Come September

It is the beginning of the brief autumn that Delhi gets to see. The month brings together heat and cool breeze and your body wouldn’t know whether it should perspire or feel the chill. The leaves fall. Red, brown and yellow. The days begin to shorten. Evening walks end in the dark. Nights are cool. Even coffee tastes better.
I love September.

I stood in the church lawn eager to just go back home now that the Holy Mass was over. A girl comes over and starts chatting. Before I knew it, she took me over to meet her other friends. And just like that, I got into an association that made me most of what I am, today. Countless Sundays of music, fun, friendships, growing pains, and blossoming adulthood...
I love September.

Sitting in front of the computer screen, I realised that I don’t feel the same about him anymore. I wanted to run back to college and tell my pal that. I felt my skin tingle with excitement. Delhi was drenching herself in an unexpected shower. I ran in the rain to let him know that I was in love. First love.
I love September.

Chennai Central must be always this crowded, I mused, while I scanned faces for a friend. In a few minutes time, I would be meeting my father face-to-face. He had been to hell and back, and I was not sure how we would react when we meet. Soon enough, when my friend took me to my father, I ran to him, dropped luggage on the stairs, hugged him tight, not wanting to let go. My father got a new life that month.
I love September.

Close to midnight and I stood washing the last pieces of crockery used. All the other lights were out. A neighbour stood in his balcony, smoking. The night patrol team made their presence known. It was a new house. Slowly transforming into a home for me. What was just a set of empty rooms that echoed whatever I said, had now become a furnished hearth, waiting for my parents to come home to. Next September, probably.
I love September.

And what happened this September?
The brief Delhi autumn began again. The heat and cool breeze and your body wouldn’t know whether it should perspire or feel the chill. The leaves fall. Red, brown and yellow. The days shorten. Evening walks in the dark. Cool nights. Better coffee.

I simply love September.

My Lost Song

Five-year-olds can be tortuous, at times. If they set their hearts on something, they can wail until they finally get it. I was one such kid. She would sing the song to me when I was inconsolable. She would soothe me with the song. Strains of which managed to elude me for many years afterwards. A language that was alien to me, then. The lyrics that did not make much sense to me. But it did calm me.

Years later, when, one hot April afternoon I first saw my ten-month-old niece, she whimpered. I took her in my arms and held her close to me. Out of instinct, I began humming a song for her. The long forgotten song came alive once more. As I sat down and made her lie against my body, and as I struggled with the long-forgotten lyrics, I remembered her.

Sometimes, all it takes is a strain of a lost song to rush back a lifetime for you.
All that we have dismissed to have forgotten are never lost forever.

*I am deeply grateful to Jo’s songs for giving my song back, today.

A Thousand Odd Words...

The boarding school was not a place I had spent particularly happy times. But rather, it was like being sent to some frugal camp with minimalist lifestyle and rules. Even then, since it had formed a part of my past, part of what I am, those years remain close to my heart. I have tried to write about this time period, many a times. But I have not been able to bring out everything I want to say, in the right light. Failed attempts crumpled and tossed into the bin. This is yet another attempt…

It was a time when the whole world was watching out for what Saddam Hussein and Bush Sr. were upto. While all that filled pages and pages of newsprint for most of us, there was a whole generation of children who were uprooted from the comforts of their rented Kuwaiti apartments and replanted in boarding schools all over Kerala. While the parents were frantically trying to regain all that they had lost, trying to put back their lives and their families together, their children continued to live their schooldays in an environment they were only familiar with, thanks to the three-month annual vacations they used to spend in Kerala.

When things began to look up, my parents left Kerala for Kuwait, to resume their old jobs. My siblings and I were admitted to a boarding school. After pulling out our three green trunks, and after making the three of us comfortable in the guest room, my father left in the taxi, waving to us. We did not realise that we wont be seeing him for a long time now. The green trunks and rolled beddings waited, like unopened Christmas gifts.

That first night, my brother and sister wore their milky-white pyjamas before going to bed. The other children found this ritual amusing and soon enough, Deepthi and Pradeep were christened ‘Priyanka and Rahul Gandhi’. I was left alone, for I just wore an uninteresting printed dress. Slowly, life at the boarding school began to unfurl…

There were those early morning brushing sessions. We stood in a row in front of a line of white sinks. All of us had white foam adorning our mouths, with different coloured toothbrushes sticking out of them… It appeared as though we stuffed white candyfloss on colourful sticks, into our mouths hurriedly. The sun was still not up. I could hear the early morning chanting and hymns from a temple not so far off. I could see the streetlights that worked were still switched on.

There were the Holy Masses to attend. Service began at 5.30 am. We paraded to the chapel in two columns of silence. Except for the patter of slippers and the rustle of the shawls we used to cover our heads with, while inside the chapel. The nuns dominated the entire service, with minimum participation from the sleepy children. Except for the altar boys, none of the other children were expected to move from their positions. Our boarding school barely had any boy students. This situation forced 5-year-old Pradeep to become an altar boy. Not knowing what he is doing up awake before the cock crows, my kid brother grumbled standing next to the priest, joining his palms in supposed prayer. Once he fell asleep in the middle of the service and a nun escorted him out of the chapel, back to his unmade, still warm bed. Of course, he was the source of envy for many of us, that day. Pradeep slept till 8am that day. Lucky bugger.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner, like in all other similar institutions, were unforgettable, if you have tasted it once. But then, it would be a lie if I said that there nothing that I liked about the food we got. There were some varieties of watery lentils that I had begun to really like. There were papery rotis that we looked forward to on Thursdays. There was some concoction of jaggery, coconut and pulses that I really liked. Years later, when the kitchen didn’t seem like a hostile territory to me, I have tried to re-create these above mentioned ‘delicacies’ but I have never succeeded in the endeavour.

There were those sunny April Saturday afternoons. While many napped, there were a few who sat on their beds and talking in whispers, lest they disturbed the others. I never felt sleepy during that time of the day. We were free to sit in the study room. There was a rusty old radio that functioned pretty well. But there was only one radio station that ran on it. The tuning button had come off a few years back. And so, the entire batch of boarders listened to just that station… It aired beautiful melancholy Malayalam songs. Sometimes, even sad songs make you happy. I can’t explain the feeling, but that is how it is. I never tried to understand the depth of the lyrics, in those days. I tried to guess the story behind the song from the singer’s voice, wondering if they were lamentations of loss, or if they were celebrations of blossoming love. I sat and watched the world go by, the busy road just in front of our building. Two automobile workshops, one grocery store, puttering auto rickshaws, wheezy buses, distant strains of yet another loud radio playing the same song that I was listening to, sitting here on this sad windowsill.

There were those secret letter-writing sessions during study time, all of them to Pa and Ma. There was the collection of coloured glass pieces and over-licked postage stamps. We had our playtime every evening. It involved group games in the lawns outside. The red earth and our dusty limbs created collages of footprints of various sizes while we ran about playing ‘I Spy’ and ‘Dog and the Bone’. Sometimes, Pradeep and Deepthi were deemed too little to join in these ‘grown-up’ games. When the bigger children made this decision, I (now, I realise with a lot of guilt… it was probably peer pressure) never did anything to defend them. They would silently disappear from the playground. I played for precisely three minutes and left the scene, in search of the rejected, dejected two. Away, in another corner, amid flowering potted plants sat Deepthi and Pradeep. They were talking amongst themselves, but there seemed to be someone else along with them, and they were accommodating him in their game. I moved in closer to see what exactly they were doing. The fragrant whiff of talcum powder caught the attention of my olfactory system. ‘Cuticura or Yardley?’ The two of them were busy applying talcum powder on this new playmate. They had befriended the old garden gnome! The green ceramic friend stood absolutely still with the carved smile and the stone beard. Deepthi sat on the right and Pradeep on the left of the statue. They were chattering away, having totally forgotten about the rejection that took place minutes ago… I was looking at innocence at its best.

There was the night when Pradeep woke up in the middle of the night bawling for Ma. The two sisters sat up helplessly. We made him sleep in the middle after pulling our cots closer together. The night dragged by. The dorm was pitch dark. The tubelight in the corridor marked its presence, piercing the black... My eyes drooped, dragging me back to sleep. Pradeep’s podgy fingers linked with mine.

There was that day when a lady jumped into the school well. We woke up to a huge commotion in the lawn. The senior girls spoke of a lady who, along with her baby, came to the school compound, removed the metal mesh cover of the school well, and plunged to her death. Huge motors pumped out water from the well to retrieve the bodies. I could not eat that day. Images of a bloated woman kept coming to my mind. That night, I was proud that I was not afraid of ghosts. A strange thought, come to think of it.

There were unkempt roomies and unforgettable friends. There were laundry weekends and community baths. There was the evident rich-poor divide in the sweets kids brought from their homes. There was the collection of coloured glass pieces and over-licked postage stamps. Banana chips dipped in mango pickle...

When I left the place as a schoolgirl, I had some images etched in my mind. The dorm, the corridors, the study room, the chapel, the washing areas, the lawn, the Mango tree, and many more things… Years later, when I went there, I went in search of these very things. But expecting these things to remain the same was a big mistake. The road outside the boarding building got busier. I could see a new bakery nearby. There were girls in the school uniform, sitting there (“hanging out”) and having pastries. They cut the Mango tree a few years ago. The playground had been tarred. The assembly hall looked different. Everything looked different. Everything felt different. No one stopped me as I walked out of the school gates. I had become just another face in the world outside.

I've Been TAGGED!

My friends are playing Tag-Tag. One of them tagged me. Now I am supposed to write a short story (of sorts). The shorter, the better. I did it in 58 words. Here it is:

Lonesome afternoons spent on a sad little windowsill looking out at the busy world go by. Rosary hours and the 5.30 am Masses. The good nuns and bad ones. Unkempt roomies and unforgettable friends. Secret letter-writing sessions during study time. The collection of coloured glass pieces and over-licked postage stamps. A life that is fourteen years away, now.

More on this piece later...

THE HIGHWAYMAN

This is the only poem that moved me to tears when someone recited it back in school... It is one of my favourites -- The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes.

PART ONE

I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon clondy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard,a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

* * *
For all those hours spent in United Indian School with many unforgettable people.
I love you all, Rulers..

31st March 2004 Entry

I Love.
I am in Love.
I remain in Love.
I will always Love.
I want to be Love.

Love Note

We sat in the bus stop. We weren’t waiting for any bus in particular. It seemed like a nice place to sit. That was it. He was animatedly talking about something that happened during his training days. I was half listening and was silently hoping that this moment would never end. I don’t remember what our conversation was like. What I do remember is this: He was wearing a warm jacket with a nice hood to cover his head. He never used it, though. The collar was pulled up like a rebellious teen. His shiny hair tumbled from the parting on the right side. The intriguing scar on his left cheek captured shadows from the winter sun. His playful eyes were in the throes of making a really interesting conversation. Narrating an incident that took place long back…

It was cold and I slipped my hands into his pocket, cursing ladies sweaters without pockets. What use are those? We linked our fingers and stood in the bus stop. With me listening to his incessant chatter. It normally is the other way round. I talk he listens. His warm hands held mine just like they used to, ever since I can remember. The gap of years between us never stopped us from being close friends. It was a friendship that sprung and flourished with time. It is a friendship I wouldn’t trade for anything else in this world.

I must be exceptionally lucky to have a brother like him. People often say that it’s a pity we can’t choose our family. I beg to differ.

I love you, Chettan. I cherish you.

Memoirs from Mom's

My uncle’s body glistened with sweat and sun. He was squeezing the water content out of raw rubber sheets. It’s an elaborate process, this rubber making.

Achaachan collects the sap that trickles out of the rubber tree. Small furrows are shaved into this soft-wooded tree to stream out the milky substance. This is collected in coconut shells that are fastened onto the tree. The collected sap is then poured out into Aluminium dishes. Diluted acid is poured into this to allow coagulation. The mixture is allowed to stand overnight. The next day, we kids inspect the dishes before Achaachan does. It looks like a huge piece of rectangular-shaped cheese, with water collected on top of it. Achaachan never allowed us to touch the rubber until he had washed them with water. He used huge squeezers to take out the last bit of water from these rectangular pieces of rubber. While squeezing, it is flattened out into huge white sheets that are then dried in the sun. The yellowed sheets are then packed off to the market. We never knew what became of it, after that. This was just one of the mysteries about my Achaachan’s profession.

There were others too. He had a plantation of Cocoa plants. The fruit, when pried open, would reveal stony seeds encased in fleshy white pulp. Achaachan passed on the fleshy white to us. It tasted sweet and together, with four of my cousins, we cleaned out a whole basket full of them! As we kids lay on the grass, we wondered about how this tropical fruits transformed into the cosmopolitan chocolates we gorged.

What a name we call him… Achaachan, I thought. He is my mother’s elder brother. She would ideally be the one who calls him “Achaachan”, which means ‘elder brother’ in those parts of Kerala. We grew up hearing her address this huge man Achaachan, and so the naming convention was tweaked and the word stuck. Wonder if they ever squabbled as kids.

One of them raced uphill. He yelled something about meeting under the Tamarind tree (kudam puli). We city folks puffed and panted all the way up to meet him. There he sat, feasting on a bright orange fruit. It looked like an orange that had just been peeled. The juice from the fruit escaped from the corner of him mouth and landed on his pristine shirt. I looked on with water filling in my mouth. I imagined the yellow fruit to have a pulpy sweet taste. At least that is what I thought it would be, from the expression the boy wore. I dislike tangy flavoured fruits. This, I soon figured out, was one of them. With a grimace, I walked further uphill. We were not allowed to go any further without the grown-ups. There were the ruins of an old house out there.

The soft muddy floor felt glorious beneath my bare feet. If you took the efforts, you could actually drive hard twigs into the floor. So soft, this was. The gaps on the dilapidated roof reminded me of my own mouth, with some of my milk teeth missing. You could see the sky through the roof. Cool! I ventured into one of the darker areas of the house that was. I did have some not so old memories of spending a vacation fortnight in this house. I remembered sitting in the porch that was, and staring at my grandfather’s shiny hairless head. We have sat together, him piously perched on the slab, while I dangled and swung my short legs. Drinking sweet water from tender coconuts. He rarely spoke. Sometimes, he would tie a homemade swing for me and motion me to go have fun… Funny how many memories you can stash away in the back of your head, for ages. And then, one fine day, after fifteen to twenty years, it all comes flooding back to you.

My mother called him ‘Appan’ (Father, in Malayalam). We also called him the same, not aware of the meaning of the word, in the beginning. Later on, just like Achaachan, the name stuck. For us, these Malayalam terms functioned like sweet sounding first names. I don’t remember many things about Appan. Like, I don’t know the exact date when he died. I just know that it was in April 1991. His lips looked so alive and pink that day. I don’t remember the stories he must have told me. But I do remember his chequered blue lungi. I remember the endless moments I spent sitting with him under the Badam tree, watching autumned leaves fall. I remember him descending into the family well to clean it. I remember how, even till the end, he preferred an icy cold bath. I remember how his daughter—my mother—would sit and discuss old distant relatives. Most of all, I remember the distinct smell he and everything he owned, had.

As is usual, such entries will always remain incomplete. I am never too sure how to end them.

Snippets - I

Pa caught hold of me online and gently dropped the idea into my head. Now, it simply isn’t going away. He said that we could spend this Onam in Kerala. Now, I fail to recollect everything that had rushed into my mind when he mentioned the word “Kerala”. But, some of the thoughts have managed to linger on.

~~~
The earliest distinct memory about Kerala, for me, is the airport in Cochin. There would be the sudden sticky feeling all over my body as soon as we stepped out of the aircraft. The result of air-conditioning inside the aircraft and the humidity outside. The harsh raindrops on me, like a tired girl plopping on a settee at the end of the day. Roaring giant machines, flags waving, and the uniformed personnel. Then there was the endless queue at the counters and Pa filling forms and Ma taking care of the baggage and us. We children were impatient because we knew somewhere in the premises of this airport, there stood a couple of men who bore striking resemblance to my father—his brothers. The trip home in an ancient yet sturdy Ambassador, with we three kids struggling for the window seats. Windows ensured wetting your face in the rain and also lapping up the green that sped by. However, all hopes were thwarted when the driver, in white mundu and white shirt, would wrap our luggage with waterproof canvas and then would tightly shut all the windows, except his.
~~~

Ma’s house is very far from Pa’s. It takes a little more than five hours by road, to get there. We would leave from Thrissur after breakfast. The same white-clad driver would be there. The drive was uncomfortable for some of us, especially because we were squished together with the luggage in the backseat, while my podgy brother royally sat with Pa and the driver. I envied the front view he got from his seat. The car went past brilliant green paddy fields with tender saplings in waterlogged squares of earth. It was as though God was trying to make a green patchwork quilt. The tassels of this quilt were made out of the tall coconut and areacanut trees. These trees had white and yellow painted strips across their barks. Ma never knew the explanation for this mystery. The car stereo belted out the latest Malayalam songs with Pa singing along, in spite of hearing them for the first time. I squabbled with my sister for something or the other until Ma would intervene and draw comparisons about how well behaved the little boy in the front seat was. My brother would preen with pride for a second or two, before returning back to picking his nose, silently.

I liked to gaze into the ochre-coloured water that made puddles in collaboration with potholes on the road. This view was best observed when the car was stopped for refuelling, or for a break. If we were at a filling station, the muddy puddle would have a shiny layer of oil that could trap all the colours of the rainbow. I would drop a piece of paper, or spit into it when Ma wasn’t looking, to form the ripples in the tiny brown lake.
“Pataambi-Manchery-Areacode-Mukkam!” Ma declared.
“What’s that?”
“That’s how I can reach home from your Pa’s!”
To me, Ma looked like a child for just that one second.
~~~

Twilight. We have completed a fortnight in Ma’s home. In spite of living a fairly modernized life, my mother’s family still follow quite a few routines that are more apt for times when there was no electricity in the region. It was only 7pm and the early dark had just begun to enclose the front yard. Dinner preparations were well on the way and the television was switched off. The day got over by 8.30 out here. I don’t remember a time when it has never rained while I have stayed at Ma’s place. Rains in the hilly region are heavy. It can sometimes present a scary sight to a child. The trees sway violently and the water drops fall with some unknown vengeance. And when the rain finally stops, countless tiny winged insects fly towards the light bulb that glowered beneath the picture of the Last Supper. The lizards followed suit in search of the multitudes of insects that had gathered. The open porch was wet with rivulets of rainwater draining off into the lawn. Our dog, Jimmy, dozed in the only dry spot. My brother was meddling with its tail.

“Monae, athu kadikkum!” (Roughly translated as: It’s gonna bite you)
“No Ma. He is my pet. Pets don’t bite!”
“Come inside and wash your hands with soap. Do you know what is for dinner? Kappa!”
Fresh yam mashed and served with meat… He salivated. The dog was left alone and the boy pleased his mother.

I was not interested to have dinner, I informed them. I was taking revenge for not giving me extra attention. That day, I remember, I was sulking about not having a special pet name like my friends. I said I was glad that Pa would be coming tomorrow to take us back to Thrissur where our other cousins awaited.
~~~

M*U*S*H

The afternoons used to be unbearable with the blazing summer sun and the continual heat wave. She always felt an unquenchable thirst and to douse the parched feeling, she would consume watermelons and chilled litchees. She would rub ice on her face and stand in front of the desert cooler. Juices and curds. Lassi and Thandai. Books and Scrabble. Summer and more summer. She wondered when this heat would end. The listless afternoons when she would try to stand next to the window to steal a look into the streets. The roads would be deserted save a stray dog. The shady base of a tree looked the least inviting during this time of the day, for you already knew how hot it would be beneath the tree that gnarled in the intense heat. Loo. The livid winds that raged the land during summer. What angered it, she wouldn’t know. All she knew was how the Loo could dry up the last drop of fluid in her body. Her skin burned to a deep brown. Coarse hair flew about. Eyes squinted. Feet apart. Just why would people think of living here, in such extreme heat? She couldn’t take it any longer. She closed the heavy drapes in a futile bid to cool the room. She slumped on the couch absently staring at an old magazine laying a hand’s grasp away. But she didn’t bother to tug the magazine any closer; instead she squinted to read the fine print from the distance. Body contact with yet another thing in this room seemed unthinkable to her. The heat. She stretched her neck to face the ceiling. The ceiling fan played with light and shadow, twirling with a slight hum. More of humming and less of cooling, she mused. When she woke up, she realised that the roomy was stuffy. She felt claustrophobic. The ceiling and walls seemed to close in on her. And the feeling just got stronger. She left the couch to switch on the radio. The mindless chatter of the radio jockey did not alleviate the problem. Alone. She always hated the feeling of being alone. It only went on to become worse with the death that took place. Her routine had to change drastically because of the loss of one dear person. And now, there were longer periods of time when she had to remain alone. How long was that nap? There was a rain song playing. She turned the volume louder. That’s much better. She looked outside the window and what met her eyes made her lips curl into a smile. Earth. Water on earth. It was raining. She rejoiced silently. It rained on her. All over. Inside out. Green all over. Wounds washed out. Half-drooped memories came alive. Life flaunted itself in her face.
* * *
Dusk settled all over the area. The air was cool, but heavy. With moisture, cool, or thoughts, she wouldn’t know for sure. It was quiet inside the car. Peaceful. She got time to analyse the events that took place in the past few weeks. Someone drove the car. She didn’t care who it was. She didn’t have the energy to prode into that person’s affairs. She had her own matters to take care of. Love songs played in the backdrop. She wasn’t intently listening to them, but the beautiful musical strains were soothing her nerves. As in therapy, her body muscles began to relax and she began to unwind. This moment is for me, she thought, while readjusting herself on the seat and rolling down the windows. The wind played with her hair, driving the strands away from her visage. She saw the road unwinding in front of her. This moment was beautiful. She just wished the drive wouldn’t end. The male baritone flirted with the flute in the background. There was a melancholy strain in the song. Was he pining for someone? The bass guitar thudded like his sad little heart, rhythmic and soulful. Unconsciously, her fingers were tapping along with the percussion instrument. She became aware of a pair of eyes from the rear view mirror smiling enviously at her peaceful state of mind. This wouldn’t have happened if he had seen me a few months ago. Depression can become treacherous to come out from, intact. Six months ago, she never imagined that she would come out alive of the mess she was hurled into. Six months ago, to smile was a pronounced effort. Six months ago, she thought she would never live to see this day. Bags packed, books stacked, she took off. For a change. Now, as the car sped towards the end of road that never would end, she realised she had survived after all. With newfound wisdom showing in her eyes, she had changed a lot. Every move of hers reeked of determination and strength. Wisps of her jet-black hair disobeyed her and tried to escape out of the window. The breeze felt good on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and drifted off. This time tomorrow, I will be there.

[17th and 24th June]

The Fourth of June

My birthday was pretty nice.

I mean, if I did have to spent my 18th b'day like that, I would have drenched myself in self-pity and cried and hollered. But for a 24-year-old, it was ideal.

The "bash" began with my cousins lifting me off the couch at midnight (I was trying to sleep) and putting me in front of my birthday cake. There were four candles and my sis pitched in to say that they were counting my mental age and not biological... anything to make me look younger suits me fine!!

The "cake consuming ceremony" was cut short when my six-month-old nephew woke up and started crying. We retired to bed and fell asleep... well almost all of us! I was up all night with the 'Happy Birthday' greetings... and what all means to wish me so!!

There were the conventional... 'HAPPY BUDDAY! So, whatchoo doing??'.. this, at three in the morning, is not a great question to answer. There were the slightly bold ones who SANG the song for me (Mummy!) and there were the ones who apologized for not coming over. It seems that they were planning this 'GRAND BASH FOR PRITZ' but somehow things didn't work out... oh well! The silent SMS varieties beeped all night and me, being a compulsive SMSer with a sore thumb, replied to all of them individually (no 'reply all' for me! Oh no!)

Dawn.... no, actually, 9:00 am. I rolled off the couch and made myself presentable, in spite of wanting to lounge around in my PJs. (Who knows who will drop in?! Brad Pitt... I waited for you.)

The phone continued to ring and ring and ring. I continued thanking them all and laughing and smiling and asking about them and them asking about my day and... you know the grind! We never tire of it, do we?

My Rakhi brother presented himself in front of my door, complete with a cake, flowers and five of my pals!! To think he would do that! They made me cut the cake, they sang for me, they smeared that divine cake on my face, they clicked me with my new-found face pack. We sat around for a while and the fellows drifted off one by one.

I got a couple of books and some clothing apparels as gifts from my folks. Some flowers and birthday cards... nice! The rest of the day was spent planning what should be done when the June sun goes down. We planned out a picnic, we planned out a shopping spree, we planned out a movie. And when all the plans were made, we sat down to play cards. All the male members in my extended family and the current batch of females love to play cards. We were glued to the game till late evening. The plans were all stalled. We only took occasional breaks to feast on juicy yummy litchees and some more cakes, and of course to attend more and more phone calls!

... So you see, I wasn't partying the day away in a disc or a pub. I didn't watch a movie or hang out in the malls. I didn't go para gliding or hiking, and I would have felt miserable if I were 18. But, at 24, a day to kick back and play cards meant heaven came down to Deliriously Scorching Delhi.

I Love my Life... It's Beautiful!

Gaurav's Story

I knew Gaurav from my time in Carmel School. Curly-haired Gaurav and I used to travel in the same school bus to Salwa. My younger sister was in LKG or so. I must have been in 2nd or 3rd. Anyway, Gaurav and another naughty naughty classmate of his (one Sunil) used to sit along with us. They were the big boys from FOURTH standard... :-)

I can't remember the details of the kind of pranks they used to pull on us, but my sister would almost always end up in tears, and Gaurav would make her sit on his lap to make her stop crying lest the bus leader (A pretty 12th std girl called Olinda, who later on went on to work in KTV2) caught him! Gaurav has a younger sister who was a toddler back then. We could see the girl playing in their balcony while he boarded the bus. Chubby-cheeked and curly-haired, a sight straight out of our poetry reader books!

Years later, I was sitting in class 6-B, UIS when I thought I saw someone like what Gaurav would look like if he were 12. Our eyes met when he walked into his class (Seventh), I smiled but he didn't recognize me. We never spoke after the invasion. I have watched him run for the Blue house and cheered him on. Somehow, I never went out of my way to say "Hey! Remember me?"

This is just one of the memories I feel sad about being the only one to remember. I often come up with such situations in Life, where others don't remember these small things, while I do! Sometimes, I almost doubt my imagination! You know, what if all this is just a figment of my imagination?! Then.... I am truly in the right profession!

----------
This is an excerpt from an email to a group of pals.

Indian Book Store

This is an excerpt from a mail I wrote recently. Seemed like a good read --
--------
I must admit it was a fantastic read. The nine pages went by without as much as a hiccup! I especially loved the innovative use of words. (‘chutnified’ being just one of them!) I will confine my opinions to the books I have read because I don’t think I can truthfully comment on the books I haven’t read.

Something that Arundhati Roy said is so true – the fact about Indian writers who stay abroad and write about the on-goings in India… but there is a certain amount of nostalgia smeared in their works. Like Rohinton Mistry – he is my favourite Indian Author. I relish his writings. Sometimes, I feel his words just ache with nostalgia. He fully exploits his Bombay Parsi background and makes sure that time freezes in the 70’s and 80’s.

I have this English teacher from school days. He introduced me to R Mistry’s books. And I can’t thank him enough to this day. He also coaxed me to read Vikram Seth… but I am strictly a ‘prose-person’. Years later, he also recommended Life of Pi. I read the book during a train journey to Chennai. That one hovered between reality and hallucinations – kind of scared me off, but loved it anyway.

Our Indian school curriculum has, thankfully, given some credit to Anita Desai and R.K Narayan. I have read their writings in school, at first for the marks, and later, for pleasure. In fact, the last book before I took up City of Djinns, was Guide. I loved his stories about Swami and his friends. It reminded me that life in rural India hasn’t really changed from during the 40’s and the 90’s. During the Gulf War, we (my family) relocated and lived in Kerala for a while. Most of the things Swami did while growing up really sounded like our escapades, as children.

Children – that brings me to the beautifully sad tale, The God of Small Things. I am forced to dedicate a separate paragraph for this work of art. I have read the book thrice. At first: to understand the story, second: to savour the language, third: to understand Arundhati Roy. She wrote as though there will never be another chance to write ever again. I think she has completely exhausted herself while writing this book. I had an added advantage –I did not have to turn the page back to the explanatory passages to understand the Malayalam terms and Keralite lifestyle. She has captured the turmoil in political Kerala like few others… I have heard of those tumultuous days from the elders in my family. Now, like in Roy’s case, most of them have left Kerala for, ironically, greener pastures.

I have read Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. It was a little difficult for me to swallow, but I liked it nevertheless. But I somehow did not like Hari Kunzru’s Transmission! Nothing compels me to try out The Impressionist either.

I wish I could end this page with some profound words from Mistry – but I can’t remember any that fits here.

Hole in One

Human Shaped Hole in the Universe.
The answer I found,
for the ever-intriguing question, 'Who Am I?'...

Mood of the Day : Profound and Thoughtful

splutter mutter

Sometimes, life is like a sitcom. There is a set story even before the day begins. The characters are properly sketched out and well in place. The story just unfurls with a series of unfortunate, yet happily ending incidents. Nothing, however, deviates far from the main story. There is wit and humour in everything you experience, if only you take a closer look at the ongoings in Life. The bigger picture is somehow always pleasant, even though there must have been immediate disasters. In spite of the humour in everyone, no one is as shallow as they pretend to be to others.

Sometimes, I wonder which is worse—posing as a writer and not really doing justice to the title, or trying your best to churn out something, and all that comes out is a story that has a psychotic character as the protagonist. Of course, once you have the protagonist, you believe that everything has just fallen into place. But you are soon proven wrong. You realise, with pain, that there has to be a story if your book has to sell.

I am sure this is how great books must have evolved. Something in the lines of H2G2 must have developed on a frustrating day when your agent is hollering the deadline at you and nothing new is coming into your head. You decide to make good use of whatever you have – which is not much, really.

The book I am currently working on, at the moment is pathetic. OK. I will be kind. It is almost hitting the pits. Oh! Can’t think of anything brilliant to publish out here, at the moment. I will just sit back and snoop around. I will read what other people have written! Four new books are waiting to be read.

Over and Out.

Travel (b)log

I was cleaning up some of the folders files I stored in this machine during different moments of certains moods. came across soem interesting finds. About a journey of a different kind.

Allons! whoever you are, come travel with me!

Traveling with me, you find what never tires.

The earth never tires;

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first—Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first;

Be not discouraged—keep on—there are divine things, well envelop’d;

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here!

However sweet these laid-up stores—however convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here;

However shelter’d this port, and however calm these waters, we must not anchor here;

However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well...

Walt Whitman, The Song of the Open Road

Less hasty am I than the wind, yet I must go.

We Wanderers, ever seeking the lonlier way,

begin no day where we have ended another day;

and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.

Even while the Earth sleeps, we travel.

Khalil Gibran

Parlez Vous Francais?

The room was comfortably cool. Not too hot, not too cold. The windows would have let in a lot of sunshine, if it weren't for the dark chart papers that blacked them out. The furniture was clean and minimal. Desks and chairs that can accommodate a maximum of 40 students. A few charts adorned the freshly painted walls. There was a bookshelf which was always empty except for the chalk dust. This was Class IX-C. The students, in the precarious know-it-all age of 14, were a balanced mix of boys and girls. The Bright and the Not-So-Bright. The Serious Sams and the Naughty Nicks. The class was a perfect mix.

The class teacher of IX-C called his class the 'Crème de la Crème'. They silently agreed to the nomenclature and resorted to their own ways of calling themselves. Naming teachers was not a difficult task. But most students made a tacit agreement to NOT name this one. Let him remain as 'Sir', they gulped the fear that was swelling in their throats. An introduction with this teacher in school was not something that was essential. Word-of-Mouth messages always work dedicatedly. 'Stories' about this teacher had already made an impact. From the very first day he came into the class, we all knew it was going to be a long, long, long year.

We were making the normal classroom noise when he walked in. As quiet as a mouse, he walked in. A tall and lanky man. A not-so-young, not-so-old person. Sharp features and blackened hair. His features got even more sharper if you get a glimpse of his profile silhouette against the shiny windows. This is how I remember him today - as a black-silhouetted profile of a man who was around six feet in height. He was definitely six feet, I had concluded, because he was 'taller than my tallest cousin brother'. Crisp shirts and complementing trousers. Spectacles that were more comfortable resting in his palms rather than his nose. He walked in and something in that particular action meant that we should be quiet, and so quiet we stayed.

He spoke.

But while he was uttering the first few syllables, most of us in the backbenches thought he was simply lip-synching. We craned our necks and strained our ears. We fine-tuned our ears to listen to words uttered in a couple of decibels below what we were used to otherwise. This was just one of those things that we had to get used to, for the rest of the year. He informed us that he would be teaching us a beautiful language that even beats ‘your English’ with respect to lucidity and clarity. You don’t have to keep reading between the lines, he said. “French is used in international treaties because of its clarity.”

So, he was our French teacher.

The joy of taking up French instead of Hindi evaporated instantly for some of us - those few who clinged on to the desperate hope that he was only a substitute teacher for the time being, and this was all just a very bad joke.

In the days to come, it was routine to have sir walk in and we maintain a silence that is more befitting a funeral service. We speak only when asked to. We answer only if the question is meant to be answered. Fourteen is a funny age. You would find smart answers for even those rhetoric questions that an adult throws at you in dismay. Something like, ‘what is this class coming to be??’ would have a well-packaged answer that would guarantee a nice laugh if delivered well enough. Now, such answers are safely stashed away during the French class. You would be suicidal if you choose to give wisecracks in this class.

Sir always chose the table rather than the chair to sit upon. Sir always had one chalk with him. He would never hold it unless it is really urgent. The man couldn’t stand chalk dust. He was constantly dusting his palms to clear off the imaginary chalk dust from him. Every time he turned a page, he would clean his fingers as though the chalk dust emanated from those pages. He whispered chapter after chapter to us. He gave us an insight of how the French live. What they have for breakfast, lunch and diner. From such information, you are supposed to deduce that he has spent a considerable period of time in France. With the French whom he knew just so well. We had a tête-à-tête with De Gaulle. I am not sure if Sir liked that guy or not. Nevertheless, we were spoken to, about him. Sir never wore his specs. Well, almost never. He chose to hide behind them only when he was angry, or when he read to us.

Some antics of his were nearly comical while some others sent a chill down your spine. He would read out lessons to us, rather, whisper them. Then he would look up, through his imaginary second pair of spectacles (the real pair was in his hand), and get up from the table. This was a sure sign of lurking danger. We all knew that his next action was of walking all around the class, meandering between the desks (housing us), asking a question or two, aloud. It would be the conjugation of an irregular French verb, or a ‘Traduisez en Français’ exercise. He simply taps on the edge of your desk with his fingertip. That means he is expecting an answer from you. If you answer it correctly, he awards you with a ‘bon’. If you are wrong, he displays his left hand fingers twice, indicting ‘ten times’. What he means is that you are supposed to write down the correct answer ten times for him – the dreaded Imposition that eats away most of your homework time.

At the end of two years and countless exams where I scored somewhere around 60% for French, we had the Social in the tenth class. We had come up with a unique idea of presenting a quiz of sorts. We would make up riddles about our teachers and the audience would have to guess whom we were talking about. I wrote those riddles. The one about sir was somewhat easy to script… I don’t remember all of it but the childish opening lines went something like this –-
I resemble Hitler… While teaching I am a killer….

Today, picturing my French teacher as a terror is a little difficult. He has shrunk to a normal sized human being, from the larger than life person we all feared. In my mind, his image has softened to that of a man who shared a few nice words with my father, in the venue of an Usha Uthup concert. In my mind, he has become just like any other churchgoer my mother met on Thursday evenings. He became my younger sibling’s schoolteacher, while I moved along with time, passing out of school and college. The distance widens with days and he becomes a fuzzy picture… softening anything harsh said or done, highlighting all the nice moments instead. And this is the picture that I would like to keep. I would like to believe that all the terror we felt years ago was just a fourteen-year-old figment of my imagination. I conclude that he wasn’t so bad after all…

God Bless you sir, wherever you are.

Tip Toeing on Balance

Freaks - that's what we all are - all of us.And who can blame us? What chance do we have, when our beginnings and endings are so freakish? Birth and death - what could be more monstrous than that? We like to deceive ourselves and call it wondrous and beautiful and majestic, but it's freakish, let's face it.

* * *
Why do humans attempt to hide their feelings? Whether it is anger or love or sadness, they always tried to put something else forward in its place. And then there were those who pretended their emotions were bigger and grander than anyone else's. A little annoyance they acted out like a gigantic rage; where a smile or chuckle would do, they laughed hysterically. Either way, it was dishonest.
* * *

Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance

The Great Indian Bride

In the wake of a couple of events that have featured in my little life, I have a couple of things to state here. Note that I have used the term ‘featured’. This aint a mere decoration – I am comparing my everyday grind to a colourful Bollywood movie. This helps me get past each day, and hey! The comparison isn’t so far-fetched especially if you knew me personally.

A couple of years ago, when my whole life revolved around school tests and class parties, I was a happy, content child (read pimply plain Jane). No one spoke of dating (this is going to raise some eyebrows, you bet!) and ‘men’ would only go as far as some Backstreet Boy or Boyzone fellow. Parents were grateful that ‘Backstreet Boy’ was only a figment seen on TV, and not a real fellow their daughter had taken to. I can understand – imagine my dad scrutinizing my then crush – “he’s got more piercings than you!”. But then, something shatters all this. You emerge out of the cocoon and your parents freak out–she’s growing.

I am losing focus here – I was talking about something crucial to my social life. Back then, there were no worries – at least not to the magnitude I have at the moment. In fact, not too long ago, there were no dearth of friends and hang-out pals. Movies were almost always seen in LARGE packs. But now, it’s like this – “Umm… XYZ, whatchoo doing this Sat? Oh, someone coming to see you, huh? Too bad, gal!”

Did you notice anything strange in that dialogue? (It’s a monologue! I know that, silly! I aint talking about that!) There is some peril lurking in that sentence. It’s dangerous. This situation spells doom to females who aren’t particularly looking out to marry at the moment. That telephone conversation was made with a poor female dost of mine—she is going to display herself in front of a prospective husband. Of course, this exercise involves testing your many skills – the great Indian Balance trick takes the cake. This act involves carrying a tray laden with sweets and chai for the scrubbed fellow and his already belching retinue. The other trick is where, if you are a Southie, you will be moving about as though you are walking on tightrope – of course, the sari pleats add to the discomfort in your queasy tummy. Other highlights -- your communication skills, home economics and management skills will be tried and tested. The boy gets to nod yes or no. You can do that too – but who’s watching you anyways??? They’d probably think you are searching for a lost safety pin somewhere near your left big toe. Sounds gruesome? It is.

Let me explain. It sets in pretty innocuously. One morning while your Pa is sitting by the breakfast table and slurping Ma’s tea and lapping up Saddam’s latest antics from the papers, your Ma decides to bug him – she must be getting back at him for not letting her buy those gorgeous new curtains. But all at your expense! To this day I wonder…. Why me?? The monologue begins.
“…Shantha Aunty was telling me about this boy.. ARE YOU LISTENING??”
“huh?… What is it? I told you we don’t need those curtains, yesterday!”
“Who’s talking about the damn curtains? What sort of a father are you?”
“What’s the curtains got to do with my fatherhood, now??”
“I am not talking about the curtains. Have you noticed something about our girl? She’s all grown up”
“My… and what a sweet darling she is!”
“No! No! I am telling you, if we don’t get her a man now, it will be too late!”
“WHAT??? WHO’S HE? IS HE AFTER OUR CHILD?? TELL ME!! I TELL YOU, THESE BUGGERS!!!…@#$@#$(beep)”
**Ma continues to butter her toast – Bingo! She smiles. She knows that the point has been driven straight into the proverbial home. No garage. No garden lawns. Nothing. Literally, in the living room. She maintains her dignified silence while Pa rattles on something about driving a gun up some boy’s you-know-where… Not breakfast conversation material exactly, and I will refrain from re-producing it here**
**Now, Pa is panting from all the exertion. He forgets Saddam. He even forgets our family favourite Garfield!**
Conversation resumes after precisely fifteen seconds and nine nano seconds.
“See… all I am saying is that our girl is now all grown up. We don’t have to wait long enough for her to become an old horse before we find her a groom. Please think about this matter seriously!”
Conversation terminated and before you know it, it is time to see the photo album. This invaluable album comprises of the best of the best ‘well-settled, God-fearing boys’. When all the eye candy is lapped up, we get to choose who all can see us. Wee, what fun.
Unfortunately, in some cases, this particular process is skipped. The GUY gets to just drop in!

I ought to give more insight on how this guy-girl seeing business is handled all over the nation. After posting this piece, I am setting off to conduct thorough research on the various rites and courtship rituals followed by remote Naga tribes and urban metro folks. I have zeroed in on one conclusion, though (this is even without that research! Man! A’int I smart??). This custom is dying. And responsible elders are striving hard to keep it still alive. Honour killings and boycotting love affairs are the most commonly practiced tactics. Some lenient ones give in, but not before displaying the daughter to at least some fellows of their choice!

While you ponder on the deeper nuances of this seemingly useless blog entry, I will take my leave. I need to get my tickets reserved. For Nagaland, of course.

MISSION: CRE8TIV WRITING

Here's something I penned a couple of months back. I am trying to fill some empty space here... part of my New Year Resolutions!

MISSION: CRE8TIV WRITING

“OOH! That word! I just KNOW what it means! It’s… uh… ”
-- 10 minutes later --
“…mmm…”
--15 minutes later -–
“ What’s the perfect word to bring out the FEEL of this situation? …uh…”
-- Clock still ticks on --
No solution.

Does this happen to you often? Are you striving hard, scratching your head, to find THAT perfect word? Have you perfected your style of shooting rejected and crumbled write-ups to the nearest waste bin? This is a classic case of Writer’s Block. This little piece is all about how to write creatively and not offend the public. This is about how to totally utilize your cerebral ooze. This piece isn’t, well, the ultimate answer to Writer’s Block (and baldness), but it will surely let you know that you are not alone.

Unlike most others, the art – allow me call it so – of creative writing cannot be classified into schools of thoughts and ideologies. There are no hard and fast rules about letting your hair down and writing your heart out on paper. But it is always a good idea to keep your readers in mind – for all you know they might not be reading you anymore. And that, my friend, is Hell.

Biggies often find people asking them how they write, what inspires them, and so on. The fellow in question would stroke his beard (that would be a little weird if it were a ‘she’) and plunge into a monologue of what really makes him/her to write ‘such things’. One of the most sincere answers was given by Richard Bach, in his book, “Illusions”. Bach tells us about an urge to put the idea down on paper. Until then, it would haunt him – literally. Then, when he gives in to the ‘urge’, he feels as though it is an alien force that is making him think the way that he thinks, write the way that he writes…

The previous paragraph is one of the biggest mistakes you could commit, while writing. It sounds like a homily and the church would be more appropriate for that. You would agree with me on that account. Your write-up should be short, crisp and snappy. It should be terse. It should grab the (poor) reader by the collar and shake him up!

What was I trying to say two paragraphs ago, anyways? Ah-ha! Another problem! Don’t lose focus! Do anything to retain the core idea! If you are writing about hippies, sport dreadlocks! Look outlandish! Stop bathing! Get arrested! Do anything to keep your focus on the subject!

Like I was saying… yet another problem crops up… and then you wonder why your write-ups are rejected! Notice all the excitement in the previous paragraph. What’s the hullabaloo all about? Chill. We often mistake creative writing to be just jazzy, snazzy writing. It need not be so. Simple neat sentences, properly punctuated with decent periods. Jumpy exclamation marks and high-flying apostrophes are not mandatory to be ‘creative’. In fact, a mellowed, subdued sentence would be more effective to get your message across, in a suave and subtle manner.

Now, there’s another pointer for jazzing up your piece. Personification of inanimate objects wasn’t just about impressing your high-school teacher. This is a powerful language tool that adds that dab of colour, that touch of humour, that final finesse, to your write-up. Otherwise, who would have appreciated a ‘decent period’ and a ‘jumpy exclamation mark’? Creating word pictures is an ideal way to capture the attention of your reader – irrespective of the age group you are focusing on.

Word pictures, metaphors, personification, oxymorons, puns and quibbles… Let your imagination run wild! Like a wild stallion… But stop before you succumb to your urge to invent outrageous words! Coining words is fine, most would say. A clever mincing and mixing of already existing words almost always gives rise to new words that could explain the exact FEEL of a situation. However, it is always a good idea to not go overboard with this technique. (Look how I am sitting safely on the fence and commenting!)

Whatever it is, don’t forget those spellings! Ok… so maybe you are not really contesting for the National Spelling Bee Contest. But spellings are just as crucial as that wild imagination of yours. Most of the time, this predicament is solved thanks to spell checkers. But there are some things you would have to take care of, all by yourself. For instance, the ‘Loose versus Lose’ scenario. And no – the past tense of ‘read’ isn’t ‘red’ how much ever creative you get.

Long time ago, when scholars were sitting around twiddling their thumbs, without much to do, they got together and framed a whole lot of rules that would ensure that our lives are made tougher… Naa… I don’t really think so. Honour English grammar rules. It will make your life easier. Trust me. Oh! The joys of tenses and plurals, and not to mention those tricky gerunds and adverbs…

And then again, as you can clearly see throughout this write-up, I have shamelessly broken all the rules I had listed. All for a good purpose of course. (Does that remind you of Robin Hood?) That’s yet another facet of writing creatively – create your style and smear it all over your write-up. Thinking fresh is important. Be original and forget your thinking cap – because you have used it once before.

With all this said, I assure you, every person who attempts to write will face those ‘blocks’ you have often experienced. It would be nice if you could dismiss it as ‘just one of those days’, and resume writing after a short break. See you break ke baad! Happy Writing!

ARABIAN CHRISTMAS

I can’t seem to agree with those of you who believe that Christmas is pretty much the same almost everywhere… Agreed, it’s the same cosy feeling—the cakes, the sweets, good times and cheer. But Christmas memories are unique for each household. I can vouch for this with the experience of my fairly long stay of 18 years in the Middle Eastern State of Kuwait. In spite of being a 99% Muslim-populated country, Christmas still shows her face with bright lights, Christmas trees, special mass services in churches and, well, you know, the whole December Effect.

The society building where I stayed housed a bunch of enthusiastic school kids. I was the oldest and had the added advantage of being the only high schooler in the (b)rat pack. None of us were older than 16 years and it was pretty easy for us to let our presence be felt frequently. As a part of all the hullabaloo of growing up together, we used to stage a Christmas show in the building every year.

The ‘show’ normally consisted of carols, skits, or dances. Once, we even staged our version of Dickens’s “Christmas Carol”. The Christmas show always had a large crowd for audience—our adorable parents, and some brats who openly sniggered at us but secretly wanted to be a part of our band of performers.

Christmas 1997. The plans were elaborate. No more Santa masks. This time, it would be REAL make-up! What’s more –we planned to put up an action song for the tiny tots. By about three-quarters of our practice sessions, the choreographer threatened to cancel the item simply because she ran out new dance steps to teach! The poor girl pulled out most of her hair and was about to walk out of the whole project, so we decided to perform a tableau instead. The kids were not expected to move much—absolutely still would have been best, but that is a little hard to achieve considering the age of the performers. The tableau depicted the nativity scene with Joseph, Mary and the rest of the gang. We also put together a small but consistent choir to dole out carols.

The choir kept practicing hard. Each singer had his/her own unique pitch and each one practiced in his/her own wrong keys. Interestingly, we all managed to begin and end the songs at the same time. And boy, was that an achievement! We sang in the corridors of the building, in the loudest possible volume, of course. We got yelled at by our irritated neighbours, missed the basketball matches and our favourite TV shows… Oh! Those little sacrifices!!

With only two more days left for the D-day, we were getting panicky. The tension, the impatience, the words that came out at the most inappropriate moments! The costumes and make-up were left to the bigger kids. One of our mothers was very vocal about her displeasure in losing her red salwar. We needed Santa trousers and didn’t know where else to look! Later on, when the salwar was returned to the owner, I heard that she found cotton paddings on the helms—our idea of Santa’s fur lining!

We had a couple of “reindeers” complete with cardboard antlers, which sagged and drooped midway. There were “angels” and “shepherds”. There were kings and Joseph and Mary… Imagine the amount of work!

On the appointed day, we went to each door and invited our guests personally. We got dressed and helped each other out as well. The “kings” wanted to wear their crowns right away and “Mary” complained she was feeling hot inside the robe. In short, they were all just very excited.

Our show began with the rise of the curtains, amidst loud applause, a good half an hour late. The ‘stage’ was a corridor between the four apartments on the first floor. The stairs served as the tiered-seating arrangement for the audience and the ‘curtain’ was an old ragged bedsheet. Some of our parents couldn’t make it on time, so the show was conveniently rescheduled. Heard of this anywhere else?

The choir was searching for a singer who went missing at the 11th hour. Thankfully, the tableau saved the day! We put the tiny tots on the stage first, while the search party continued their work. One by one, I adjusted the costumes and placed each performer on the stage. One “angel” seemed a little uneasy and fidgety. Probably stage fright, I thought. Interestingly, we didn’t even have a proper stage. Half way into the narration, my eyes met my sister’s. Her huge and visibly alarmed eyes spelt danger. Her gaze guided me to the spot of trouble. The angel had wetted herself. The child wanted to use the bathroom very badly, and none of us had the patience to help her out of her costumes. And the result was there for all to see! Another “angel” quickly covered up the scene with her chart paper wings. “Mary” escorted the tiny girl was escorted off the stage and the tableau continued as though nothing was amiss. Our parents pretended normalcy as well. After all, it was Christmas! Sweets and cakes made everyone forget the blooper and many of us hurried back into our homes. We had the midnight service to go to…

No one thought of capturing those moments in a photograph or with a camcorder. But I am sure no one forgot those days either. (Not that “angel”, at least!) Iraqi threats and US army manoeuvres across Kuwait were forgotten for the moment. Everyone switched off CNN and enjoyed life for the moment. Tomorrow will be another day, they said. These memories will forever remain fresh in my mind. The Christmases in Kuwait will always be special to me…

Of Rains and Pains

Rains make me nostalgic and sometimes melancholy. How much ever I try to remain cheerful and chirpy, there is a tender cord that strain of memories of the days that went by. A part of me always wants to live in the past. A tightly wound cord waiting to be plucked. Just like that of a guitar or a harp. A rain gently plucks at the string plunging me into reverie and beautiful days gone by and never to return.

It’s raining. I stand by the window with my hands perched upon the sill, watching the drops splash and hurrying to join other drops to form puddles. Pearls of memories begin to string themselves together to form a chain of thoughts. Each pearl is dear to me.
***

I was with my family in our car. Pa drove slowly. This was going to be the last time I will be riding along with them… Tears streamed down my cheeks at that thought. My sister held my hand tighter. She was crying too. We watched the rain together in silence. For that moment we forgot all our girlish squabbles and dismissed them as part of being siblings. It did not matter anymore. What mattered now was that I was flying away from home…

***
We were in Peechi dam (Kerala). Six people and three umbrellas. The dam as closed to visitors. We were too late. The camera wouldn’t work and, to top it all, it was raining cats and dogs! My cousin newly married and we were out seeing places. This was a damp squib – in the literal sense of the term! Our shoes squished and squashed and we were drenched to the skin. The umbrellas were too small. Enjoyable times, unforgettable moments…

***

It rained heavily. There was a slight chill but still, I stood outside to take in the smell of the damp earth. I was wondering if a certain someone was also enjoying this beautiful night – first love?!

***

The roads were blocked due to the unexpected heavy showers. I was standing by the door with a heavy heart. My brother and sister were leaving for Kuwait that day. Again, I would be alone. All these thoughts revolved in my head and a few silent tears trickled down. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder – it was my cousin.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nothing…’
My voice had already betrayed my mind. He understood. That’s why he is beautiful. We stood there watching the rain lash upon the earth. Beautiful, protected moments, with his arms wrapped around my shoulders.

***

Fun loving ‘rain moments’ to cherish – A pal peered at a curious pimple I was sporting. The boys were desperately trying to make some plans for this Sunday. I was enjoying my being with them. The moment seemed so nice – I did not want it to end.
Our plans were cut short and we all drove off straight home – it rained badly that day.

***

The interval period in between the movie was very short but I still felt like taking a walk. I left the other girls behind in the stuffy hall and went out for a whiff of fresh air. I looked out of the window and saw Delhi was soaking in the monsoon shower. The windows were all sealed – a part of the air conditioning procedure out here. I could almost smell the wet earth. The trees lashed and the pitter-patter was loud and pronounced. I fussed about wearing a white shirt that day.
Later on, when the movie was over and after all of them left after my birthday treat, I went to the cemetery with Jenny. For the first time, I noticed how beautiful the place was.
I celebrated my birth, with the dead that day.

***

I was very content with the way things were shaping up in Life – so there was an extra spring in every step. I was on my way to Kerala, in a train. Life had taken unprecedented twists and turns in a couple of months and there was so much of sadness around. But now it was as though the world was telling me that the worst is over. It rained heavily and I struggled with the stubborn shutter windowpane. I closed it with the help of a handsome army man who was seated opposite to me. (He was doing this for me the third time in a row…) That moment held promises of a brighter and better future. An inexplicable bliss filled me. Probably that because I was meeting my mother after a whole lonesome, long year. Or maybe because now I had grown up considerably, as a person…

***

Lonely winter rains in Kuwait. The windowsill was icy cold. I stood by it, in my school overcoat wondering if I would be having my Chemistry test or not. My siblings were buried deep inside their warm blankets sleeping through the early winter morning, cozy and warm. I had my crucial 12th Boards to tackle. I had to sacrifice such small joys in Life. There was that Chemistry test to face…

***

23 youngsters – all of who were excited about a camp they were going to attend. The camp was in a faraway place called Kanhie.
It began to rain. All of them scrambled into the two vehicles that would take us to our destination. Guitar, bags, music system and bats!
At that moment, no one had an inkling of an idea as to what awaited them in the camp.

The Meeting

The clouds were gathering together rapidly. It seemed as though they were all conspiring against her. She protectively smoothened her crisp new suit. She fussed over the stiff duppatta and kameez that would soon be wet. It was an important day and she couldn’t afford to get drenched, how much ever she would have liked it. Her hair revolted against her scalp and tried to run away from it. The inevitably strong breeze while travelling in an auto rickshaw, was also helping in their cause. She placed the duppatta on her head to foil the attempt.

It will rain soon, she concluded dismally. The gift would get wet. And so will she. This meeting was crucial. She was going to meet him in the railway station. They both wanted it to be this way. They both wanted to see each other the first thing, when he reached Delhi. This meeting was planned for over two long longing months. She had played and replayed the scenes again and again in her mind. Undeniable butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She wondered if it was the same for him. What would the meeting be like? What will they say to each other? Will he be cool, unlike her? Or… maybe he is just like her!

Two months ago, on a rainy June afternoon, he proposed to her over the telephone. She thought about it for a couple of sleepless days and nights and decided that he was the person she would gladly spend the rest of her life with. Their happiness knew no bounds. Like all new lovers, he gently admonished her whenever she worried that even God would be jealous of their love. They had not met ever since he popped the crucial question. And once she agreed, they simply couldn’t wait till they would finally meet.

This was the day! Just before he left for Delhi, he informed her about his train details and the platform number. She said she would come to receive him even though the train would arrive the station at six in the morning. He told her not to come at such an early hour, but he knew better than to resist her decision, especially when she was stubborn about it.

Seconds translated into un-waitable, unforgettable moments while she waited on the platform. Suddenly she felt awkward, standing alone being an easy target to all the stares she attracted. She was a regular girl with nothing unusual about her and she was aware of that whatever her man told her. She smiled wistfully, just how often has he seen her anyway? She was the one who was more sceptic about this relationship working out. She had to be coaxed and cajoled. But once she made up her mind about it, no one in this world could shake her off it. A black serpentine train approached Delhi with a long trail of smoke, steam and a multitude of people along with it. She was wrenched out of her reverie when the anxiety of the meeting returned to the pit of her stomach. She thought she almost dropped the gift. She thought it almost began to rain – her skin tingled with excitement and she mistook it for a light drizzle. She looked skywards and found the unmistakeable rain-bearing clouds still gathered in their conspiracy huddle. Her eyes searched the platform for the face.

What once was a deserted platform was now teeming with people. Lots of them! Hawkers and beggars, passengers and well-wishers. Some were smiling. Some were tearful. Everyone excused a hug or a peck over here. No one intruded your moment of privacy with their questioning eyebrows at a railway platform. They understood.

She hurried towards the bogie he had mentioned. This was the first time she was coming to a railway station alone. But this wasn’t a matter in which she wanted to take anybody’s assistance. She edged and elbowed past the sea of strangers around her. The walk, or rather, jostle till the bogie seemed to go on forever. Her eyes continually scanned the people who descended from the different bogies. No one looked familiar. She felt an unexplainable sense of relief and sadness all muddled up into one. Relief that it wasn’t someone she was not keen to meet at this moment. Sad that it isn’t him.

A head attached to a fairly long neck stuck out of the appointed bogie. The head looked the other way first, then in her direction. Without delay, their eyes met. Instant recognition. He chewed gum while bringing out his luggage. Her steps towards him quickened its pace. A girlish giggle and smile escaped her lips. His grin spanned from ear to ear. A lightning quick warm hug later, they resumed regular conversation. As though they have been talking to each other for the past few years. As though there was nothing new that had sprouted between them. He picked up his luggage and the girl offered to hold a bag. He wondered aloud if it would be ‘politically correct’ to offer the fairly heavy bag to his Lady Love. More giggles followed.

The air had become heavy. The clouds were a humid grey. A listless beggar fanned himself to no avail. The lovers did not feel the neck-choking suffocation. They felt like a pair of newly liberated birds… soaring high with giddiness. What wondrous things young love can do! Was that a raindrop she sensed? No. The exhilaration was getting to her head now.

They stepped into a hired auto rickshaw and sped away. He stole a peek at her happy smiling face, but couldn’t make the timely escape. She had caught him looking at her, smiled and looked away. The trees sped by, all in a hurry to reach somewhere; she was never able to figure out where. Her heart danced to a happy tune. Everything seemed beautiful. The deserted streets of Connaught Place looked like Paradise in full bloom. The sky above would burst any minute and pour forth its contents. Once again, there was that tingling sensation on her skin. It felt a little warm this time. Human warmth. She realised - he was holding her hand. She smiled shyly and looked outside. They travelled in silence, towards a new Life. Towards Hopeful Happiness.

It was raining heavily now. Unmistakeably.

PART THREE

The trilogy ends here!
11 APRIL 2004 :: 0600 hrs

Like I said, river rafting is done in four sections in the Ganga. The first section begins from Devprayag and ends at the base camp in Kaudiyala. This was the section we did on the first day. The second section begins at Kaudiyala and ends in Marine drive. This is the section with a couple of interesting rapids such as, the Daniel's Dip and the Great Wall. The third section begins at Marine Drive and ends in Shivpuri. This section also has a couple of rapids like the "Rapid Fire" and the "Three Blind Mice". This rapid is a combination of three small rapids. And it is called BLIND, because you cant see a thing while you raft right through it!

But the best ones, as always, are saved for the final section. This section starts at Shivpuri and ends at Rishikesh. This section actually does not have that many rapids - but the ones that are there are pretty violent. There is the "Rollercoaster" and a couple of others which I cant recall. Well, I cant recall the names, but I can recall the experience in each one of them!

The naming convention used for these rapids are pretty interesting to note. Adveturous rafters who must have come across certain rapids for the first time, get to name them. Anil was telling us that there is a rapid called, "Kick on the @$$". Interesting... when the raft is directly above this particular rapid, there is a forceful current that hits the raft from the bottom. The point of the hit is directly below where the rafter sits. So now you know!!

***
Some sections required heavy paddling. The rapids was when this was needed the most. Four paddlers did their best while Anil oared and guided the raft. Paddlers would pop out of the raft often. They would be pulled in... There were two members in the team who would be performing the "high rise". When the raft approaches a rapid, it would require extra weight in the front - the portion which hits the rapid first. Two people would lie on their tummy, facing outwards towards the gushing rapid. They are the high-risers. Personally, I feel this is the best position while in a rapid. You feel the water on your face, the thrilling gush of water all over your body. You would be soaked to skin, and rocking along with the raft like a rag-doll.

***
There were just three basic things to be kept in mind while rafting.

"Forward Paddle" -- When Anil gives this command, you dig in the paddle, at 90 degrees, into the water. This is done by keeping you hands straight, not bending the elbows. You lunge forward and dig the water with the paddle, and pull your body backwards. In this process you move the raft forward. We must keep in mind that the strain is not felt on the hands but on the tummy region. I was very good in forward paddling.

"Backward Paddle" -- In this movement, You support the paddle on your girdle bone. Lunge fowards, dig the paddle into the water and push your body backwards. In this process you can steer the raft backwards. This type of paddling was pretty bad forme. I couldnt really synchronize with the rest of the paddlers when in came to backward paddling.

The third position was Jughead's personal favourite -- "Relax"!! You simply had to sit with the paddle placed on your knees. We must take care to hold down the paddle, firmly against your knees - the forceful waters can push it off to hit your chin/face etc.

***
On our way back, we took a different route altogether. The people in the Wagonar couldnt follow us. We went right through the heart of the nearby Rajaji National Park. We spotted visitors who were camping inside the park. There was a road built parallel to a watercanal, and the drive down ( I guess it was more than just a couple of kilometeres) was really picutresque. We sat looking out of the windows, hoping to spot some wildlife. But the heat was too much for the animals to venture out. The Qualis took beautiful and exotic routes out of the park. At some point of time, the vehicle was actually driving on a dry river bed!

Life is Beautiful...If only we could appreciate it completely...

PART TWO

I am continuing the snippets from my trip.

10 APRIL 2004 :: 0630 hrs

" Goooood Morning!!!!"
I rubbed my eyes when Deep peeped into the tent and beamed a huge fresh smile. Shiv was tossing in her cot. I closed my eyes again and tried to listen to the voices I heard last night... the river is pretty talkative at night, when everybody else decides to shut up!

***
I am normally a dead duck in the mornings - I prefer to laze about and sip coffee or listen to some nice music. I am a slow starter - the hub of activities pick up pace as the day wears on... So if you thought that I joined the team while playing beach volleyball, you are wrong. Watching them seemed more fun to me! LAZY BONES!

***
She was missing - as usual. I know that she needs a lot of space - that was the purpose of her trip also. So, it would become meaningless for her if I tried to search for her and tag around. Right through the trip, she would be 'missing' when everyone else is sitting around chatting or so. I did not worry for her. She would be sitting on a rock far away. Churning the turmoil in her head. Trying to make sense out of chaos - a futile exercise, but nevertheless very interesting and addictive.

***
All the way to the waterfall, you look around and you would just see huge big rocks and and boulders engulfing you. Like some exotic flooring and tiling done in an exquisite bunglow. You can see the play of lights on these rocks, reflecting from the water around.

***
Poison Ivy is a really interesting creation of the Supreme Being. The effect of this plant wanes out in a while. But when you have just grazed the leaf, you feel as though some vicious animal bit into your flesh. And when you realise it is just a harmless plant, you are more surprised than stung. In a few seconds you will find miniature replications of 'land mass' on the affected skin - just like the continents in your Geography text books!

***
Let me take some time out to describe our living arrangement. Five canvas tents were pitched for all of us. These flap tents could accomadate two people at once. Each tent had two sleeping cots with blankets - it gets cold at night. There were two
bamboo chairs as well - I guess these were the LUXURY tents!! Nice, all in all. At night, we were given a lantern for each tent. The toilets were dry, making good use of sand. The govt of India does not allow the use of Ganga's water for toilet purposes. There was a dining area. It was actually made of a parachute - pitched on bamboo poles.

***
The afternoon skies faded in twilight. We were through with rapelling. All of them retired back to the camp. Not a hectic day. In fact, I felt that Anil made this day light on purpose - so that we would be fit enough for the last day. I was awfully quiet. Nothing troubled me. But it was more of a calm and peace within. Pretty soothing. She was missing - once again. But that would be for some introspection, I thought. So I need not worry about anything. Strains of happy chatter of fellow campers reached my ears. But that was just like a nice little humming. Nothing was registering in my mind. I was wondering what I doing out here. There must have been some purpose for me to come along with her - whom I had last met about six months ago. There must be some purpose. I sat sipping endless coffee. Well, it seemed endless probably because I was ruminating something in my little head.

***
He was sitting on the edge of a rock, drinking coffee. I felt I should join him. After a thought, I sat with him talking. Well, most of the talking was done by him. It feels good when people tell you new things, and when it is not you doing that. I learned a lot that evening. Similar to talking to Chetan. It is like reading a really good book. You close the cover with the satisfaction of having learned something new. A new idea. Something about the way he spoke made you feel that he knew some things about you, even if you never did tell him all that. Well, we stuck to talking about
books and crazy ideas authors sometimes write about. But there was some sort of a connect. It is always so nice to find people who talk sense and provoke you to use your head. Sometimes, you feel so stagnated with the existing thoughts that you have. And when someone comes along with a new thought, you feel like he has given you a nice little present. I still dont know why I must have come across a person like him. But then everything isnt explained in Life. It is nice this way.

***
Sitting in the open space, with my bamboo chair pulled out into the center of a lawn, I sat watching the starry sky... I wondered if this was the peace and serenity people
keep writing about. I was feeling so much at peace. It is a rare event for me, at least.

PART ONE

The trip couldnt have been more well timed. I had gone with a personal agenda. Some kind of 'spring cleaning and soul searching'. You know what I mean... Even though the trip wasnt really fitting the bill of a vacation for me, it turned out to be the prefect getaway - just the kinds I was looking for.

The trip to Rishikesh was more of some adventurous venturing rather than sitting back, relaxing and enjoying the scenic beauty around you. The whole thing happened in a couple of hours - a quick decision, some packing, and off I went! A college pal - who always steps into the scene at the right moment - offered this trip.

And I still cant thank her enough. A team from her office planned out this trip during the extended weekend we had for Easter. You could bring along a friend too. Shivranjini (Shiv) 'carried' me along. On Maundy Thursday, I packed my bags and went off to her place after work.

While playing with her dog, she detailed me on where exactly we were going and why. She showed me a list of names - the people with whom I would be rafting across the Ganga. Interesting... for the next three days, these 'strangers' became my only source of human contact in the wilderness. And I have no complaints. A decent bunch of young people who became an excellent example of team spirit.

The account over here is not complete in any sense. There will be a whole lot of details missing. In fact they are just some unrelated sentences strung together. Coherence isnt something I have been adhering to, these days! But I only want to record a few moments from the three-day trip, out here. This account is only from Day One. The others will follow soon.

: : : :

9th April 2004

: : : :

While sitting in the Qualis and listening to some unbearable songs, we took our time to break the ice and get to know each other. Together, we translated some of the songs being played and discovered what pathetic lyricists we all would make. We saw the sunrise together. A sight that can never tire your eyes. The sky is gradually washed over by a splash of oranges and reds and yellows...

***
A long long drive later, we reached Kaudiyala - it's a place 32 Kms away from Rishikesh. This was where our base camp was supposed to be. We met up with our
river guide and boss of Adveture Trails India, Mr. Anil Bisht. Tall, honey brown skin and well built. It was pretty evident that this chap has been spending a considerable time climbing and rafting. Easy demeanour, yet alert senses. Comfortably dressed in floaters and shorts. Make him hold an oar, and it would be perfect!

***
The river beaches are very very different from those of the sea. The sand is silver-grey in colour... as though someone has powdered those boulders nearby and sprinkled it on the beach! Sometimes, I feel they look a little outlandish - as though we are walking on the surface of another planet or moon or something. Wildlife is more tamer than the humans who come to camp out there - barking deer and langurs. A variety of birds including kingfishers and peacocks also make their appearances.

***
When we were in calmer waters, Anil 'pushed' us into the cold cold waters! What a feeling! Thrill mixed with fear. The life jacket suddenly becomes very dear to you and you simply wouldnt let go of the lifeline of the raft. You bob up and down in the water..."LEAVE the ROPE! LEAVE IT!" Now, you cant easily get yourself to begin believing a total stranger let yourself flow into the deep currents. But something within you tells you to do so - in a moments time you let off the rope and drift away...

***
The river teaches you a lot of things. Lessons that would help you solve your problems - if only you would have the time to listen. Let go. Travel light. Take things as they come. Dont try to fight the current because it would be a sheer waste of energy. Do not challenge the forces of nature - play with them, but never fight them. We dont listen to all these beautiful things Nature tries to teach us. But when we take off for the mountains, and when we are cut off from the rest of our kind, we are forced to sit down and listen, like an obedient child.

***
Way past twilight, we reached our camp.
Exhausted from the road travelling and the paddling, we collapsed onto bamboo chairs and sipped coffee. Had an early dinner and sat around for a while. Not many of us could keep our eyes open for long - most of them went off to their tents to unwind. I was about to hit the sack as well. While gulping down a glass of water, I happened to look skywards. And what caught my eyes almost took my breath away!

Stars! So many of them! The whole sky seemed packed with them. It was as though
tonight was an overdoze for a star-gazer... I spotted those regular constellations and the bright ones. I spotted a falling star as well. I did not wish for anything - For that night, I was completely happy with myself...

Incomplete Rantings

=====

Thud. A dull muffled blow.
That was the last I heard of her.
She was gone. all in a second. She was dead.

Funny. When you think about what all could happen in less than a fraction of a second.
22 years of blossoming dreams
22 years of
===

Wonder why I left the previous piece incomplete - just like all the other attempts. Today is one day for reflection. About how I am handling my work. My life and everything else I hold dear to me. There is chaos. There is that tenency to move towards chaos - what do they call that? Entropy? The movement towards chaos. What attracts me towards it - like moths to a lightbulb.

Coming back to the piece - I started it off with the intention that it would develop into a masterpiece. And it fizzled out almost instantly. I blamed myself for starting out with the intention of making a masterpiece.
"It does not happen like that Preethi Paul!"
The words of a friend. While she spoke, I was gritting my teeth. But 24 hours later, I realised she was talking complete sense.

Funny - how some people are so clear about their lives. And how they want it to be - But funny - how the very same people are clueless and panicky about certain aspects of their lives! And that uncertainity - spells DOOM.

I dont know what I am writing out here. CHAOS, I guess. Something like a testimony of how chaotic I am. I better stop for now. I am not doing a great job at work, today. I am supposed to write happy stuff. And I cant get myself to pretend.

Because writing is sacred for me.

As for the incomplete piece.... I guess I might begin working on it sometime... in some weeks... months... years? As long as chaos rules, rest assured I will
survive.