അച്ചന്റ്റെ വീട്

വീട് എത്താറാകുമ്പോള്‍ മുഴുവന്‍ വളവുകള്‍ ആണ്, ഒടുവിലത്തെ വളവു തിരിയുമ്പോള്‍ , ദൂരെ നിന്നു അമ്പലപ്പറമ്പിലേക്കുള്ള പടികള്‍ കാണാം.. , അങ്ങേ അറ്റത് അമ്പലവും ! മനസ്സില്‍ ആയിരം മുല്ല പൂകള്‍ വിരിഞ്ഞ സുഗന്ധം ആണ് അപ്പൊ . അമബല മതിലിന്ടെ ഇപ്പുറത് വഴിയും പിന്നെ എന്റെ വീടും. വീട് കണ്ടപ്പോള്‍ ചങ്ക് ഒന്ന് പിടഞ്ഞു, മുകള്ളിലെ വാട്ടര്‍ ടാങ്ക് ഇടിഞ്ഞു അടുകള്ളയിലോട്ടു ഇരുര്നിര്കുന്നു . ഒഴിഞ്ഞു കിടകുനത് അല്ലെ, ഇനി എന്ധിനു ഇങ്ങനെ ഒരു അസ്ഥിത്വം എന്ന് കരുതി കാണും .

കുട്ടികാലത് എലാ വേനല്‍ അവധിക് വരുമ്പോളും രണ്ടു കയ്യും നീട്ടി മാറോട് ചേര്‍ത്തത് ഈ നാല് ചുവരുകള്‍ ആണ്. എനിക്ക് എന്നും ഒരുപാട് സ്നേഹം ആണ് ഈ വീടിനോട് . അച്ഛന്‍ വള്ളരന്ന വീട് ,അച്ഛന്റെ കാല്‍ പാടുകള്‍ വീണിട്ട് ഉള്ള വീട് . എന്നെ കാളും കൂടുതല്‍ അച്ഹനെ കണ്ടിട്ട് ഉള്ള വീട്. ആ വഴി ചിന്ത പോയാല്‍ പിന്നെ പിടിച്ചാ കിട്ടില്ല . എലാ അവധികും ഞാന്‍വരുമ്പോള്‍ അമ്പലത്തില്‍ പൂരം ആയിര്കും. പഞ്ചവാദ്യവും, ആനകളും, വെഞ്ചാമരവും, പിന്നെ കുറെ പെട്ടി കടകളും. വീട് ബന്ധുക്കളും നാട്ടുകാരും കൊണ്ട് നിറയും. രാത്രി കാലത്ത് തിണ്ണയില്‍ ബെഞ്ച്‌ ഇട്ടു, അതില്‍ കേറി നിന്ന്, അമ്പല പറമ്പില്‍ നടക്കുന്ന ബാല്ലയും പാട്ട് കച്ചേരിയും കണ്ടു ഉറങ്ങാതെ കഴിച്ച കൂട്ടിറ്റ് ഉണ്ട്. അതിനു ഇടക് ആരും അറിയാതെ പോയി, സ്വസ്ഥം ആയിട്ട് ഏതേലും മൂലക്ക് പായയില്‍ ചുരുണ്ട് കൂടി കിടക്കുന്ന ബാലേട്ടനെ ചെവിയില്‍ ഈര്കിലി കൊണ്ട് പതുകെ തോണ്ടി ഓടീട്ട് ഉണ്ട് .

സന്ധ്യ നേരത്ത് , മുറ്റത് നിനാല്‍ അമബലത്തിലെ വിള്ളകുകള്‍ തെള്ളിഞ്ഞു തിള്ളങ്ങുന്നത് കണ്ണിമ വെട്ടാതെ നോകി നിന്നിട്ട് ഉണ്ട്. ഇന്നും, എപ്പോഴും മനസിന്‌ , സമാധാനം ശാന്തിയും നെല്‍കുന്നു ആ ചിത്രം.ഇരുട്ട് ആകാറാകുമ്പോള്‍ അയല്‍പ്പക്കത്തെ അപ്പു ഏട്ടന്‍ വരും. അങ്ങേരു എന്ധോ കുരുതകേട്‌ ഒപ്പിച്ചു കുറച്ച ദിവസം സര്‍ക്കാര്‍ വിരുന്നില്‍ കഴിഞ്ഞിട്ട് ഉണ്ട്. അവിടെത്തെ ഗോതമ്പ് ഉണ്ടയുടെ സ്വാദും, ഇടിയുടെ ഗുണങ്ങള്‍ എലാം പറയുമ്പോള്‍ അനിയനും ഞാനും തിണ്ണയില്‍ ചിരിച്ചു തല കുത്തി മറഞ്ഞിട്ട് ഉണ്ട് . അങ്ങനെ എത്രെയോ ഓര്‍മ്മകള്‍ പാഞ്ഞു എത്തി.

ഇന്ന് ഈ വീട്ടില്‍ താമസകാര്‍ ഇല്ല , പഴയ കാല്പാടുകളുടെം , ചിരിയുടെം, നെടുവീര്പുകളുടെം, വിരിഞ്ഞും വിരിയാതെയും ആയ ഏറെ സ്വപ്നങ്ങളുടെ ദൃസ്സാക്ഷി ആയി, നിഷബ്ദായി, എന്റെ അച്ചന്റ്റെ വീട്.

വരുമോ?

നാളെ ഞാന്‍ പുറപ്പെടുന്നു, നാട്ടിലേക്കു, ഒരു വിവാഹത്തില്‍ പങ്കെടുക്കാന്‍ ..വിവാഹം ആകുമ്പോള്‍ കണ്ടു മറന്നവര്‍ , മറക്കാത്തവര്‍ ഒക്കെ കാണുമല്ലോ ..ആ സന്തോഷം ഉണ്ട് മനസില്‍, പിന്നെ നിന്നെ ഒന്ന് കാണാന്‍ ഉള്ള മോഹവും, നേരിയ പ്രതീക്ഷയും ..

25 വര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍ ആയി നാം തമ്മില്‍ കണ്ടിട്ട്, ഒരിക്കല്‍ മാത്രം ഈ ജന്മം തീരും മുന്‍പ് നിന്നെ ഒന്ന് കാണണം, നിന്റെ കണ്ണുകളില്‍ ആ ഓര്‍മ ഉണ്ടോ എന്നറിയണം.

ഞാന്‍ ഇത്രയും വര്‍ഷം എന്റെ ഹൃദയത്തിന്റെ ആഴങ്ങളില്‍ സൂക്ഷിച്ചു കൊണ്ട് നടക്കുന്ന ആ നറുമണം അത് നിന്നെയും തലോടുന്നുവോ എന്ന് എനിക്കറിയണം.

കളിയും ചിരിയും തമാശക്കും ഇടയ്ക്കു അന്ന് ഒരു സന്ധ്യാനേരത്ത്, നീ എന്റെ കൈ പിടിച്ചു മുഖത്തോട് അടുപ്പിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ എന്റെ കുപ്പി വള പൊട്ടി ചോര പൊടിഞ്ഞത് നീ അറിഞ്ഞില്ല ..ആ നേരത്ത് ഞാനും. എന്റെ പുറം കൈ കൊണ്ട് നീ നിന്റെ താടി തലോടുമ്പോള്‍ കുത്തി കേറുന്ന രോമങ്ങള്‍ അത് ഞാന്‍ അറിഞ്ഞു..പിന്നെ നിന്റെ ചുണ്ടിന്റെ സ്പര്‍ശവും. കൈ കുടഞ്ഞു ഓടി പോകുമ്പോള്‍ നിന്നെ വീണ്ടും ഒന്ന് കാണാന്‍ ഒരു ദീര്‍ഘ കാലത്തേ കാത്തിരിപ്പു വേണ്ടി വരുമെന്ന് തീരെ പ്രതീക്ഷിച്ചില്ല. നാo തമ്മില്‍ നിഷ്കളങ്കമായ ഒരു ചുംബനത്തിന്റെ ബന്ധം മാത്രം. എന്നില്‍ അത് ഒരു ദൃഡമായ കണ്ണി ആയി കിടന്നപ്പോള്‍ നിനക്ക് അത്, മറവിക്ക് പോലും അപ്പുറം , ഒരു ഇന്നലെ പോലും ഇല്ലാത്ത നിസ്സാര നിമിഷം മാത്രം ആയിരുന്നോ..

Nitu and the birdie

When my younger one, Nitu, was in pre-school, we lived in Cochin, in a quaint home with our very own trees and birds, grass in the lawn and butterflies on flowers. She would be home by lunch-time, a little bundle of energy as she ran and stood by the window while I got her food. As soon as I picked her and put on the ledge , she would ask..'Mamma, did she come today? 'Yeah, yeah put this into your mouth first and I'll tell you' .

I had given up on mythical tales and the normal stories one told kids. My elder one had totally washed me out. She was a story- monger, her sources being many, her grandpa, my mother, her father and so on. Everytime I began she would go 'Mammaa this one i know' or 'oh mamma, this isnt how it is, achhachan said its this way'.. I had to graduate to cooking up stories. I'd learnt my lesson so when it was Nitu's turn I tried something different.

I would talk to her about the little birdie who came asking for her while she was in school and the little dolls eyes would pop out.'.oh mamma really'? 'Yes darling, she was carrying hay and came to ask if Nitu could help her build her home'. 'Oh mamma really? Could I do that mamma? . 'Yes I believe you could, you need strength to climb up the tree though'. ' I 'll have all this food and more mamma'. Can I try climbing the tree after I finish? No No, your belly will get stuck to the tree, you have to let your food digest. ' Oh ok mamma'..

After some time we would go tree climbing. I would watch and laugh to see the puny thing trying to go up the jack-fruit tree. 'Mamma, are you sure its this one, Cant see the birdie anywhere'??. 'I better confirm with her tommorrow, till then lets go check out on nests in your birdie book'. ' Mamma please tell her to come after one o clock tommorrow'. Next day the squirrel would come along too. As far as Nitu was concerned her mom knew animal language. She thoroughly enjoyed learning it from me. Later on she made a small dictionary of bird language with a lesson for begginners included. I have saved that book somewhere..

She is a grown up girl today, I would love to post one of her poems;

I’m standing on a river bank

Whose width I can’t fathom

To wade across to higher land

To the place that I call home.

She laughs at me as I stand there still

As she twists and turns with glee

She cackles as she smothers rocks

Evidently wild and free

I let her cold embrace my palms

As I tried to judge her pace

She nearly took my hand away

And splashed upon my face

‘Why’ I asked the icy force

‘Won’t you let me through?’

‘I’m sorry dear,’ she giggled on

‘This is what I’m told to do’

So I sat down on the fertile land

As the wind caressed my cheeks

And she watched me from just feet away

For days and then for weeks

I saw many-a-men come along

And try bridge her beauty

But she took them with her violent flow

As she said it was her duty

Finally, she looked at me

And questioned my resolve

She asked me if I would ever try

To go over her once more

I nodded as I slowly spoke

And as she raced and danced

‘I was merely waiting for my turn

To see if I stood a chance’

She studied me for a moment small

After which she slowed her speed

Then she thinned herself so very thin

No thicker than a reed

‘What’s the matter?’ I quickly ask

‘Is there anything that is wrong?’

‘You turned yourself to a babbling brook’

‘When you were a force so strong!’

To that she smiled a brilliant smile

Which to see I had to blink

‘I let you go because’ she said

‘You were the one to stop and think.’

So I bade farewell to the former wild

Who now was just a sliver

I thanked her as I walked ahead

And lived to cross the river

© Nivedita Sekhar (2011)

Back to school again....

Every time I think of this incident, I cannot stop laughing out aloud. There was a boy called Raghu in my class who had this huge droopy brown eyes. He didnt care much for the class activities, always giving the impression that he was somewhere far away...We never bothered him and he wasnt interested in us.

What happened that year was Seema and me , we were seated next to the huge window and Raghu sat in the next row, one bench behind. One day, Seema happened to notice Raghu gazing lazily at us. She nudged me and asked me to see what Raghu was upto. Very furtively, from below my lashes I spied on him, she was right!! he was indeed staring at us, his huge eyes half shut but focussed.

Frankly I wasnt thinking of reacting, but Seema had other plans. As soon as the period got over she turned around and demanded ' Raghu, are you mad or what, staring at us like that' ~!!. Raghu woke up with a shudder, looked at Seema piercingly, like he was seeing some alien. I was looking at his eyes, surprised they could pierce, when he boomed in his boomeranging voice..'' Who would look at you monkeys, ( no affectionate monkey calling was this, this was the original monkey in all its glamour) I was looking out the window''. The whole class burst out laughing, Seema went purple, she was a dark kid and I went coffee, I am a brown one. Ever since, I am never too sure, even if someone was to stand right before me and look at me, I would simply think he was looking through me.

The incident also showed another side of Raghu to us. Next day he came loaded with chocolates, that too my favourite- Five stars. It was very nice of him to apologize through chocolates. We accepted graciously and extended our hand of friendship and gave him permission to stare outside our window for as long as he wished to. Frankly, I was silently hoping he would call me monkey the next week too, as long as the apologies followed in this form.

Woke up with thoughts of my school....wish I could go back there

I was in the seventh grade then, Christy, my best-friend was in the same class, same bench. The next year we were shifted to the new school building. Uptil then, from a long time back, our school was the barracks inside the military compound. We were surrounded by a large expanse of military land, abundant with trees and grass. There were long rows of class rooms, some of them with wooden partition which enabled the naughtier ones to peek through and maintain long-distance conversations.

Once the recess bell rang, the atmosphere would burst with the noises of hundreds of us. Christy and me, we would gobble down each others tiffin. Then we would run to the end of the quiet road and begin our tour of France and Italy and any other place we chose to. I was the imaginative one and she the humorous. We would spend the rest of our time visiting monuments and market places, conversing in french and italian, a word of which neither of us knew. Holding our hands and laughing our guts out at our own foolery till the bell rang and we had to dash back to our class.

Being amongst the tallest in the class we were seated in the second last bench with the bigger hooligans sitting behind us. Our desks were not large enough to take our bags, so we tucked it behind us on the bench. These hooligans would quietly give their desk a tug and there, our bags would be on the floor. After having picked up our bags for the umpteenth time that day, Christy stared at the boys and shouted ' All you chuha chaaps'..meaning all you rat moulds...and they immediately retorted back, You two bandar chaaps! That was the beginning of the Chuha-bandar war. The entire year was spent fighting them. Luckily the next few years they didnt pop up in my class. Sadly neither did Christy. Our tours came to an end, but never our friendship.

About almost a decade later I was walking through the busy lanes of Colaba when I halted to check the books at the roadside open library. As I ruffled through the pages of a book I heard a hello, there was this tall man looking at me expectantly, a smile on his face. He looked familiar and before I could control it I heard myself say ' chuha chaap' and he roared in laughter shrugging away my apologies. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he lowered his voice and murmured and you are still the same bandar...

mind on rewind...

My childhood wasn't an easy one. Destiny hadn't designed it to be thus. The sudden demise of dad in an accident set a pall of gloom over my house. I was left struggling with a deep sense of fear and insecurity about life. Every time mom left for work, I wouldn't be sure if she would be returning back safe. My nights were infested with bad dreams , trains colliding, buildings falling..it took me a long long time to eventually quell these dreams. They left a deep mark on my pysche.

Luckily for me, not all was dark and gloomy. There was another side to my life; We lived in a neighbourhood cluttered with children my age. I had plenty of friends, we had a roaring time playing , inventing games, conducting skits and fancy dresses. Most of our time after school we spent together. We grew up together, our bonds binding us for life. I forgot my misery whilst with them.

Back home, Amma , her sweet face shadowed in sadness , holding her head high, playing her super-woman role to keep the house-hold running was and will be always an enigma to me, an ever-flowing source of inspiration. After her office work, house-chores and the incessant pain in her heart, she still had the strength in her to sing us poems of Vallathol and Kumaran asan. Many a nights I have struggled hard to keep awake so as to not miss any syllable of her crooning. It is now that I have children of my own and have seen much of life, it sinks into me more and more deeply about how tremendously strong my mother was then and is now. I wish I could be as hard-working and strong as her. I have inherited her pride. It may pass of as arrogance and ego to some, in me, it is only a self-defence mechanism that sets off by default whenever there is a slight indication of the self-esteem being hit at. It is something which kept my mom going. I believe it will me too...

Yet another beautiful diwali..

Diwali is the most romantic time of the year for me. To be a Mumbaiite and not fall in love with Diwali; cant be ! I celebrate it with the same zest I used to when I was a little girl. Cleaning up my home, making sweets, lighting diyas, putting rangoli , dressing up. It remains a pure joy in my heart, this beautiful festival of Lights.

As a little girl I enjoyed showing off my cracker bursting abilities. Greatly skilled in exploding bombs, I would light the tiny red ones in my hands and throw them far. It is sheer luck that none of them landed on someone's head. Sparklers and Paoos ( rain fountain) thats the literal translation, please dont ask me the actual name :D- were my favourites. My risk taking in life began and end at lighting the paoos and running to safety. For weeks our home would be stocked with home made savouries sent by our maharashtrian neighbours.

Even today as I dress up for the occassion, I go back to being a kid, my eyes lighting up like the diyas around me and my heart singing chorus to...deepavali manaye suhani, mere sai ke haathon mein jaadu ka paani.......

Take me out of diwali...can never take diwali out of me..

Oh yes, the crackers, I took them out of me long time back. Before I could cause mass destruction I went and burnt my little finger bursting those tiny, not so nice, red bombs. That put an end to my crackering days.

Wishing the entire universe A very happy, prosperous and bright diwali !

Just this and that...

Back to the feeling of being trapped in a cage, not my house, I have no restrains here, can move out at will. It is my soul, I feel my soul is trapped in my body. I am not comfortable in my skin. And this feeling isn't new, sometimes I almost try stretching the edges , maybe if I could shuffle myself a bit, jump up and down I would settle better into this covering.

I am not easy around people, most of the time all I want to do is stare at them, unknown to them and enjoy the gamut of emotions, expressions that run through them. Dont mis-understand me, am as good a talker as most women and I enjaaay talking, but, it so happens I rarely come across people I feel like talking to. I simply cant make small talk, when I do, I am embarrassed at myself. I am a misfit...I think I must be an alien ! or maybe am just nuts...(dont get out of your shell, and you shall remain a nut forever said some great man )

Today was just another routine day, except for the two hours power cut in the morning and another two hours in the evening, in case anybody was complaining. How nice to be roasted inch by inch. I quietly took a book and dropped off to sleep. Luckily these things dont bother me much unlike my daughter, whose face was like all hope's lost and doomsday has come. I thought of telling her of our visits to current- less kerala in our early childhood. Those days, absence of television, lights and fan was an adventure. Good sense prevailed and I did not bother her with the 125th rendition of the story. Poor thing slept off on the sofa staring at the fan wishing it to start moving.

I woke up with a fresh layer of tan...looking like a brown duck.

Quack! quack !

A gift for life.

Your face is etched in my soul, I would never forget it. Your lean body, silky brown hair rubbing your shoulders- framing a face so serene. Your eyes - they held so much compassion in them like a flowing river of love. I was amongst the hundreds that day who stood shocked and choking over the gruesome sight. Even when you bled on your cross, your eyes poured out love and for a fleeting moment you looked at me and I sensed you blessed me, blessed me with love for all times.

Yet another era, I would stare at your beautiful face, your eyes twinkling with mischief while you played your flute. When you turned and smiled at me, a lone gopi as common as one could be, I knew I had just turned special , you had sent me love forever and ever. Every age, every life I have seen you, known you and felt your ever-nourishing, unconditional love. I see your presence in all the love that comes my way. I am special, for you have blessed me with your greatest gift -love.

Bridge on a River

She stood on the bridge,absolutely still, gazing at the water below. The old stone-bridge, with its moss grown edges must be atleast a hundred years old and the river flowing below even older. She was the bridge: watching over the river that was life which flowed through her and beyond her, so close yet so far. She wished to be the river - to flow into the sea eventually. Meanwhile, to embark on a journey of discovery, of coves and ravines, known and unknown ways, to mark her own path where there was none, to use every bit of life in her before the sea engulfed her.

Would the river ever hear the pleas of her heart, would she with her incessant flowing, one day, erode the bridge to collapse and merge with the river, to become one with life and march towards their destiny....

Ramblings...

I think its happened eventually, I have lost it, gone nuts, mad, crazy, whatever.

My head is a jumble of live wires, all of them lighting up together, crossing each other, short-circuiting my system. I stare at my reflection, who is that there? Frankly, not that I ever recognized myself, I've tried looking for me inside that 5'6 frame of mine. Never been able to capture a clear image. I am still a long way away from me. When will I ever ? if I ever will...

Why do we do things we do sometimes? Answers elude me, questions keep rising. Is life a journey towards your own happiness, everything else being secondary? or is life a balancing game, some happiness, some restraint. What happens when your mind, your bones get too tired of the balancing game, when you want to just let go and allow the forces of universe to take over. Lead you to your destiny, whatever that be. Is that disaster standing at the next corner? This one is only meant for the brave, the ones who put their sails to the winds and rise with the waves. I am no steel, I dont gamble. If I were to let go, where would u take me, time, author of my destiny!

Questions...questions...

Is it my time now?

My dreams astir, the dormant wild side rousing from slumber. Is it time to rush into the lashing rain hitting me headlong, while the Gods play their thunder song. Tall high peaks mine to climb and feel the wind in my hair , as I look down on the world, a beautiful backdrop- a witness to my boundless joy.

Unreined, untamed I dance to the vibrating, pulsating beat of my soul, carefree, mad, lost to the world.

Is it my time to soar, my wings scaling new heights, almost touching the stars. Is this my cue? Life in all its vivid bright colors beckoning to me, is it time to paint my heart in a million hues of the kind never known or seen before!!!!

Another series of bomb blast in the city, tv channels go alive, buzzing with energy asking mundane, stupid questions to dazed people standing by the crowded site. Whatever happens, there is no respite to the crowd in Mumbai. The bus-stop must have been crowded too, fathers, sons, moms with kids waiting at home, children rushing to get back home from colleges, schools. Some twisted blood thirsty mind, with some personal agenda on his itenary, decides its high time to snuff away some lives. Cheapest and most valueless, being , the life of another.

Atleast the newspapers wont have to worry about headlines for tommorrow.

Yashoda

Yashoda was a girl in my neighbourhood. She was all of nineteen, beautiful, her skin tanslucent like pearls, smiling expressive eyes, a royal nose with a shining stone at the tip. She had long beautiful tresses. Whenever I think of her its her laughter that rings in my ears. Its been more than thirty years, yet her picture lies stamped in my memory .

Kitty and me, thats my friend-we were two peas in a pod, there was/is one more pea to this pod, who now lives in Kochi. ( If I miss her out here, she will murder me) so- kitty and me we would run to Yashoda as soon as we gobbled up our lunch after school. I was not more than eleven then. Yashoda would be waiting for us after an early lunch and siesta. As soon as she saw us she would get her magazine out while we waited like good children, squatting on the mat she laid out for us. The next hour or so we would be lost in Yashoda's stories. The hero's and heroine's of her stories became part of our lives.

Sometimes, eyes wistful, her stories would stray to her village, some where far away in Karnataka, where her mom and siblings lived. Then, suddenly she would make us listen to her heart beating, which was like a wild horse galloping . Amused at our shocked faces she would laugh out loud- her head thrown back, revealing her thin graceful neck. She said she had a hole in her heart and she had come to her father in the city to get herself treated. That was why she had extremely thin arms and body.

One evening, while we played in the courtyard, I heard a huge commotion in front of her house. Someone shouted out to me, 'somethings happened to your friend'. I went numb, my thoughts , my body, I remember sitting outside her house staring into oblivion. I could hear Kitty sobbing out loud loudly, her mom trying to pacify her.There were no tears from me, I had no wish to go see her. I dont remember how long I sat there. Slowly my cells began working again and from some place deep inside me I heard a voice say 'so - its not just my dad, others die too'.

I still cant fathom my reaction then, I would like to believe it was my natural defence mechanism taking over to protect me from the pain. She lives in my thoughts, her smile, her laugh all intact.

An attempt...at kavitha

ഒരു അശ്രു ബിന്ദുവായ്‌

Nin കണ്ണില്‍ നിന്ന് ഊര്‍ന്നു

കവിലിണ തഴുകി

ചുണ്ടില്‍ ഒതുങ്ങുവാന്‍ മോഹം

പിന്നെ ചിലപ്പോള്‍

തോരാത്ത മഴയായി

നിന്നെ പൊതിഞ്ഞു

നിന്‍ ആത്മാവില്‍

kulliraayi ചൊരിയുവാന്‍ മോഹം

ഒരു നേര്‍ത്ത സൂര്യ കിരണമായ്

നിന്‍ ശിരസ്സില്‍ തലോടാന്‍

എന്നില്ലേ ഊര്‍ജം

നിന്നിലേക്കൊഴുക്കാന്‍

പിന്നെ ചിലപ്പോള്‍

കത്തുന്ന സൂര്യനായ്

നിന്നെ എന്നിലേക്ക്‌ ഉരുക്കി

ഒന്നായി ചേരുവാന്‍ മോഹം

മേട മാസത്തിലെ ഇളം തെന്നലായ്

നിന്‍ മേനി തൊട്ടു

എന്നിലെ നറുമണം

Ninnil പകര്‍തതാന്‍

പിന്നെ ചിലപ്പോള്‍

ഒതുങ്ങാത്ത കാറ്റായ്

നിന്നെ ചുറ്റിപുണര്‍ന്നു

എന്‍ ശ്വാസത്തില്‍ ഒതുക്കാന്‍

ഓരോ മോഹങ്ങള്‍ അങ്ങിനെ

അശ്രുവായ്, രശ്മിയായ്

എന്നില്‍ നീയും

നിന്നില്‍ ഞാനും

ഒരേ gaanathin ഈണമായി

താളം ആയി ......

I was a princess once !

When I was a little girl, not so long ago (ahem) I would quietly slip away from all, sit in a corner and day-dream. My mom would often chastise me on this habit of mine. Eyes half shut, my lips curved in half a smile-already anticipating glee, I would step into my dream room, full of greeting cards, stacked from bottom to the ceiling.

Colourful cards of butterflies , flowers, mickey/minne mouse, my favourite being the three dimensional ones that came from the gulf. Hours would pass by with me conjuring up minute details of my beautiful cards.

At other times I would be climbing the faraway tree, up the ladder into the 'land of goodies'. The roads paved of chocolate and benches of sponge cake, tarts and pastries growing on trees and my favourite five star chocolates to be plucked from low bushes. . I am sure Enid Blyton wouldnt mind this slight inclusion.

Sometimes, I would pamper myself with clothes. Boxes and boxes of beautiful skirts with frills, blouses with laces. Hats and shoes. I would be a little princess, my face and hair resembling some character in some fairy tale. My small world would brim over with happiness!

Now I have had my fill of cards and goodies, my wardrobe stacked with pretty clothes, I dream of a little girl who found happiness, crouched in a corner, just dreaming away.

Our rains

I woke up listening to the rain tapping at my window. As I lay on the bed enjoying the music from the skies...my thoughts slowly took me back to our courting days.

My most memorable rains I have spent with you. Walking under a umbrella, wet from head to toe, shivering, while you held me close trying to warm me with your body, your love. How we weaved through the lanes and bylanes of Mumbai, oblivious to the world, immersed in our closenesss and the din of the rain in the background. We let the rain do all the talking and when we turned to each other and kissed the skies erupted in vibrant colours, the rainbow a witness to our joy.

I love to see you laugh out aloud when I complain of the amount of walking you made me do!

Cherish every step of our walk together. Two decades down the lane there is nothing in life that gives me more happiness than to squirm into the crook of your shoulder while you shield me from the rain, and as we turn to each other and kiss, my heart wells up with emotion, my eyes catch a glimpse of a rainbow far ahead in the horizon.

Let me be

Leave me alone

let me be

I have nothing to give you

dont pester me so !

no promises I can make

no smile to give your way

not even a kind word

to help you through the day

dont crawl into my dreams

hazy though they may be

making me want to hold on

when I have to let go

dont lure me with love

eyes full of longing;

stories of dead lovers

from a hundred years ago

let the distances be

travellers of afar

me a river to the sea

you a shining star !

Its not time yet...

Wait,

I still have a long way to go

a thousand dreams yet to reap

a million to sow

Have yet to meet friends long- seen

and a few newly-made

to see how time has changed

of what could have been

Yet to taste the nectar

of your sweet love,

to drown in the blue depths

your eyes- like the sky above

Dont yet, give up on me, time

I still have a long way to go..

Have yet to be to the river

that sings along as it goes

and feel the icy coolness-

of its water as it flows

Yet to sit by moonlight

your warm breath on my face

beneath the stars burning bright

a few promises, yet, to make

Dont yet, give up on me, time

I still have a long way to go.....

Yet another monsoon (verse)

She stood by the window,

a silent silhouette,

watching the noisy rain.

The skies overcast,

dark and menacing;

Lightning coursing

through the darkness

at intervals

imprinting silver streaks

in the sky.

The clan on the hillside

rejoiced,

Their heads gently swaying

with the wind,

Their leaves eerily screeching

in delight.

The Parched Earth

soaked it all in;

overwhelmed

at the love pouring

from the sky.

The heady earthy aroma

wafted

into her senses

as she gazed

in wonder

at this celebration

of the changing seasons.

------------------

I dream of a monsoon

when I would step into the rain;

no longer

a mere onlooker

whilst all of nature rejoiced.

I would be under

the pouring sky,

whilst the water

drenched me from head to toe,

inundating

my senses.

How much longer

before

I break the shackles

of my inhibitions.

How many more seasons

before

I know what it is

to be the Earth;

To open out my arms

to the sky

and melt

in the warmth

of the cooling rain

The simple pleasure of life!

Yet another monsoon...

She stood by the window, a silent silhouette, watching the noisy rain. The skies were overcast, dark and menacing. Lightning coursed through the darkness at intervals leaving silver streaks on its path. The entire clan on the hillside was rejoicing, their heads swaying with the wind, their leaves screeching in delight. Parched Earth was soaking it all in, overwhelmed at the love pouring from the sky. The heady earthy smell wafted into her senses as she gazed in wonder at this celebration of the changing seasons.

She dreamt of a monsoon when she would step into the rain, no longer a mere onlooker whilst all of nature rejoiced. She would be under the pouring sky, while the water drenched her from head to toe, inundating her senses. How long before she would break the shackles of her self imposed restrictions. How many more seasons to go before she knew what it is to be the earth, to open out her arms to the sky and melt in the warmth of the cool rain - savouring this simple pleasure of life!

Joy of living

On a moonlit night, skies studded with stars, I gaze at the immense vastness in never - ceasing wonder. Infinity is such an awe-inspiring feeling. These starry blue skies they go on.. and on.. and on...

Then I think of me; puny little me; finite little me. I have to end one day. Tiny insignificant me- looking up at the skies of a not so puny earth; in a big solar system ; in a huge milky way ; of immense cluster of galaxies ; in an unimaginably vast universe.....what would that make the poor ant or even worse a microbial paramoecium...

Size definitely does not seem to be a criteria here. The universe does not differentiate between a bacteria and me. Both of us have a well defined system which helps us fit into the scheme of things. Each of our lives being utterly precious. That is a good feeling indeed!

The very fact that I can look at the sky, perceive its beauty and enjoy it, is a miracle; our lives being abundant with these miracles. Most of the time we tend to take them for granted.

If only we could take a deep breath, step back a little and be conscious of the magic around us. Let that awareness flood our being, immersing our body and soul, we would realize how very special each one of us are; how special our lives are. This power to perceive and enjoy beauty, to love and to be loved, maybe, that itself is who or what we call God .

My time here is finite, but my consciousness infinite - born again and again 'cause I can never get enough of this beauty around me. My puny self beholds an immense universe within and vice versa , me and the world- with all its mountains, rivers, sun and the stars, beings big and small- interwoven into a cosmic pattern ......

Venu ganam

I can hear the strains of your heavenly flute floating into my ears through the corridors of an age long ago....

Beautiful Yamuna straining to touch your feet while we melt into the night under the canopy of the star-lit skies. . The naughty breeze - she changes direction to embrace you , sending your curly locks flying, carressing my forehead. I looked into your eyes - two limpid pools of blue and the cycle of time stopped. How many ages have passed since Dwapara yugam and am still imprisoned somewhere in the depths of your beautiful eyes.

I know you have been with me through every age, every life of mine. I have caught you unawares when you laugh out in joy. I have seen you in the twinkle of those beautiful laughing eyes. In moments when our souls connect and you turn over to hold me close in the early hours of dawn, I hear the notes of your flute floating to me through corridors of ages long ago......

On the wings of a fish...

Once we alighted the bus at the unassuming market place, we had to walk a few furlongs to my grandparents place. Taxis and rickshaws were not invented then, atleast not in this village, a coolie uncle would carry the bigger bag on his shoulder and we would march behind him, our shoes trailing footprints on the sand . I would imagine I was in an adventure, crawling through narrow lanes with spiky kaitha fences on either side, which if touched would start beeping and give me away to the enemy. Sometimes we had to take detours and cut through courtyards of houses where we would be apprehended by the folks with enquiries about how long we would be here and how big the kids had grown blah blah. Me and my brother would stand impatiently on one feet twitching our noses. All I wanted was to somehow get to the house. After many a climb and descent and small talk , finally I would perceive the huge elanji maram at the entrance to the pathway leading to the house. As every year, unfailingly, the entire pathway would be strewn with elanji flowers, the fragrance enveloping the place giving it an ethereal feeling.

As soon as we had showed our faces, we would be dashing all over the place, running to the pond where the mango tree had showered its entire load of mangoes last year, and then run back to the other pond where we had community baths, all of us kids in the neighbourhood. I would rush to check under the elanji maram, where we had dug a bottle of hand made herbal medicine, a concoction of various leaves and flowers. I had convinced my little brother that if kept for a year under the soil this medicine would turn us invisible. Well, the bottle itself seems to have gone invisible for the time being. Never mind, I was never short of ideas.

Sadly or happily, depending on the situation , I happened to be the eldest amongst the monkey army. Sometimes we were all fishermen and I would lead them with a basket in my hand and go catching fish in the pond. I had no idea it was tadpoles I was fishing at; quite fishy they were-every one of them managed to slip through my basket. After a gruelling duel of fishing Iwould emerge out of the pond with an empty basket, wet as a fish. This would send granpa into a frenzy invoking his thullal roopam - running after me with a stick shouting out loudly about what a unruly marathi girl I'd become. I would manage to outrun him every time not knowing he was intentionally acting defeated. If you wouldnt find me anywhere on the ground, I would defintiely be up the guava tree. The entire day I would be running from tree to tree, sometimes talking to them, sometimes hugging them . How I loved telling them stories - not very sure if they enjoyed it though.

Day times were great fun, but come evening it was like being in a ghost story, crickets screeching endlessly puncutated with croaks from frogs and various other vocalists putting in their two bits. It was like a symphony, only a scary one though. We would gather around the huge lamp and shout out God's name. If our voice had to carry to God above all these symphonies, chanting wouldnt suffice I suppose. Everywhere you turned there were huge shadows from the chimney lamps adding to the horror effect. By seven, tired and sleepy I would stare at the chimney , counting the insects that came diving into the light only to be devoured by the fire. However sleepy I was, I will always remember how relishing the food was! Sleep would come quickly putting aside all my plans of scaring my brother with stories of demons that lurked behind the shadows. Last waking thought being about the match boxes I would be needing tommorrow in order to go vettaalan hunting..........bzzzzz bzzzzzzzz..........zzzzzzzzzzzz

elanji .... a small , fragrant flower

maram= tree

thullal=to be possessed

vettaalan= a bug that goes bzzz bzzz

"Ding an sich"

It was three days since I heard from him. I decided to wait some more before I logged out.

There was nothing in common between us but for our passion for truth perhaps. In fact there was a lot to divide us, our ages, our back-grounds...he a strapping young man of less than 30 galloping towards the future, with dreams of changing the world - me, a sober, more than middle aged woman at that bend of the road from where life begins to slow down . We shared no secrets , we made no pacts, he merrily titled me siso and I made him my bro. We made little conversation, whatever he beleived in was mirrored in his work. His poems, his articles - they spoke volumes about him, displaying his intellect. I enjoyed the little spaces of silence we shared.

I was sad, he had left no message. As I got ready to close down there was a 'pop' in my ear followed by a hug and a long drawn out smeeee.......time stood still, I could sense my eyes brimming, my heart filled with joy. I complained - he apologised, trying to pacify me and suddenly it struck me - this was it !. This was 'ding an sich' !!! - 'the thing in itself',the real thing. Love at its best, as it is - true and unconditional, nothing to give and nothing to gain. Rarely do we get glimpses of ' ding an sich'. Most of the time we are watching perceptions, representations - not the truth.

That rare fleeting moment was truth in its entirety, joy at its best.

In search of - Me

I wander thru lifetimes

in search of me -

high over mountains

neath the deep blue sea

In the deserts of atacama

where the earth slumbers in laze;

was it me -

the hot blazing winds

that made the sands twirl in daze..!

In the flowing blue of Nile

where the pharaoh ruled the shores;

was it me -

the bubbling brimming wave

that told a thousand lores..!

In the deep congo forest

where the rains never cease;

was it me -

a lark in the darkest hour

that sang of hope and peace..!

I knock at memory's shut doors

search for the key

looking out for answers

that will get through to me!

വെറുതെ ഇരിക്കുമ്പോ ഓര്‍ക്കും, വീണ്ടും ഒരിക്കല്‍ കുട്ടിക്കാലത്തേക്ക് മടങ്ങാന്‍ കഴിഞ്ഞെങ്കില്‍......... ഒരിക്കല്‍ മാത്രം !അന്നൊക്കെ സന്ധ്യകള്‍ക്ക് എന്തൊരു വാചാലതയായിരുന്നു!!!!!!!! എത്ര പറഞ്ഞാലും തീരാത്ത കഥകള്‍ സഖിമാരോടു പങ്കുവയ്ക്കുമ്പോള്‍ എന്തൊരു തിടുക്കമായിരുന്നു!!!!!!, പെട്ടെന്നുപെട്ടെന്നു പറയണം ഇനിയും........ എത്ര കലപില കൂട്ടിയാലും പിന്നെ ഓര്‍ക്കുമ്പോള്‍ പറയാന്‍ എന്തു മാത്രം ബാക്കി.......... . കിലുക്കാംപെട്ടികള്‍ ആയിരുന്നു ഞങ്ങള്‍ .
ഇന്ന് കഥകളെല്ലാം ഉള്ളില്‍ കിടന്നു പിടയുന്നു.
ഒന്നു പുറത്തേക്ക് വരാന്‍ ദാഹിച്ച് .
കഥ പറയാനും , കേള്‍ക്കാനും ആരും ഇല്ല .
കളിക്കൂട്ടുകാരികള്‍ എല്ലാം ദൂരെ ..ദൂരെ ...
എന്നും നന്ദിയെ ഉള്ളൂ എല്ലാവരോടും ..........സൃഷ്ടാവിനോടും , മാതാവിനോടും , സ്വന്തം ജീവിതത്തിലേയ്ക്ക് ക്ഷണിച്ച ജീവിത പങ്കാളിയോടും .
എല്ലാവരും മനസ്സ് തുറന്നു സ്നേഹിച്ചു, അര്‍ഹിക്കുന്നതിനെക്കാളും കൂടുതല്‍ സ്നേഹം നല്‍കി .
പിന്നെയും എന്തിനാണീ മനസ്സ് വിതുമ്പുന്നത്?
എന്തിനൊക്കെയോ ഉള്ളില്‍ കിടന്നു തുള്ളിത്തുളുമ്പുന്നത് ?
എവിടെയൊക്കെയോ ശൂന്യതകള്‍ പെരുകുന്നത്?
ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ ഓരോ വേഷങ്ങളും ഭംഗിയായി അവതരിപ്പിക്കാനുള്ള ബദ്ധപ്പാടില്‍ ഒഴിവാക്കപ്പെട്ടത് ഞാന്‍ എന്നാ കഥാപാത്രം തന്നെ!!!
ചിലപ്പോള്‍ നമ്മുടെ എല്ലാവരുടെയും കഥ ഇത് തന്നെയാവും.
ഇനി ഉള്ള കാലം ഒരു ആത്മാന്വേഷനമാകാം , സ്വന്തം സ്വത്വം തേടിയുള്ള യാത്രയാകാം.....നന്മകള്‍ മാത്രം പ്രതീക്ഷിച്ചു കൊണ്ട് ....
സുഖം
സ്വസ്ഥം

Bliss!

Temples are my favourite places. I have no religious leanings- God for me is each one's personal perspective. He may or may not abode in temples, that is entirely your personal view. Yet, temples are my favourite places; specifically the temples of Kerala with their huge open spaces, temple ponds and the view of the Deity, lit up with glowing lamps inside the sanctum, from afar has a very soothing, peaceful feeling to it.

As I stand palms folded, head bowed transfixed by the sight, I am transported to another world, where it is just me and the distant rings of temple bells. I feel the beauty of the glowing lamps blend into me, making my soul sparkle in its wake. Slowly the distant beats of the heavenly idakka accompanying the sopanam floats into my senses, mesmerizing me.

I stand there- suspended in space and time; the first soul to have emerged; I am the beginning of Shrishti, in humble adoration before my Lord, soaking in his divine Grace.

Falling in love

I stare at the hills beyond my window- You have laid out pink blossoms for me to gaze at while I sip my morning tea.

Your birdies, tiny brown ones with yellow around their eyes, they perch on my window and talk amongst themselves. Sometimes, unaware of my presence they whistle a tune or two. Only you could have managed to teach birdies to sing ! I look at the roses you have bloomed, what perfection! how did you manage to make them smell like this? And those white flowers, I have no clue what we humans call them, the fragrance they behold- that must be how love smells if it could be bottled.

You stand there constantly burning so that my world is filled with light. Unfailingly, you wake me up every morning. You send your love in envelopes of smiles that come my way, through friends and well wishers. You know I love butterflies; what a feast of colorful flapping wings you spread for me.

Come june , you take those huge water brushes and paint the entire hills in various shades of green, with small water-falls that jingles its way through. The whole place comes alive with the birds calling out to each other. Eagles soaring in the sky, while parrots sit pecking at themselves.

How can I help not fall for you?

You fill my heart with love, the greatest gift of all. I wish I could pour it out the way you do - caste-creed; man-woman; strangers-friends; animals-birds; living-non living;....all inclusive, all encompassing!

of a year spent laughing...

Two minutes to ten and I was still 10 mins away from my office on the fourth floor of Commerce house, in probably the most crowded world of offices- Fort, Bombay. I was in my second year of graduation when I got this offer from a friend of mine, who was taking a break from work. It suited me well as college began early in the morning; I would have to miss the last lecture which was no big deal, considering we spent most of our time in the common room reading Mills & boons anyway. It would fetch me some pocket money too....not a bad idea!

Problem was I was going to get late today and the old 'Granpa' would bite my head off. I was literally flying past the footpath liberally littered by my mallu brethren selling their wares; they could spot a fellow sistereen from far, 'chechi not so fast, give us a glance too' . I hated them more for calling me chechi than their silly comments. They must be atleast a decade older, but thats the way they addressed everyone.

I was panting as I ran up the four floors, not bothering to join the long queue for the lift. It was a relief to see that Granpa wasnt in yet. I plonked myself on the small rickety sofa outside- long worn out from years of use. Our office was a four room ensemble, tiny with no ventilation. There were about 10 offices on our side of the floor, all of them almost identical.

Ten minutes later our hero walks in, swinging a 50 yr old mutliple layered tiffinbox covered with a 100 year old cloth cover. The peon, Kannan walks in at same time, following Granpa, carefully mimicking the old mans limp. It was difficult to keep a straight expression.

The office was populated by all of five people- granpa, two peons, my colleague and friend Jaishree and me. Me and Jaishree(chechi) we were put up in this cubicle with no windows, one table fan fit on the wall and shelves around us filled with bill books.

Our Granpa would recline on a revolving chair - sometimes going round and round, sometimes his leg on the table- mind wandering, talking to himself. Sometimes we would catch him clipping his nose hair with an antique scissor, other times he would be dozing. All his waking hours he would plant one of his eye on us through the small opening in the partition between his cabin an our cubicle. Every hour or so he would bellow 'girls, stop your andagundu (thats how northies refer malayalam to) and keep working'. We would chuckle and go back to what we were doing.

Earlier on when he would shout out to me," Sumitra ( I have no clue who this sumitra is but I guessed it was me), come here!! I would leave all that I was doing and run, and he'd order 'fan ON karo'. Slowly I learnt not to be too eager- that made him change his tactics too, Sumi betta, please come here....Jaishree and me never got tired of laughing. In between there would be altercations between the peon and the boss. Everytime, the bellows of the Boss gradually tapering to a squeak.

One hot afternoon, our noses deep inside our bill books, suddenly we hear this huge thud making us jump out of our skin. As we looked through the partition we could see the chair swivelling all alone- like in those scary movies- and no Granpa. Then slowly from the ground arose a hand followed by a loud bellow 'Sumeee, come pick me up'!! Our granpa had dozed off on his chair and slid down. I swear I did not laugh that day (hahahhaha) but I did have big trouble shutting Jaishrees mouth.

Come Four o clock Pukhan and Sukhan would walk in. They were the stalwart sons of our granpa. Pukhraj and Sukhraj, Tall, handsome, sauve , educated gentlemen. Pukhan was the soft-spoken one. He was allergic to hay and as one of our four rooms was used to store the meters we produced at the factory, the meters being covered in hay, Pukhan would be scratching himself to agony all the time. It was indeed a comical sight.

Once they marched in, our old stalwart would be relegated to the other tiny room. There he would sit like a toothless tiger behind bars . A totally new man from the morning guy. Everytime I passed his cabin he would smile at me, like I was his most dear child. Jaishree and me ,we spent most of our time laughing into the bill books. I guess it was this granpa and his antics that kept me coming back to the office day after day for a year. After that I bid adieu to catch up with my final year studies.

The memories linger on.....

A feeble attempt at poetry....:-)

O to be born a river!

Flowing through valleys

of mountains unscaled;

Dancing past the deepest

forests unreined;

Carressed by the torrents

of the rains unleashed;

to flow to the beckoning

arms of the sea

O to be born a river!

O to be born a tree!

knowing the passion

of winds unseen;

gazing at nights

at the starry skies;

feeling the warmth

as the sun unfolds;

drenching in the love

of the pouring rains;

O to be born a tree!

Woe to be born a man!

Bonded by birth

to wings clipped

before they soared !

Woe to be born a man

and live unknown

of where the rivers flowed

and the lions roared !

and trees that a thousand

stories withhold!

Woe to be born a man!

Sendai

There was Sendai all over the news channels yesterday, horrifying scenes of the sea taking over land, along with it humans and their homes. How frail we are before the forces of nature! How insignificant our lives seem in the face of such fury! The japanese resilience and strength have been put to test again, as the world watches in horror.

Sendai has a tiny yet significant role in my life. I couldnt help but dig out my old letters, the ones my hubby had sent me long back, even before we were married. I was a pining soul then, just seperated from my fiance, who would be back home only after four gruelling long months. The first letter he sent me came from a port in Japan, it had 'Sendai' written in the right hand upper corner. I remember being so taken in by the description of the quaint little port and the wonderful people there. Considering letters took a long time reaching and satcom calls being too expensive and most of all love being new and fresh, every letter would be read and re-read till every nook and corner of it was stamped in my memory. This went on till the next letter would arrive. Thus Sendai was continuously in my head for over a fortnight. My poor Sendai.

During my sojourns through small towns like Mizushima and Shibushi in Japan, it was heartwarming to see how easily the local folks there smiled at strangers. Anybody passing would smile at my little girl and bow to me in greeting. We dont get to see much of that in Bombay; maybe, that is why it surprised me. Ofcourse, bigger towns like Kawasaki and Osaka were a different story. Small towns have a charm of their own. Makes you long to prolong your stay and spend some more time amongst such loving people. Makes you want to keep smiling!

May God give these wonderful people who are now being tested by excruciatingly difficult times, the strength to rise from their ashes and rebuild their lives. Our prayers are with them.

An insight into life !

People were streaming up and down the road; most of them had luggages with them, women, children,men - young and old, they were all moving towards the huge tents put up around the huge maidan. There was a huge hoarding of a Baba looking quite smart in a sherwani. I would have to wait and ask someone for bldg no.25, where my teacher lived. The best bet would be the watchman at the next gate- pity i will have to wake him from his slumber though!

As I walk towards the gate I hear a voice call out 'Anu' ! Anuu!! Anupama!!!!....Who could be calling out to me in this place?? As I turn around towards the voice, I notice a man, he was tall I could see, his height being somewhat lessened by the flesh around his abdomen shoulder and face, his hairline was receding making wavy patterns on his forehead, he looked familiar - slowly recognition begin to dawn, making me numb for a second. He was walking towards me, smiling, as he approached I could see those eyes still held the same warmth.

The last time we met was more than 20 years back. I was rushing home, racing across the huge ground after work to meet my future in laws and there he had popped up before me- a tall lanky young man then, bubbling with life, ever ready with a smile. All I had time for was for a quick wave.

Here he was now, standing before me, like a ghost from my past ! He kept looking into my face for a long while as I smiled in recognition at him. 'You look so beautiful' he said and I could only smile back in response. Even those days, when I was thin and scrawny and almost ugly he was amongst those rarest breed of men who found me beautiful. He seemed to be shaken by the chance encounter, 'how many times have I imagined this scene'! he said. I was thinking too, of the innumerable times I have envisioned this scene, now it was here I felt happy and proud to realize that I was totally at ease, there were no bells ringing anywhere, no nostalgic memories running down my head into my heart.

I walked besides him, happy that this meeting did take place but more than that my heart sang out with joy that I had the greatest love in this world in the man I was married to for the past twenty years. I felt at peace with myself and the world.

In the evening that day as I cuddled up to my husband before the television whilst he watched some outdated cricket match, booing and shouting like it was some present world cup going on I couldnt help but laugh at this child-man who filled my being with so much love, it would take me a few lives to compensate.

Aromas of childhood

My love story begins not from here, but from many previous lives. Kerala evokes such a multitude of strong emotions in me. Paints vivid images of me running through paddy fields, swimming in clear crystal flowing waters of some stream in some remote place in the hills; taking circles around a deity with fresh tulsi in my drooping wet hair; places I don't remember being to - they must be memories of an age long ago or perhaps just my active mind working overtime.

Come January and our countdown to April would begin. We would start saving, packing and dreaming about our trip to Kerala. Train journeys, I have always loved; they took me to my favourite place every summer- without fail. Later on in life I enjoyed the journey more than the destination. Even today, any long distance train makes me want to be on it, to get to my village, whose beauty can only be surpassed by the people there. Simple souls- salt of the earth.

Jayanti Janata would pull in around 4 in the morning at Trichur. By sunrise, relatives, neighbours and friends would start trooping in. My brother and me , we would be transformed to little kings and queens for the next one month. Please speak a little Hindi, a little English or even Marathi, would be amongst the various requests coming our way. I would put my little nose in the air and begin, evoking peals of laughter all around.

My most favourite and enjoyable part of the stay was the time I spent with the three chechis* who lived adjacent to the southern part of our house. One skip and jump I would land in their house. Many a days I've spent eating kanji and chammanthi** in the dark kitchen of their thatched humble home. They would sit around me and watch me eat and you could see how their eyes would twinkle with pleasure. Molu, is it too hot for you? would you please have some more? I cannot believe the happiness it gave them to see me eat their food. They would make me sing and dance for them and watch me with open mouths. One needs no more proof of their love for me, doubt even if my mom could go through those perfomances of mine!

These three admirers of mine had been orphaned at very tender ages. Their only brother had fallen into a well and died. They fended for themselves; worked relentlessly in paddy fields; saved and scrounged to make a 'proper' house . I have never seen them without a smile on their lips. Love radiated from them all the time, all of it which were poured on my brother and me. I carry their love within me like fragrance in a flower. They taught me what unconditional love is.

The beauty of Kerala is enhanced by the beauty of Devu, Ammu and Radhamani chechi.

*chechi is a general term for elder girls

**kanji, chammanthi is rice gruel and chutney.

The Woman in my life.

My mom was twenty-eight when her life came shattering down. Dad was someone she loved, doted. Five o clock he took his scooter out, bid her a short bye, by seven, dad was no more. His life was sniffed out by a truck.

For mom it was the end of the world.

Then she thought about us, my brother and me were tiny kids, not in school yet, she held our hands and began her ardous journey. The mountain before her loomed large and terrifying. I am not sure if I could actually begin to fathom how difficult the first few years must have been. Pushing aside her emotions into the deeper recesses of her mind, she set forward to make a living for us. The job offer from dads office came as a great help. Mom shuttled between working at office and home. Very rarely do I remember her crying over her misfortune. She was and is a picture of quiet dignity.

Today, she stands at the peak of the mountain. She imbibed honesty and sincerity in us, she taught us how to put the needs of others before ours, she taught us how not to crumble against demands of our frail minds and bodies - all by practice not preach. She makes me feel proud of being a woman. She does proud to every woman in this world.

Salutes to you mother!

( I do hope and pray life did give her some happiness through this journey of hers )