On the fence

" ...between the hard, obvious things that are printed in books, and the soft, subtle things that lodge themselves into the soul."

there are people who believe in the first and some in the next, and then there is me who struggles in-between...

when life feels like geometry

A walk, a bus or two, a train, a walk, a share auto, a walk down a deserted stretch (an auto if I am lucky)…. All to meet Ra, who lets me fumble around her, and who doesn’t shout when I log the wrong tape.

I come back, I do the laundry, eyes drooping, I set the alarm for 4.30. It goes off for half an hour, before I can even hear it. Very little, or no money. Nano money. :-) A crazy client. A no-budget documentary.

Day-dreams of a project on water. Endless proposal writing. A shadow of my life with Stick and Egg.

But I call my grandmother every day. I don’t waste a minute. I pick up groceries. I help a cousin. I dance. I don’t obsess. I play with Chintoo like never before.

I may leave it all, yet again. I could decide that medicine is the only way to make a difference. Eventually, I may do corporate communications, to take care of mum and dad. I may become a loser-daughter.

I don’t know anything. I don’t have any answers. “Where will it lead me?” “What am I doing?”

But I feel, like a better daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece and aunt. And life feels like a geometric diagram. Simple. Clean. Good.

That is all I know, at the moment.

An equal music

It is said, "even in the most perfect love, you are not equals. And to meet in a kiss, one has to look down and the other up."

But friends meet as equals~

The Good Women of China

I simply cannot fall asleep. For here I am, drunk on excitement: mehendis, dances, giggles and girl-talk.

So I pick up the Good Women of China and read a few pages until tears start dropping by.

In a strange way, I am proud that N chose me to lend her book to. But to sign on its back cover next to women who have fought for great things is a responsibility too...

So I will myself to quickly fall asleep. For there is so much to do, to make the world a better place.

And your problems just shrink in space.

tell me Rama:

"Ravana took my body away but my soul was yours. Tell me Rama, is Sita the body or the mind?"

Waiting room

I am at peace in the ICU waiting area. For the doc has said the ventilator will be off in an hour. And ammama looks as fine as she can be with a box in her mouth for about 24 hours.

I must not think of how her mouth must be hurting. I must think that the tubes will soon come off. I must think of shifting to the ward.

And I continue to read Zenzele, lovingly re-reading each page for its lyrical beauty.

When suddenly this woman, whose husband is in the adjacent bed, comes to me. "Console my son," she says and leads me to him. "He is very depressed."

I am lost for words. But I say something about his father looking better today, about his improved breathing. And about his eyes opening a little.

But what I really want to say is:

To have blind faith. Blind faith that nothing bad can happen because god is in charge. That letting you down is not an option for god.

That it is important to mouth "it will be fine", even when the oxygen level drops to 20 and your aunt is shaking in fear.

And to remind the patient of the beauty of the world outside, so that they aspire for that chai on the porch in the yellow evenings.

But I only say, "go eat breakfast, you will need all your energy when he is shifted to the ward."

family picture

When I was eight, I drew a picture in my head; of my family:

my sis,

a red lil' brother,

dad and mum,

aunt and uncle,

my grandmother and grandfather,

and komala akkaiya, our nanny/domestic-help.

My world then was these nine people. And life was dancingly perfect at eight.

My grandmother raised me as much as my mother. And I looked up to my aunt just as my dad.

My grandfather stood me at the bus stop and my uncle ran ran on hot tar roads to teach me the cycle.

My sister was everything to me; and my brother made me feel all protective.

It all changed two years later, when my siblings, grandparents and aunt and uncle moved to the city.

There were tears, moping afternoons, more tears and oh-so-much anger against all of them.

Akkaiya too had to leave, when mum decided that she was too expensive for three people. She found another nice home.

And for the next 10 years, the only times I would feel completely at home would be on the suburban train between both sides of my world...

....praying for them with a little-known god at a quaint shrine on the way.

It all taught me to cling close to my family and avoid confrontations as much as I could. And this probably is the heart of my soul.

~~

Today, luckily, little has changed. My sister is still my only love; and my brother, at 18, makes me feel just the same. And I follow my aunt's decisions as much as my dad's, even when I don't agree.

This is the first arc that I draw - and it is eight angles wide. The eight voices that I hear, whenever in doubt.

There are conflicts, there are tears, and there are realisations that shake my world, but nothing has changed the way I love these people.

And in that I am still the little girl of eight.

~ the window siller

remorse

this space is my trash can. the only space where I can tell my deepest fears. everywhere else I play the parts.

films like Rocket Singh and Rock On make me very sad. for I killed my own company. and all the wonderful things it brought me.

because I didn't have the answers to all those questions thrown at me. because I had to make my family happy.

looking back I never did anything wrong. I worked so hard for I enjoyed every bit of it.


"live in reality," they said. "it is all dreams, it won't last," they shouted.
but what is real really? and what is anything without faith?
and what did they know to ask me to stop??

why did they make me feel like I did something wrong?? why did I have to do it silently, honorarily?? I think my colleagues would have actually said, "go for it girl!"

I wish I had some answers then. it is too late now.
but I trusted them to know better. and for that I feel cheated.

my only original doubt was that being girls, could we promise to be together always.

but now I think we could have worked as long as it lasted. and even if one of us had to leave, we would have faced it when it came.



but it is too late now.
-window siller

the beast that loves potato chips & other stories

The last two days have been bliss: the recreated forest, bird calls, brilliant stars, lots of A & N, and waking up to the beast licking your hand.

Yes, mine! And she eats out of them too. God bless Pepsi Co., Saif Ali Khan and all the GM potatoes. For Zoye and I have made peace. She will also drool for Hajmola-like candies and get very upset if you pretend to eat her food.

Egg arrives a day late, but determined; climbs a tree and clicks pictures. And I see her laugh, shoulders shaking, after I-don't-know-when. And hogging food at the solar kitchen.

We are like sunflowers, soaking in energy for the next six months: to tackle pressures, answer doubts, and learning every moment.

This is Pongal people, I tell you. This is. Celebrating the earth and sowing new seeds.

~~
But when Egg and I sit in an empty train, legs stretched and eyes fixed on the window ahead, we don't see villages painted black, but a scene from our first ride back home.

There is Stick, Spidey, Egg and me. Sparring jibes, clamouring for window seats, fighting over sanitizer, and laughing all the way home.

Sometimes, I wish I had never met them. Because travel is not the same anymore. Without Stick to ogle at the stars with, without Spidey to rattle for fun, and without Egg to do a “Sajna-di vari vari…”.

And when lost in the forest, cheated by an autowallah, to plod on foot singing resolutely "Chhod aaye hum vo galiyaan...", off-key of course.

Honest to good

Yesterday night, I resolved to be just myself. To speak what I really really think. To be completely honest about myself. To tell Dad and Sis, the folks I relate to most, what I really feel and think.

I can no longer shut the voices in my head. It has been coming slowly... thanks to Stick, thanks to Dotty-Wotty and New Momma, thanks to Ayn Rand. But it is also going to make things very difficult for me.

The Beast sums it up for me:
There is a problem with being involved in a close relationship. It's not the fear or loss, of rejection, of being someone you're not. It's the fear of being yourself.

I am determined to overcome it and oh, am I going to be unpopular...

Cooking is probably the easiest part of marriage

Sitting on Maggie's kitchen's slab,
peeling corn kernels and grating garlic,
eating until the pots were scraped clean,
riding in the drizzle,
riding back in the night with the hands held free,
and a good night hug was a pick-me-up like none other.

My fingers still smell of garlic, but I am ready to conquer the world all over again. :)

~~
And the recipie for the meal that Maggie whipped up in less than an hour:

Corn-au-gratin, garlic bread, corn soup.
(serves three)

Take two corn stems, peel the kernels and put them in the pressure cooker for about seven to eight whistles.

White Sauce:
Melt a cube of butter on the kadai, then mix a spoon of maida with it and heat it a bit.
Add a big tumbler of milk and a little water.
Mix it well and add a table spoon of salt.

When it is solidifying a little, add three handfuls of corn.
Shortcut to thicken any gravy: Mix a katori of corn flour with water, and pour the mixture into the kadai.

Now sprinkle oregano and very little basil powder.
If the consistency is smooth, the sauce is done.
Now grate a cube of cheese all over it, cover the kadai, and remove it from the flame.

Corn Soup:
Run the remaining corn kernels in the mixer until watery.
Add a little water and run it again.

Strain the mixture with a large sieve.
Add salt and pepper to taste.

Garlic Bread:
Grate a bulb of garlic.
Mix it with butter and spread on bread.
Push it into the oven and lo! aromatic garlic bread.

~~
As a little girl I thought that marriage was all about cooking. But now being around married friends, I realise that cooking is probably the easiest part of marriage. Maggie nods vigorously.

Is it getting windy or is my umbrella getting old...

I am particularly melancholic today morning. I woke up to the news of two deaths among extended relatives.

Dadu, Jeeju's maternal grandfather passed away after long suffering with azheimer's and stomach ulcers. During our visit to Calcutta for my sister's reception, we had all stayed with the old couple, in their charming house in Survey Park, with ponds and birds and many hawkers.

And we had spent afternoons looking at old photo albums and travel memoirs. Of a graceful age, of their travel around the world, of friends, children and grandchildren.

Dadu was a scientist who made dolls out of coconut shells. He loved to sit in his balcony overlooking the pond.

I never got to know the brilliant scientist who helped set up the planetarium in Calcutta but I admired the man who silently filled up bottles of water to help his wife, when the household was a frenzy of festivities of which he probably registered little.

With my sister a few weeks pregnant, there is the unspoken but warm hope that Dadu isn't really gone.

This and That

This makes me want to stop all my nonsense about environmental writing and filmmaking and pick up a shovel to plant a tree. Okay, i'll start with a pot maybe.

and words, here and there:

Needles and pins, Needles and pins,
Sew me a sail to catch me the wind.
Sew me a sail strong as the gale,
Carpenter, bring out your hammers and nails.
Hammers and nails, hammers and nails,
Build me a boat to go chasing the whales.
Chasing the whales, sailing the blue
Find me a captain and sign me a crew.
Captain and crew, captain and crew,
Take me, oh take me to anywhere new.
- Shel Silverstein

Autumn leaves and siblings sensibilities

My sis is going to fly the nest. This realisation dawned on me stupidly late, just today morning - after many weeks of talking and preparation for her engagement - and it settled uneasily in my stomach as I woke up from one of my many dreams about her wedding.

In my dream, I was torn between taking pics of cousins singing together and decorating the hall. Should I get the hall ready and miss my cousins' singing together or catch the moment when it lasted and delay the decorations?

Some stupid dream like that and I woke up with the sick feeling that we may never get to share the same roof again. This time when she leaves, it wont be like one of her business trips around the world, when we get to know everyday, no matter whichever part of the world she is, what she ate for dinner and if she reached her hotel room safe.

There wont be any, "eM will be back in two weeks and then we will decide on the colours for the room". There wont be any e-mails about day-to-day affairs like rats found in her cupboard and brother's deploring marks. Will we then talk stuff like, "how are you?", "everyone is fine here"??.

oh my god, Oh My God, OH MY GOD!! Everything is gonna change forever and I don't want it one bit. I want her here and have become a sudden supporter of aunt's plans to get eM and Jeej to stay in our ground-floor.

Until yesterday, I was spouting all neutral comments like "Jeej needs his privacy" and "eM should be independent". No more of all that bull. I just want my sis at home.

With all this wonderful fraternal thoughts, I tried to snuggle up to her in the morning, but she almost pushes me down. Wait, what was I even thinking, she can get lost to Bangalore. Actually, Bangalore is too close to Madras, she can go to any Pallatur* and cut potlakaya** all by herself and I couldn't care less.

Pity, the wedding is six months far away.

Autumn musings

But with Diwali around the corner, some showers and a small depression in the bay, we have had some great weather, and it makes me feel all waxy, poetic and lyrical.

eM, who now has a season called autumn in her life, sends me beautiful pics - trees ablaze with yellows and oranges; a silent stream strewn and mellow yellows strewn all over her university town. Its looks like the trees have come alive just to add colour to the drab cement and concrete.

In the meanwhile, bougainvilleas are blazing pink all over my Madras, and the weather is perfect to perch by the window sill. But I am at office and I have to pretend to work. So I settled down to read Thekambattu and fell in love with their village. Wish Sunder and Sonati can write more.

Other nice reads today morning, as the boss thinks I am seriously at work, include one on writing via As I Please; and Shutter Sisters via eM.

For all in Madras, enjoy these rare bouts of gorgeous weather.

*&** are the telugu equivalents of Timbaktur and snake gourd

Navaratri 2008

At my maternal grandmother's house, there was a navratri room. I simply called it so because there was nothing else that the room was used for. No one would use an asbestos-roofed room for anything else. The adjustable kolu stand would become an almirah for toys, unholy mills and boons that my younger aunts probably read on the sly and a lot of other junk.

The room had a nice view of the street and I used to play many an imaginary game there. I used to re-model it in my head to fit my dozen maternal cousins at least once together under one roof. Somehow, every time I scrounged this room, I would find a new old magazine or comic to while my time away with.

Once, many years after I was no longer scared or in awe of the room and simply went by force of habit and nothing to do, I picked up a small novel "the mysterious intruder" thinking it to be a detective story. I was disappointed because no murder or theft cropped up, just silly talking and walking and smiling all around. It was my first M&B. I read four or five of them later, but remember this plot so vividly. I was after all 12.

Later, when the family went through bad times and some rooms had to be rented, it was used for my uncle's business. As his employees deftly packed combs and pens, I would walk around the room trying to see if the old shelves had some corners and junk left for me. But then real estate was priceless.

Back to navratri. I never liked the room during navratri, it was no longer my secret garden. It was washed and scrubbed, the ten steps creaked under the dolls, you could'nt walk or run because there was too much rangoli powder all around; and it was curtained and filled with the lot of brightly coloured aunties and grandmothers who kept reminding my mum to send me for music lessons.

I must tell this for my youngest aunt, though there is a lot left to be desired in her, she was an ace in decoration. I still remember how she grew real grass on some damp soil and created a beautiful cricket pitch and garden with dolls.

But Navratri became interesting only when we moved near my high school and many of my other classmates. We girls would wear pattu pavadais and deck up with jewellery and go around looking at Kolus. When the singing rigmarole came, I started to nudge others and slink into the background.

By then, most of us had cycles and these evening tours became an independent social affair. There was no more tagging mums and aunts. The kolu at our school was of course priceless, with an entire hall filled with dolls of many themes and some kutcheri or programme in the background.

We continued the affair making it an annual get together during college years but now the tradition is broken. I dont remember the last kolu I saw, so today morning as I saw one at a friend's place where I was for some work, there is a wave of nostalgia. I am making it a point to visit a few other friends and my maternal grandmother's place.

It is no longer a grand affair, but my aunt, the wonderfully patient wife of my uncle, is sprucing it up each year to reach the old standards and maybe soon it will go upstairs and fill the entire navratri room.

Itching to write

One of my most frequent day dream is to sit by my window sill, knees up and a book on the lap.
And I can listen forever to the bells of those grazing cows and gaze forever outside the window.

And all my life - a doting family, special siblings, friends who are soul mates - their lives, our anecdotes, our issues, our ideas, arguments, neighbours, work, special moments, rebellious spirits and dreams hurl down my head as word bubbles.

This is my window sill.

- itching to write by the window sill