein, hain tum kahi, eh dost,

 

meri hasin mein nahi to meri aah mein hain!

 



 

ich bin traurig...

:-(

 

This German class is taking the life out of me :(
How difficult it is to learn a new language.. Especially when you are not 'striving for knowledge' anymore.

Thank you to those who reviewed Unravelled. I would have considered an alternate ending, had anyone given me some good suggestions!

Of course, I rejected the master plan to make it depressing and thought provoking.

But I guess I basically tried to convey this message.
Let go of past. Don't give up on people you cared about. They would always find a way to come back to you!


 

The Unravelled is available as an e-book here.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/393521

I request all privileged readers of this blog to review it at smashwords site.  Its ok even if you do it under a fake name.

You can be honest. At least that way I would get to know what you think about it.

From the pensieve 5

I opened my window and stared at the eerie darkness of a sultry summer night. It was the October of 2003, but as everybody knows, Chennai has four summers.

He was sound asleep. A sudden suffocation had woken me up. I had stared helplessly at the ceiling fan for quite some time before getting up to open the windows.

I had recently got married and moved to the new city. We had fought quite a few battles at home past few years just for this. Everything was going to fall into place when we finally get married. I was going to manage everything 'perfectly'. Everything was going to be just perfect.
Actually it was perfect in a way, my in laws treated me alright , somehow I hadn't expected that, we did get a comfortable 2 bedroom apartment in Chennai, and I did manage to get a job in the company where my husband worked.

But my body was behaving mysteriously. I had lived a perfectly healthy 24 years before moving to Chennai, but as soon as I stepped into the new life, I started having health issues I never had before. I ached, shivered, coughed and bled in ways unknown to me until then. The doctor had to put me under some strong medication and I had gained a lot of weight because of that. Being overweight was something I had never foreseen in my pre-marriage life. I had to fold a cupboard full of clothes and set them aside for some indefinite time in the future when I would I lose all the weight.

My husband, young and clueless himself, had no idea how to cheer me up.  He bought sweet boxes almost everyday, he knew that I was an incurable sweet-tooth. He tried to overlook the fact that I was overweight. Anyways, I wouldn't join a gym or go jogging with him, my body actually refused to move unnecessarily.

I was typically a child-woman, I would get excited for small things and feel bad for almost everything. With my cooking experiments, I had burnt many vessels and the pressure cooker had to replaced twice. I was yet to master the art of cooking, the art of planning, the art of not throwing half the vegetables I bought.

Still, our flimsy young brains planned out future. The first thing we had to do was to buy a house! Why? I would like to ask my 24 year old self, and she would probably say that that's what you do when you are married. We would go and see apartments every week, we would work out the EMI and stare desperately at the sky!

Staring at the sky! yes! That was what I was doing that night, though the giant apartment buildings on the other side obstructed the supreme limitlessness of it.

 I took deep breaths, I pressed my face on the grill and felt the heartless coldness of the metal. My eyes desperately, searched the sky for a lonely star.

I felt strange, like I was part of something big, something I could not understand. I felt like I was in a song, trapped eternally in its nuances, looking for my way out through the notes. I felt like this was what I had been doing all my life, staring into the night sky, gazing at a star. Or perhaps my whole life was channelled for this moment. I had to wake up with cold sweats and open the window and stare at the sky. And strangely I felt that my life was going to change. It was going to change forever, though I had no idea how.

I believed in signs, undeniably so! Was my body, with its aches and pains, trying to tell me something? Was something going to happen to me? What ever it was I was going to succumb to it. I made a mental note to tell my husband that he should remarry if I die.

I had no control over it, what ever it was.  And with that knowledge I felt completely at peace. I was part of a plan!

We do sometimes misinterpret signs. And of course I didn't die. But I often find myself going back to that sultry Chennai night, and wonder what it was all about. I Try to trace out the origins of that strange, volatile feeling.

This hopelessness that some of us feel at the beginning of the year could also be a volatile thing. May be things would start falling into place right from this day!

Happy New Year!