A2 exams next week. :(
Thursday, October 23, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, October 13, 2014
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..
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..
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