To begin with...

The Fine Crumbs of Sand

2011-09-03T04:01:00.000-07:00

Finally here it is. My oh-so-rare mood to scribble something! It’s not the lack of matter or the lack of activity, it’s more an issue of keeping up. And of choice!

When there are so many things to mention, confusion arises as to what is important and what is not. And that confusion prevails long enough to kill the mood.

Life it seems has become something of the sort too. Nothing that has happened over the last two months is unimportant and yet for any of it to become a post here, dreary confusion has played the spoil sport.

So, here I am living a life that every 24 year old wishes to live. Big and most importantly a desired job, great prospects, new city, new people, good money and the independence of it all! A perfect start to the career I wished for.

But then there is this feeling. A feeling that comes when people, with whom you lived every waking moment, become mere voices on phone. Comforting and loving but mere voices. It makes you realize that there is more to life than having a job or being independent. There is something in a loved one’s hug that money or independence cannot give you.

I know most people who stay away from family and friends feel this. And not surprisingly, they shrug it off or muse it over as ‘homesickness’. Some don’t talk about it thinking it’s uncool. Like I said, when you have the above said ‘amenities’, being homesick is a spoiler.

I miss everything about home. My folks, my dog, my bed, my dirty shorts that I haven’t been allowed to bring, my gate that creaks, my scooty that gets all the attention when it’s on the road for its sound, my fighting neighbour and everything that’s there and has been in contact with me.

It’s not like I am lonely here. There are people; there is my work and everything else to look forward to. But at times, when I am lying on my bed, thinking of all those moments spent just arguing with people, emptiness creeps in. A question pops up. Is this life really worth giving up all those people and things so associated with you?

If not, then what is life worth? Is it just about simply living it off? So many people I met, have been ‘running’ through life, not pausing to take a breather and see what’s passing them on the way. In their frenzy to establish and secure their life, they are at the end of the day, letting their life just pass. Like how in an attempt to hold a fist full of sand, the more you tighten your grip, the more it falls from between your fingers. And when you open your fist, all that you have are some crumbs; all the fine sand is gone. Just like those fine moments in life…

The Ritual

2011-05-23T08:20:00.000-07:00

Oh well, so after a gap of almost two months, here I am writing or trying something like that, again. Lots happened in these two months. My life changed from one phase to another, transition after transition happened at such a pace, in such quick succession that it seems Somebody up there has great editing skills! Anyway, that is not my story today. My problem with writing is that I need a strong (and damn strong !!) reason or motivation to write. I can write otherwise of course, but it won’t have a soul. And then, what is the point of such writing? Hence I take my own time to feel and then write. Today something struck me and got etched somewhere forever.

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It is said that at some point of time in life, when you close your eyes and see all those that have passed in your life, some faces come up. They may be known, they may be unknown. I know this one face that will always haunt me for a long time to come...

I saw it first on one of the sweltering May afternoons, sometime around last year when I had come back home from a movie. The palatial looking house beside ours had been demolished and a new society set up. A family seemed to have moved in newly into one of these houses which could be seen from our bedroom window. That day, when I was parking my vehicle, I saw him.

Clad in a linen kurta and soft cotton light blue coloured pajamas, he was as such quite ordinary looking. Except for those eyes. For those who read eyes, his are Shakespeare or Tagore to them! They were glassy, classic and large with a myriad of expressions playing in them.

That day when I reached home, I was told that the house has been newly occupied. The Devs moved in today only, I was told. There were Papa Dev, Mummy Dev, Son Dev and their daughter-in-law. “So who is that old guy there at the gate?” I asked. He was Papa Dev’s elder brother. “Is slightly ‘out’ in the head!” my sister added.

That day onwards, whenever I go out, I see him. Rather he kind of stares at me, with those big eyes. At first I took it all in the complete wrong sense. ‘Saala budhha, kaise dekh raha hai?!’ once I told my sister angrily. Then one day, I observed him through my bedroom window. He stared at almost everything around him. Those eyes were constant on a flower for more than a minute, before shifting onto a mooing cow nearby! And he was always near the gate of the house.

Somehow, observing him then became a ritual for me. I figured out his routine, which wasn’t hard. He was made to sit near the gate, every morning at ten and given tea. He would be there till he was given lunch. He continued to sit there till evening when he was given tea. At around eight, he would be given some dinner and by nine, he would be taken in to sleep. All this time, the main door of the house was kept closed. It was quite peculiar.

One morning the entire society woke up to his loud cries. We all rushed out to find that he was shut out of the house and the family has gone somewhere. The man was howling at the top of his voice. No one could do anything. He tired himself out by noon and at around four, the family came back. Later we came to know that some relative of theirs had passed away and they had to go suddenly at night. As they could not leave the man locked inside the house, they had left him out, “…and the gate was definitely locked, so where could he have gone anyway?” as the daughter-in-law of the house put it!!

Today morning I observed Papa Dev making him sit on a chair near a gate and a barber trying to give a shave and a hair-cut to the old man. He was sitting quietly, but there was an innate restlessness in him. When the barber removed his covering cloth, I saw that his hands were tied with a thick rope.

Later in the afternoon, another big vehicle came. Many men came out of it, all dressed in white. As we all started looking out, we saw the old man being carried out by his arms by these men dressed in white. He walked calmly, almost resignedly. I ran up to my window to see what was happening. Just as I reached my window, he had reached near the vehicle. Papa Dev and the rest of the family were at the gate, quite nonchalantly. As I turned my eyes from them to the old man, he suddenly looked up and met my eyes. He held on to the look for about a minute or so and then the vehicle went off.

“He is taken to the mental hospital. Good for him. The way the family had taken care of him, the hospital would any day be better for him. Devbhai was saying that he was getting quite difficult to handle. They have so much business, so much to do, where will they have the time? And what is the point of having so much wealth, if your mind is not in place?” I heard my father say.

I came back to my window. Now there would be no glassy eyes to observe by the gate. The gate that seemed to look forlorn at the loss of its companion. My ritual had come to an end, abruptly and something wasn't feeling right inside me. I knew I won’t be able to get over that old man’s face, the last minute look in his eyes and my ritual…

Finding it all!

2011-03-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

Last August, we had a film making workshop with Madhusudan Agrawal. I would say he’s a film maker with a difference. I would not talk about him here, more because he is a person to be met and experienced. So during one of those sessions, he had said something that struck me as the most important part of the whole exercise. He had said, “Whatever film you make, in fact whatever you do, you need to find the ‘chi’ or ‘che’(pronounced as shi) in it. It is the soul of your work and that’s what makes it worthwhile. Whatever you do, the soul of your work has to be there to make it a great piece of work!”

I had thought, ‘Hmm. That means my life needs to have the chi too.’ Since then I have been in the process of discovering it.

26^th March, 2011, I was on my way back from Mumbai. I had gone there purely for my own selfish need. To see how I would fit in a place I heard so much about. To live and experience life there. If you have been reading my posts, you would know that I did not really like my stay there. It was hectic and my time with my own self was scarce. But something changed my thoughts about Mumbai. Something that made me re-think about the dream city.

It is really funny how things just walk into your life. All through your life, you run behind things and suddenly, when you are least expecting anything, bang! It just pops up in your life and it seems like it was never missing. It may be people or things that you thought you would never ever confront. It would be events that would change your life forever. All you can do is be dumbfounded, then be happy and savour the moment.

In the process of finding the ‘chi’ or ‘che’ of my life, I think I have come across something that could be it. The probabilities are more. The excitement is more. And so is the process. I think I have found it. All I am waiting is for it to be confirmed.

A tempest inside

2011-03-21T23:32:00.000-07:00

Today is my last day here, in CNN IBN office. My much-desired, much-coveted internship is finally at its glorious end today. I say glorious because I enjoyed lot during this period, more importantly learned a lot. I met some wonderful people, made friends, nurtured feelings, hoping that I left an impression.

I thought I would personally go and say bye to some people. This was planned some days back. But then towards the stipulated time, I am having different thoughts. I shall tell you the reason.

Yesterday, one intern left and today I will be leaving. While we were in office yesterday, I saw them taking interviews of 15 new interns. Our positions were filled even before we had vacated them. Like how it happens in government hospitals. I saw the process and guess I had a pang inside. Somebody else would be occupying my seat, working on the same computer that I am working at the moment and no one would even think about me. My hours of work and dedication would soon be confined to a letter of appreciation.

I have always been sure of my feelings. Well, lets say most of the times. Sometimes, there has been a chaos. Each emotion trying hard for the biggest space in my head. And in that chaos, the moment gets lost. Such is the situation today. I know I will miss this office, some people, the running around etc. But will I do it again if given a chance? I dont know.

I think the change of dreams are responsible for this havoc in my head. I mean I always wanted to belong to the media in Mumbai, but when I actually went through a 'test-dose' in this one month, I am not sure if this is what I wanted. Failure in dreams is at least an end, but confusion at this stage is scary. I know I want to be in the field of media but in Mumbai is not something concrete in my mind anymore.

Hmm. I guess that is too much of speaking-my-mind done. So that's all for now.

My morning sandwich

2011-03-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

It was Tuesday morning, 8.16 am and I was waiting for a local train at Malad station, Mumbai. There were about 40 to 50 more women near where I was standing, all voraciously waiting for the train chugging ever so slowly on to the station. The immediate imagination I had was of a cute little white rabbit hopping ever so lazily into the lion’s den, and a set of cubs, all set to pounce on and ravage it.

The ladies’ bogie hadn't even reached where the women were standing and they all ran for it. I did not want to get into this one. It was too packed, but before I could back off, the human tide pushed me in. I had no option than to get it. And that, as I realized later, was a huge mistake.

As soon as I got in, there was a searing pain in my right foot’s last two toes. Some girl, who had decided to try heels and trample others in the train in the process, had had a sudden realization that she was supposed to move ahead. Which she did, killing the red blood cells of my little toes in the process! Anyway, except for a little swell of salt water in my eyes, I couldn’t give it more.

The next station had more adrenaline-filled females push into the coach, chattering and arguing, some about their husbands who can’t buy cars, some about the crazy heat and some just about anything. The tide became stronger and I was pushed in further. Then she came.

She was well…healthy. I would not exactly call her fat because she wasn’t. She was just a little healthier than others and that commanded a little too much of space than there possibly was. And she tried to push her way in too. It was as if a tsunami struck an already turbulent sea. This time I wasn’t exactly pushed. It was worse.

I was literally sandwiched. I did not know where my bag or earphones were. I could only see part of my hand and hair. I was twisted and stuck in the most unbelievable manner ever. If I was a cripple like that, I would be a physiotherapist’s dream. If I was poised like that, I would be an artist’s muse. Every organ of mine screamed again my epidermis that they are not able to breathe.

10 minutes went on. The next station was announced. Some un-sandwiched part of my head thought, “Ah! Finally!!”. As the train chugged into that station, the jostling continued and intensified for some women were to get out. My healthier co-traveler too pushed out.

Out of many hands clasping onto the holders, I saw that I was three stations (still??? Gosh, it's been ages!!!) away from my destination. As more and more women got out, I felt air rushing in and that felt good. I was amazed at the way my body had needed air.

In a few minutes (that seemed like years!) my destination came and I formed a tide pushing my way out towards the door. Those in my previous condition were giving me the looks and their hearts abusing me.

As I was about to step out, on one side another great tsunami pushed in all over again. With all might that was left in me, I got out, gave a toss of my painful head and said, "Women!!"

Little things that matter

2011-03-11T06:20:00.000-08:00

Oh well, it has been 19 days since I came to Mumbai. And I don’t know whether to be happy or sad about what I am feeling at the moment. I won’t say I have turned a complete Mumbaikar, but I can say that I am not scared of the crowd or the local trains or the life here anymore. The whole ‘Oh Mumbai!’ emotion has gone numb.

Having said that, I still am completely mesmerized by the city. Let me use my metaphorical skills. I see Mumbai as a pretty teenage girl. She has myriad moods, countless emotions and unbelievably good sense of her own lethal beauty.

When I open the windows of my tenth floor apartment at night and look out, I see the buildings all lit up with numerous lights. A thought that immediately strikes is that there are so many different kinds of people living, living with various dreams and expressions. Imagining all these coloured lights as their dreams, fulfilled and unfulfilled, big and small, useless and important, they seem to be oozing life every second. I see down from my window and the city appears calm and serene at night, but in my mind, I know that she is like a sleeping tigress. Unbelievably in slumbers but equally vigilant and fidgety about her surroundings!

I am now no more scared of the crowd or of the hectic life. I wanted to test this when I was living a relatively slow life back home. I know I shall adapt to it. With time, I will become one of those countless demeanors that pass me daily, with countless dreams. But a question that arises while I think of this is if I really, honestly want to become one of those faces? I know I shall adapt to Mumbai, but do I really want to? I don’t know.

Moving on, in this mad run and rut of life, there are some teeny-weeny things that quite like a good breeze during a hot day bring relief to a tired being. Let me quote one such example of my day yesterday.

I had had a very hectic day and while on my way back, I was famished. As I got down at Malad station, I bought a vada paav. As I reached the steps for the over-bridge, I saw a little girl, of about 8-9 years of age. She had another kid, a child of about 1-2 years old with her. She was standing near a food stall and looking quite intently at the foods kept inside the glass cases. On an impulse, I handed the packet of vada paav to her. She was taken aback since her eyes had two seconds long curious look in them. I smiled at her and she smiled back.

That brought about an amazing change in my bearing. It taught me how a small incident can actually work wonders and help you forget your bad moments. It taught me the value of that little drop of water on a hot day, of a good handshake during a hectic schedule, of a friend’s ‘hi’ or ‘good night’ message at night, of little moments in life that make it worth living!

All about goof ups!

2011-03-08T22:26:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was a big day. International Women’s day is after all a big day. But how good it is to a woman who goes for her first really big engagement and makes a bigger goof up? Read on!

I was at the CNN IBN office when at around 6.30 pm, I was called by one of the senior reporters at his desk. I go to him to find out that it’s a shoot that I have to go to and something of the kind that I have never been to before.

“There is a research conducted according to which Indian men exhibit the highest rate of sexual violence and India is worst on gender equality. So you have to do a vox pop (ask random people about their takes on a particular issue) at Phoenix. We need it for the 9 pm news. Hurry…” I was told.

Since this was my first big shoot till now, with more involvement, I was excited and practically ran for it. We reached Phoenix and I started looking around for women. I did find women who were ready to talk till they heard that they had to come in front of the camera. Then they would say ‘Oh I am not looking good enough to come on camera, or I am too camera conscious etc.”

Basically within 20 minutes I could convince only one woman. I was tired of ‘I am in a hurry or my husband’s come etc.” But I had no other option other than go on. Hence within 45 minute I got four women to give me their opinions, after massive convincing.

Only one more and I will be done, I thought. That was when I saw a middle aged lady with her husband coming out of the mall. Ok, here comes a perfect couple. She looked like she could have an opinion and could speak well about it. I went up to her, told her the issue and she agreed to come on camera to give her opinion.

She came in front of the camera, thinking and asking me what to say and her husband following, with a mysterious smile on his face. I wish I had given a little more than a glance to his smile! Anyway, as she stood in front of the camera, my cameraman and helper started whispering though all I could hear was ‘awaaz’. I thought they are saying she may not sound good on camera or something. What the hell, she is ready to help and now these people have issues with her voice, I thought irritably.

Meanwhile, she went to talk to her husband for a minute and then came back. Suddenly she said she cannot do this. Seeing my confused look, she said, “I am sorry dear, but you see, my husband here is the editor-in-chief of CNBC Awaaz, so I don’t think I should do it.”

*Pause* *Two taps on head*!!!!!!! DAMMIT, I thought! Of all the people! Wife of the editor-in-chief of CNBC Awaaz, the sister concern of CNN IBN!! Why? I looked up to the skies and asked!!!

I don’t remember the later part of the event. I must have said sorry, they must have walked off with smiles, the camera people would have laughed at me and I would have looked like a complete idiot. But I did not care.

Soon enough I found another lady, who spoke well and we packed up. All through the rest of the night, I was tossing the event left, right and centre in my head.

As I was telling my friends, when God had too much of goof ups in store to load on some mortal’s head, I must have gone to Him and begged them to be loaded on my head!

(I)ndia Positive

2011-03-04T21:51:00.000-08:00

Since my last two-three posts have been slightly disturbing ones, I am thinking let me go for a really positive sequence of events during my stay in Mumbai. This happened on my third day in Mumbai.

I stay at Malad and my office is in Lower Parel. So for a non-Mumbaikar like me, the distance gets tiring. Adding to it are my train woes. Anyway, the day before that good day, I was told by a local friend to get down at Dadar (that’s two stations before Lower Parel) and take a cab to office, which she said is easier. I thought I would try that. So on the concerned day, I get down at Dadar, utterly clueless how to go forward!

For a Mumbaikar, the crowd definitely appeals or lets say, is no big deal. After all they are a part of it. I am demophobic (fear of crowd) and it scares the living daylights out of me. Hence, with no sense of directions I sat down at the Dadar station bench and wondered what to do. The expression on my face must have been really dramatic for as soon as I got up, a ticket checker asked me for the station pass. Since I had a first class pass, he checked it and let me go with a curious expression on his face.

I got out of the station and looked for a cab. For 20 minutes no cab could be found. I was scared and worried. I was getting late for office and I hated to be late. I walked around a little more and finally found this cab which already had a passenger. I asked the cab driver if he was going to Lower Parel. He said he was going to Parla village with the passenger lady. Again my expressions cheated on me(or played lucky for me!) as I found the driver saying, “Koi nahi, madam. Aap baith jaiye, main apko taxi ke paas drop kar deta hoon. Yahan apko taxi nahi milegi.” (Don’t worry madam. Get in, I shall drop you to a taxi. You wont get a taxi here.) I was a little reluctant but since there was a lady inside, I got in.

He drove for 15 minutes and stopped next to a line of taxis. He got out, and asked the other taxi driver if he would go to Lower Parel. As he said ok, I was fiddling with my purse. Seeing that, my former driver uncle (cant just call him a driver after that) said, “Madam, paise ki koi zarurat nahi. Yeh aapko le jayenge.” (Its ok, don’t pay me. He will take you.” I was quite surprised to say anything further.

Now, the second cab driver was a really old man. Flowing white beard and a flat turban sorts on his head. He asked me where exactly I wanted to go. I told him and he then said he’s not too sure about the building. As I started to look dismayed, he quickly added, “Aap baitho hum dhoond lenge.” (You sit in, we shall find it.)

I got into his cab and he started driving. After 5 minutes he started talking with me. He told me he has been in the city for 35 years and that he lost his family to 1992-93 Bombay riots. He then asked about me. I told me we are four girls here, for training and that we live in a flat in Malad. I did not go too much in details since I was still not very sure. Then he said something quite unexpected. He said that he helps new people in the city anytime and anywhere. That he can arrange for accommodations and stuff. Then he gave me his mobile number and said people call him ‘Khan chacha’ (Khan uncle). He asked me to give him a call whenever I was in trouble or lost and he would come help me.

He did not know my office building but he kept asking people on way and dropped me at the building’s gate. He took only a nominal sum for a 30-minutes ride. He started his car, smiled at me and added, “Kahin bhi kuch bhi zarurat to hame call karna beta.” (Call me if you need me anytime and anywhere, child.)

I am bad with directions and roads. I cannot remember a road until I travel through it 4-5 times. That day after office, I got lost on my way to station. Last two days, I had my father to help me to the station. But this was dreadful. I was tired, hungry, lost and worried. There were people all around but most of them looked sinister to me( or at least so, to the mind of a lost girl). Finally I saw a man walking briskly towards me with a suitcase in hand. On an impulse I asked him the way to station. He said, “Come with me, I am towards station too.”

I cursed myself for asking him. God knows where he might take me. But something inside me told me to go ahead. And I did. He not only led me to the station but took me straight to where the ladies’ first class coach stops. He waited there with me as a train chugged in and saw me to the coach. Due to the crowd and rush, I couldn’t turn back and say a thank you.

Three complete strangers helped me almost unreservedly in my crisis. Situations did not even let me thank them. All I could do was to wish them all good things in life.

I still hate the crowd. But I love the fact that there are some who care unconditionally for someone who is not a part of their crowd.

Pseudo-experience!

2011-03-04T04:22:00.000-08:00

It is not good to live in others’ shoes. It’s worse to re-live their worst experiences. Especially if the incident had turned out to be a dreaded event. I cannot really say I got a chance, since it wasn’t really a chance, but I had to do a little enactment of an incident.

4^th March, 2011

CNN IBN Studio

Reconstruction of Aruna’s tale

I never understood why news channels did it. Reconstructing a story that had either spoilt someone’s life or led someone’s life through hell. But I wanted to find out. And I certainly did.

I was asked to be a part of the reconstruction of Aruna Shanbaug’s story while interning at CNN IBN. I thought it was just a sidey part, but when given the costume, I realized I had to be Aruna. That was when I realized what mind-clogging means.

After I changed, I was told the script. There were only 4-5 shots. Aruna enters the nurse station. Starts to fiddle with her things. The ward boy enters. Starts to strangle her with a dog chain and a tussle ensues. She falls down, he tightens the noose and she passes out.

As we started enacting, it became scarier. I could visualize the real nurse-station, the gloomy darkness, and the bare cold walls. I was forgetting it was the studio. I knew I was supposed to just act, be in her character, but ‘act’. Even then it was becoming difficult.

During the shot of the tussle, I barely remember things. All I knew or thought was that here is a woman who is suffering the worst nightmare anybody could ever have. I was jostled in a scripted manner. It was all an enactment, I kept chanting.

The guy who enacted the rapist got little cuts by the end of the shoot. He had my sympathies. After all it wasn’t his fault that I got so engrossed. But I had the most animalistic feeling of hatred towards the real guy.

I was relieved when it ended. With a coffee in hand, I sat down to do the contemplations. The first thought that struck me was that it has never ended for the real lady.

Due date

2011-03-02T21:31:00.000-08:00

It has come back, all over again, after 3 years. Did I think that a random ramble across the library of the Manipal Institute of Communication would lead to that book and it would come to haunt me after 3 years? I did not.

3 years ago

October 2006

It was sometime towards the mid of first semester. I was bored since submissions had time and classes weren’t that interesting. That’s when I decided to go for reading. As I went through the library, I didn’t come across any of the usuals. Sidney Sheldon, Ken Folett, Peter James, Jeffery Archer no one was in sight. Damn! Then resignedly I took the nearest book in sight. Oh, an Indian writer. I am not a prejudiced person, but somehow I have found these ‘one time’ Indian writers quite boring. Pinky Virani. The name did not strike a cord except the surname for the obvious reasons (Virani has been a domestic surname since a certain Ms E Kapoor made it so).

Anyway, as I read the summary on the cover, I realized it was a tragedy. Not the Shakespeare kinds, but rather raw and real. The next few days were those of a tempest. I was feeling and living the book. Not because it was written well, but because it was about an ordeal that renders anyone’s heart and mind to tatters. Towards the end of the book, I realized it was a real life story. I was jostled, since reading the book was a shocking experience in itself. I remember keeping the book, re-reading it and even trying to find out if I can keep the book forever. I was surprised at myself, since I have never come across a book that made such an impact on me. After I returned the book, I couldn’t get over the story. But college and its atmosphere took over gradually.

3 years later.

December 2009

It has come back to me in a weird manner. It surfaced again, when a mercy-killing plea was put up. That was when the loop was at an exact half. Pinky Virani and a lawyer had approached the Supreme Court with a plea of euthanasia for the main character of the story. It was real and the sufferer has been surviving, rather suffering the ordeal since past 38 years. Somewhere things began to get muddled up again. Somethings remain at the back of your mind however hard you try to forget or ignore them. A slight reminder and it all gushes in, in double strength. And here it definitely was no slight reminder.

4 months later.

March 2, 2011.

2^nd week at internship and the story strikes again. I know I want to associate myself to it probably, to overcome the tempest inside me. I ask for the details of who’s covering it and join the crew. It is the plea’s judgment today.

4 months later.

March 2, 2011

3 pm

I am waiting in the OB van for the judgment to come and to do my package of the story. Suddenly my reporter comes running and says, “Pack up, the judgment has been reserved till Monday.” And I immediately comment in my head, 'I am never going to overcome this. Its too deep in my heart and mind for me to let go.'

To be continued…

Till Monday...

The beginning of Mumbai Chronicles

2011-02-28T23:25:00.000-08:00

Arjun

It is when you don’t have those little things in life and your life is cruising between thiings massive and larger-than-life itself, that you realize the importance those little things had in your life.

I am in Mumbai from past one week, I am bound to miss my family. But to my own big surprise, its Arjun that I miss the most. The way he looked at me while I was leaving, wanting to say lots. Those brows coming together in sad, probably curious expressions. I wondered if he ever understood what it meant to stay away from home.

May be not. After all, he’s new in the family as well. Oh he would have completely forgotten me in a day or two. And I haven’t been the kindest to him anyway. I adore him, no doubt. But I have been the strictest on him for his own sweet self. I know he would never understand that. And for the same reason, he would forget me, if I am not seen at home for 3 days together.

But I miss him. Probably more than my family. The way he used to cuddle next to me, make me run all around the place, mess things and then give a killer innocent look, and peering at me with those large brown eyes.

I miss you, Arjun. I hope you do too.

My Dear Suranwale Kaka

2010-12-28T23:50:00.001-08:00

Back after a long break. Anyway, this is not one of my grandma chronicles. Hence before the actual post begins, here’s a prologue.

I believe that every miniscule thing in this world is some or the other way related to each other. It definitely may not be very obvious but something common, a link sorts runs through all these elements. And I am not talking only about living beings. The link exists between me, the laptop I am typing in, the bed I am sitting on, the air with all its impurities me and you are breathing in, you, your ring, the fan above you, the dog barking in your street, a car parked in your society, Ground Zero in the US, a macaw from the Amazon forest and so on. One thought that casts itself in my head every time I travel by train is that every person, on this journey has some or the other story; a story of their life. And those stories, all of them are some or the other way related to each other. They are all plots and sub-plots, twining and inter-twining, within each other. This is one such story.

It all began when I went to the Khanderao market for the first time. I don’t know if I hadn’t been in that part of the market before or was it because I noticed only then. However, there he was. A genial smile, glittering eyes, sparse scattered hair and sitting amidst small mounds of yams and sweet potatoes.

The Khanderao market always attracted me. Whether it was the humungous amount of veggies there or the assortment of people, something always stayed on my mind after a visit. One look at him and I knew this time, it would be him. We went to buy yams from him. He also had sweet potatoes and being absolutely in love with them, I insisted my dad on buying some. Seeing me, he smiled and weighed some sweet potatoes as well. As he started loading them into a bag, he gave a wide smile, said something and put some more. However, when my dad paid him, he took money only for half of what he gave us. It was then that I realised that he had given us some extra sweet potatoes and had said that it was because I loved them. There it started.

Since then, every time I went to his section, he would give me extra sweet potatoes, and a wide one-tooth smile. For some unknown reason, he had taken a fancy for me and I liked the withered face and baby-like smile. Our family has a routine dialogue after we come back from the market. Dad says, “He likes you, really. Or why would he give extra sweet potatoes, even when prices are soaring!” Mum says, “His fingers too look like yam outgrowths, poor thing, so old and sitting there in the sun.” All I do is reflect upon this unspoken, very common yet unique relationship and wonder.

Wonder that there may be so many relationships like this. Bonds which exist only in the eyes of the doer or through their acts.

It's all about giving tests.

2010-10-19T09:35:00.001-07:00

Tell me, how many of us have not given tests or left them half-way, on the pretext of not having a pencil or pen to write? I know that for me at least somewhere in fifth or sixth standard, not having a proper pen or pencil was one reliable excuse for fewer marks in tests. Not for my granny though. She has a heroic act to her name, even for this situation.

This happened, as she remembers, when she was in first standard. At that time, they had oral tests. Sort of a math dictation, I would say as per her description. The master would speak out some sums and the students have to write down the answers. Now that, for utter non-math people like me, is one absolute torture.

Those days they had no notebooks or pens. Slates (made of lime chalk) and chalks were used for scripting. And chalks were very expensive commodity. For one aana you used to get a small piece of chalk, which was a little more than half an inch. That used to last for a month or at least the poor students tried to make it last so much. And losing the little more than half an inch chalk, was a sin. Then you go chalk-less till its time to buy a new one i.e. after a month. (When my grandma was narrating this, I was thinking, ‘Ha! What a great way of treating spoilt brats!’ But then, a rebuttal swooshed across my mind. ‘Don’t spoilt brats have more than enough pocket money, which is why most of them are spoilt?’)

And so as the story goes, my granny committed the great sin of losing her chalk pencil and she was chalk-less at the time of this math dictation. She knew all the answers and could remember all of it, but a missing chalk was stopping her from writing them down. The time kept its pace and the test was about to get over. The students were beginning to look relieved as the test neared its end. Granny was rigid with tension, with only her mind working at a lightening pace, thinking of ways to write down her answers. Asking the neighboring kid was not an option, copying would be the offense. Telling the master was also not an option, losing the chalk would be taken as an excuse. So what to do now? ‘Oh damn, the first boy in the row has got up to give his slate to the master. He is going to get it checked. There goes the second girl. Three more and then, it will be me’ thought granny.

As the girl in front of her stood up to go the master, my granny started to chew on her slate’s edge in her frustration. All of the sudden a piece from the edge broke and simultaneously an idea struck her. She picked up the broken piece of the slate and tried to draw a line. It was not very clear, but visible enough. Quickly she wrote down her answers. She remembered them clearly and hence, was quick enough. And as the girl in front of her returned to her position, it was time for granny to go the master. She scored full in the test and returned, a big smile on her face. No one knew that granny hadn’t given the test, along with others. It is after all, about giving the tests.

It was two days later that she saw herself in the mirror and found out that a piece of her one tooth had broken off, along with the piece of slate. I giggled as she pointed out the broken tooth now, with laughter dancing in her glowing eyes and said, “That one is for math.”

Peek-a-boo writing

2010-10-13T21:29:00.001-07:00

See what I said in my very first post. That’s exactly what is happening, all over again. Irregularity in writing! I mean my last post was on 22^nd September. Since then, I have not got what I call ‘the urge and surge’ to write!!! Sad, isn’t it??

Uh oh! Don’t think I haven’t asked people what to do with this. The last I asked was the illustrious Shobha De. This happened on 11^th October, when my batch was ‘exclusively’ invited for a ‘personal’ tête-à-tête with her, along with some other 100 people.

After her impressive speech and a war between my brains and heart, I put out the rather personal question to her. I asked her, if long bouts of gaps between my ‘urge and surge’ to write is a good or a bad sign. I had put out the question exactly as this, after my heart gave approval for its contents and my brains, for grammatical errors and required modulations of voice.

And she, being Shobha De- author of books like Spouse, Surviving Men, Socialite Evenings etc., asked me a counter question. She asked me what I did during the gaps. People laughed, I laughed and rephrased my question, she rephrased her reply and I sat down, still as clueless or you can say, more clueless than before.

All through the evening and the next day, I was pondering over whatever reply she gave me. Should I be a little acidic and say, ‘Oh she’s Shobha De, the I’ve-to-poke-my-nose-in-everyone’s-life writer? Or should I just keep mum and forget all about it thinking she made fun of me but what the heck, who knew me there anyway?! Honestly, I am more than ever confused about my writing.

(Sigh) All I can say is anyone who is reading this, if they have a solution to my ‘peek-a-boo writing’ trouble, please comment here. Oh, but I would be able to thank you only after some days, ok!

Ananthashayanam

2010-09-21T23:17:00.001-07:00

I know, I know. After reading this story, you might think that all my old lady had in her life were adventures or sort of it, and nothing else. But, I would say it is something like that. And no fictionalized moment is involved in any of it. The living legend still lives and all you need for a live documentation, is to come to my house. So, coming back to stories, do you know what ‘Ananthashayanam’ means? Before you google it and ‘navigate away from this page’, I will tell you.

‘Ananthashayanam’ is a Sanskrit word that comes from ‘a posture of reclination of Lord Maha Vishnu on the great snake called Kaliya’. His very famous posture is lying on the curled up shesh naag, with one elbow popped up and his head resting on it. So, imagine a human being in an ‘Ananthashayanam’ posture! Don’t worry. My granny did not do it. She just sort of did something like it.

Those days, she wasn’t living with us. We were here in Baroda and she used to visit us often. And yes, with a ticket and her baggage, she used to travel alone. All the way from Trivendrum to Baroda, when no 28-hour Konkan railway existed and when it took more than 48 hours for the journey. So, once it so happened that she had reached back home in Kerala, after a long journey and it was past 2 am. She used to live alone in her house, though her eldest son and family lived just a few yards away. On her insistence, we had not informed her son about her arrival.

As she had arrived late, she just opened the door, dumped the luggage and slumped on the rolled up bedding. She slept soundly till her daughter-in-law came knocking with tea and breakfast in the morning. After exchanging news and having breakfast, both of them decided to make the place a little inhabitable. As they both lifted up the rolled bedding, the daughter-in-law shrieked.

There, under the first set of mattress, stretched leisurely was a serpent. Almost nine feet long, shiny black and silvery tones here and there, it was lying on the second set of mattress. Grandma says that it had a look of being disturbed out of a pleasurable siesta, but certain calmness, unlike the humans, shone in its luminous eyes.

Pushing my shrieking aunt out, grandma stood outside for sometime. About 10 minutes later, they saw it get out of the nearby window and vanish among thick bushes beyond. When they got inside the room, they saw that it had left a gift for my granny. A still-shiny piece of its old skin! Bizarre gift, I know. All the same, she kept it carefully wrapped, till she came here to stay with us. No one till date knows whether granny was aware or not of the snake, through out the night.

My granny is known for the incident in the village, thanks to my aunt and her group of what we call over-the-fence-gossip-mongers. They call her ‘the lady who slept on a snake’. The lady who did something like ‘Ananthashayanam’.

Something Unseen

2010-09-20T04:20:00.001-07:00

All stories that my grandma tells me are not hilarious. I realised this the day she told me about her eyes. Nevertheless, it is definitely a story of courage of a 12-year old girl and ends on a happy note. But there is ‘something or someone’ in this piece, about which if I say now, it might sound, exaggerated. So let me get on with the story.

My old lady narrates this story or bits and pieces of it whenever she sees me drawing my eyes. She loves eyes that are well drawn. She drew my eyes for the first time in my life, when I was an infant and was the one who taught me how to put kohl in my eyes. However, I sat, without blinking my kohl-drawn eyes, when she narrated the story of her eyes.

When she was twelve, there was a dreaded disease called small-pox which had engulfed the nation. When it affected the eyes, they got horribly distorted. Returning from school one day, granny experienced stinging pain in her eyes. By the time, her mother came back from temple the little girl’s eyes had swollen up like plums, with severe pain. After a whole night of unsuccessful home-made treatments, her mother took her to the local government hospital. Towards evening, the doctors confirmed that it was not small-pox. According to them, the pain and swelling was due to abnormal growth of optical muscle inside her socket which might even mar her sight, if not operated soon. No name for such a disease existed. They operated and removed some mass of flesh from her eyes. After a gap of 10 days, she could see, though not as clearly as before. And after a gap of three months, the disease was back, with all its fury.

As the doctors kept on operating and removing the mass of growth from her eyes, the disease kept coming back every 3-4 months. Neither could the doctors name the disease nor could find the cause of the growth. Hence, within two years, she had had more than 12 eye surgeries and innumerable breaks from school. The school finally cut her name off from its list and my grandma’s tryst with education ended there.

After two years my granny’s maternal uncle came to stay in the village due to a transfer in his government service. When he saw the condition and the endless surgeries she had had, he had a word with her doctors and took her to the city hospital. At the city hospital, the doctor found out that the growth is the result of pus being formed from some gland near her eyes. A crucial surgery was prescribed for the following week.

My granny was sad on the day of the surgery. Four days later was the great ‘Kartika’ puja at the temple which is held at a great esteem. People from all over, come to see this puja during which, the deity is taken around the temple in its entire lit-up splendor. The mere sight of it is considered auspicious and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The little girl knew that she would never be able to come back to the village to see her favorite deity, all decked up, just within three days of surgery. She cried when she went to pray before going to the hospital and breathed a silent prayer, a whispered request.

When she was taken inside the operation theatre, she was greeted well. Then she saw that the doctors had a bowl of live leeches. Real blood-sucking ones! While she looked around, two doctors held her upper eye-lid and two held her lower eye-lid. The main surgeon, then, released three leeches in each eye. All this while, she was fully conscious, being only given the needed anti-poison injection.

The doctors had told her uncle beforehand about the procedure. There was no way to suck out the pus without disturbing the optical nerves and hence this kind of a technique. She should be kept in full consciousness during the surgery to avoid a coma-like situation and so no anesthesia was administered. After they removed the swooned leeches, they stitched up sutures by using the flesh from her thigh. The surgery had lasted four hours.

The next day the much-bandaged girl complained of severe pain in the eyes and the doctors removed the bandage to see blood oozing out. After they cleaned up the blood, they decided it was better to leave the area without bandage. By the third day, the pain and swelling had come down. On the eve of the third day, a depressed girl told her uncle about her desire to visit the puja, scheduled for the next day. The main surgeon heard this and kindly got the discharge papers done. It was quite later that he told my grandma that he himself was neither sure of the recovery nor why he had discharged her. By morning of the day of puja, my grandma was back in her house, eagerly waiting to see her beloved deity, in all its grandeur, though with bleary eyes.

The disease never came back after that and since then, my grandma goes to her beloved deity, every year, to see and thank Her. Just to be with Her.

Of leopards and coconut-graters...

2010-09-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

We, Mallus are madly in love with two things. Mohanlal and coconut. We use coconut in God alone knows what all forms. There is this one way where you scrap the white insides into small fine pieces. Before the modern grater was invented, we in Kerala invented an iron equipment called the ‘Cherava’. Now the ‘cherava’ is scary looking machinery. It has an iron part attached to a wooden plank that looks like a seat, with the iron part having pointed claw-like ends. The whole thing weighs around two-three kilograms. To scrap out the coconut, one has to sit on the plank and work in a particular rhythm. Believe it or not, you still find it in some of the modern households in Kerala and very much in use! Now, how does an ancient coconut-grater connect to the story that I am going to tell, is something to be known by the end of the tale.

Now, starting with the story, last week, the paper was full of photographs about a crocodile which had strayed onto the road following heavy rains and rising level of river water. I came up to show my old woman the clearly-taken (I should say cleverly-taken) shots of Mr. Croc. She gave them all a little less than two minutes and then gave a oh-please-I’ve-seen-better look. Seeing me a little disappointed she told me about a funny encounter she had when she was six.

During that time, her grandparents were living with them. I’ll get confused, first, if I try to put it like my grandmother’s grandmother. So my grandmother’s grandmother is GM and her grandfather is GP. So while GM and GP were living with them, their village was very remote. So much so that dense forests separated two neighboring houses. Hence, wild animal sighting was normal, and this I mean in kitchens and backyards of houses. Shudder!

Anyway, one particular day, GM took my old lady and her siblings ‘to shit’ towards the pastures a little beyond their house. Making them all sit, she came back to attend to GP who sat in the porch, chewing betel-leaf. Now, during those few days, there was a huge leopard scare. Apparently one large male had left its deep forest abode to check out the streets and some new markets. While GM was in kitchen, GP in the porch, and the kids shitting (And NOT shitting bricks, as they didn’t know about the lurking hero then…), somebody from the neighbourhood shouted about the leopard being around the house.

GM heard this and throwing everything around, ran towards the kids yelling her lungs out. GP did not move. She reached the area (the kids kept moving from one spot to another after every helping) and found all four kids out. Two she picked up (my nani being one of them) and literally dragged the other two (all of them only half done with their helpings). GP did not move. She ran inside, put all the whining and shitting kids down and banged the door close. GP still did not move. She kept yelling at him to get inside the house and to close it, but GP did not move. Then she saw something move among the plants, got very scared and closed the door. Now the door was made of coconut leaves (see what I mean when I said we Mallus love coconut!) and it did not have a latch.

As GM searched for heavy things to put against the door to shut it tight, GP, still sitting coolly outside, still chewing betel-leaves, says, “Dear, put the ‘cherava’ against the door. The leopard will never be able to break the door down.”

Very silent and almost about to shit bricks (I am sorry, I couldn’t resist my temptation to put this!), I, paused for a minute after that dialogue, imitated in a croaked voice, by my super story-teller, and burst out laughing. I laughed till my insides hurt and till I decided that this story, of leopards and coconut-scrapers, is going to be a part of my nani chronicles.

An ode to my ol' granny...

2010-09-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

Grey eyes and grey hair with a bundle of cream clothes is all one can see of her. She sits in one corner of my house, semi-vacant expression on her fully-wrinkled face. You can feel soft warm aura around her. She is full of energy (after all she went to Vaishnodevi shrine at the age of 79!), full of anecdotes about her childhood and her village (she may not remember where she kept her specs the day before, but that’s her!), and full of 79 year old experiences (Yes, she’s soon to be one year younger!). She is the coolest ol’ granny-nani or Ammu (short form for ammamma- maternal grandmother in Malayalam).

I am called her secretary because apparently only I can understand and to quote my mum, ‘deal with her’. Not that she throws tantrums; it is just that my mum lacks the patience to sit and listen to 100 stories before she calls her for dinner. I have the patience, not only to sit and listen but to make her understand that I am here to take her downstairs for dinner. Not that she demands anything in particular (except her 6 pm Bhagavatham on Asianet.); she is the most undemanding, non-tantrum throwing oldie I have ever seen! And I say this NOT because she is my granny.

She came to live with us when I was 10 and since then, my tenure as her ‘secretary’ has continued. Right from what she is to where, what she is to eat, where she is to go, her medicines, her little knick-knacks everything is…decided by her, executed by me. Nobody is allowed to be angry with her even if she falters. It is primarily my domain. She gets easily hurt if anyone else talks against her. I have frequent squabbles with mum over her getting hurt by mum. But getting back to her, I admonish her if it’s her fault. Then she feels good about it. She is always the first to figure out that I have an issue in my heart by merely being around me. And there have been surprising times when I have brought her something that she wanted to call for, at that exact moment. No, don’t take me wrong. I don’t believe in cosmic connections. But there sure is something I cannot name…

She is one Pandora’s Box of anecdotes. You give her one word and she can give you more than five real life stories on it. And stories, they definitely are! I am actually thinking of writing a book on them titled ‘Gradma’s tales- Reloaded. Based on true life incidents.’

I’ll narrate the one that comes to my head right now. Last week, it rained for one whole day and we had lots of creepy crawlies centipede look-alikes in our garden. They petrify the living hell out of me and I told my old woman how I was about to paste one on the garden floor with my foot by mistake. That was when she remembered a thread from her yarn of stories. She used to live in a thatched house of coconut leaves and mud till the age of 10, as her mother was a temple garland-maker. Their family of five (four children and a mother, the father being irresponsible and always out) survived on the left-over prasadam that the temple ‘Goddess’ (read: management) had the mercy to spare. Once when she came back from school, famished as usual, her mother had left her some spoilt beaten-rice from the night before. She nearly fell over it and started gulping down, mouth full. As she was chewing the last mouth full, she felt something moving and scraping the insides of her mouth. Since she did not want to spit the mouth full (She was definitely not full. What do you expect three small bowls of spoilt beaten-rice to do?), she put two fingers inside her mouth and pulled whatever was there, out. And what she said almost choked me on the lemon juice that I was having. It was a live centipede.

Now if you have seen a centipede, you might know that it is not quite a good sight to see. At least not when you almost chewed it like a piece of vegetable in your lunch! Seeing my face go pale and eye bulge out, my super fun-loving oldie went to great extents to describe the centipede’s beautiful features, as if she was describing Ranbir Kapoor! It was six inches long, the width of my middle finger and black, with cream-coloured numerous legs. It had two long stings or whatever zoologists call it, on both ends and hence it was difficult to figure out its head and tail. Now how does that matter, I don’t know. The fact that it was found where it was found, made me have enough of any creepy crawly for a lifetime!

So now you can imagine my weirdly fun-loving and naughty dear ol’ granny. I’ll try chronicle more of her anecdotes here. Watch this space…

Here's to Dad and writing...

2010-09-14T00:40:00.000-07:00

My dad compares me to Velukutty.

Now, before weird thoughts jump around, Velukutty was a genius of a writer who lived near my dad’s old house during the latter’s boyhood days. Velukutty wrote in some of those weeklies, which were a favourite among the women between the age group of 15- 40 during that era. He had made many a lady cry with his portrayal of the quintessential Malayalee woman, who lives and pines for her lover, then her husband and her child. Velukutty was a genius with only one flaw, if that could be considered one. Velu drank like a fish. He is said to have made drunken scuffles at all alcohol shops in Thrissur. Finally, at the age of 34, Velu’s popularity declined, due to his habits. One day, he was found lying near a canal, on the way to his house, dead! Many believed that his flaw killed the genius of Velukutty or he would have risen to unprecedented heights.

I am no genius. But I used to write. Write something or the other. My dad remembers my first essay at the age of 5, when we were only writing our first sentences. I wrote a page about myself and my ambition to be a writer. My cupboards are filled with diaries I wrote right from standard 3 till 1^st year of college. After that I got a laptop and MS Word took over dog-eared leather-bounds.

I kind of lost my diary writing practice somewhere after graduation. “Why don’t I see you writing nowadays?” my dad questions me after his anecdote on Velu draws my attention to him, this time more seriously. “Look, I don’t know what has got into you. You may like your field of journalism or watching and dreaming about making films, but I always thought your true calling was writing. So come what may, don’t stop writing.” I looked at him for him to continue. “Start a blog. I want you to do it. Begin it for me and I am sure you will do it for yourself before you’re through with your second post. I don’t want a Velukutty in my family.” It was warning or a request I cannot say, but conclusive, it definitely was. And that is when I decided, enough of whiling away time, thinking I need a blog. Now, it is time.