Marathi aunty.

There was a Marathi thalla in my neighbourhood. All the malayalee aunties and uncles would address her thus and this was picked by us children too. She wore a navvari saree (9 yard) and spotted a huge red bindi on her forehead. Her hair was matted thick and brown, like the bark of a tree. She used to be possessed by devi, she said, thats what gave her hair this texture. When she spoke her voice boomeranged into the oribit. As children we used to hide when we saw her. The mothers used this to their advantage, instead of 'so ja gabbar aayega' they would say ' marathi thalla varum'.

She lived with her mellow husband who wouldn't utter a word till the few days after his pay. Then he would roar like a lion, the toddy in his stomach giving him the guts to challenge his wife. The two of them with their gusti and broom hitting would keep the entire locality awake late into the night. I would shiver in my bed waiting for him to fall into the well. There was a well in our compound which had an opening in the cement covering. After a couple of hours into all the drama, marathi uncle, most of the times, managed to fall into this well with a huge thud. Thalla would start screaming for help, people waiting for the cue would rush out and drag this huge hippopotamus out. I wonder now, how did they ever manage it !

Inspite of all this, Marathi thalla was held with great respect in my household. Amma would tell me of the time when dad had passed away and amma had decided to begin work at dads work place. She was scared and confused. We had the moral support of all our relatives and friends, yet amma says, one of the loudest and strongest voices was of this rustic, country woman. She took amma by the shoulders and boomed " You go to work bindaas, I will take care of your children and dont you worry for a second how you will manage. You will manage fine". My granma came down to take care of us and was with us till her last days and Marathi thalla in the neighbourhood was a great solace to my mother while she was far away at work.

A true neighbour and a true human.

It was my earliest lesson of not judging a person by their appearance.

P.S ..My calling her 'thalla' doesnt mean any disrespect, it was just the way she was referred to.

A memory or a dream ?

To walk besides you

through the rain washed lane

of a tiny village

tucked deep in my brain

the earth would smell

of the fragrance of your skin

your breath upon my cheeks

as you turn towards the wind

the heady scent of champak flowers

the distant singing bird

the lonely rain drop on your nose

I soak them all in greed

hearts would beat in tandem

our bodies close and warm

and then you touch me

a finger down my arm

would the clouds burst again

the river swell in me

and will the river find its way

to sumberge with the sea

Of thinner days

I was a tall, lean teenager tortured by uncles , aunts and all my relatives. Every time they saw me they would exclaim in horror 'oh Smee, you've grown so tall, how are we going to find you a boy' !

Like I had a hidden switch somewhere I could turn off and shut down my height !! And then, "God Smee you cant be so thin, you got to gain some weight" !, that would set me wild on an eating spree, peanuts, ghee on rice, butter, whatever I could lay my hands on and not half a kilo gained. To top it all, like cherry on the icing, my hair was long, almost close to my knees, adding to the effect. My friend would say 'you have such great hair, somebody's going to marry you for your hair'. Eeeeeks, that was the wierdest thing ever! especially when I so desperately wanted to chop it off and try looking a bit less 'chechi type'. I did try hinting once to amma, she was like I'd committed blasphemy, 'cut your hair'???? So there I was, tall, with bones peeking out from everywhere, hair falling to the floor, a walking talking coconut tree.

My best friend in college was a chubby rotund thing, we were the perfect foil for each other. She was dieting all the time and me eating. Quite often we've been called laurel and hardy by unruly boys who would stand by the station picking on girls. Five years in college passed away discreetly, all the love-letters and sagas of young, passionate love were not meant for me. My friend in the mean-time succeeded to manage a few epic-creating sagas for herself. Thats another story. Its always preferable to be meatier than lean I guess.

It was during my post-graduation days that I managed to land myself a job and then it happened !! Someone fell in love with me... and I was in seventh heaven. Just to put things in the right perspective, I'd gone through infatuations and attractions, some of them entirely in my head . My love story in school ( bah!) ending when I threw his rose into the bin, till date I have no clue as to why I did that ? But this time, the feeling was mutual, he was in love with scrawny long haired me, and I liked all the 52 moles on his face. Hope he doesnt read this :D. We are still friends, sans the romance. Amongst all other things, he will specially be special for being the first person to make me feel special.

Fifty Five faces of joy

There is not much light streaming in through the dilapidated window as it has been stacked high with cartons on the outside. I am afraid if I touch it the panes may drop. The walls have not seen paint in a long time , the black-board is a poor excuse and the solitary duster is extremely popular as it does the rounds of all the class rooms.

The entrance to the school is low and narrow, the whole place resembling a cow-shed built of cement. The floor is uneven, classrooms cluttered around each other, doors opening in various directions. Drawings of children have been hung high up on the dirty walls haphazardly - someone must have climbed up a ladder with a hammer and nail, the trouble ensuring the picture remains there for some time.

All my thoughts go for a toss as I meet the 55 faces looking at me, anticipation, excitement gleaming in their eyes, I cannot take my eyes off them. They wear no shoes and carry no fancy bags, many of them have little stumps for pencils and their uniforms are soiled. The girls have their hair oiled and tucked up tightly in plaits adorned with white ribbons . They were all looking at me , expectantly. I smiled and the cat jumped out of the box ! what a melodious din it was, all of them talking at the same time. What incessant flow of energy, charging up my slumbering, rusting being. I was running back into my childhood at full pace. Their joy and their excitement spreading through my veins making me come alive once again. I came home feeling like a celebrity, they wanted to touch me, shake hands with me and even share their tiffin with me. My dear ones wont be hearing the end of this for a long long time.

Who needs to be a star to get adulation, not me !

Whether I make a difference or not in their lives, they have already begun to make in mine.

God bless my little angels.