Under the banyan tree...

You are the majestic banyan.
With opinions hard as the aged trunk.

Like root tips soft and reddish pink,
are sent to earth and buried within,

You keep my dreams and my words,
safe from hurt, risk and wind.

So words die in my throat,
like leaves that wither as they sprout.

You are the majestic banyan,
your arms are riding long and long,

But I am a shoot gasping for light,
a patch of blue, a voice my own.

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."

thank god! my dad is no fanatic.

My dad is the gentlest creature I know. He moves slowly, speaks softly, loves his history books and sometimes resembles a baby.

He is a man of the world, of intellect, and of many liberal views. He is also blessed with a slow, careful reasoning, which can make even Voldemort seem reasonable.

And that is why it is very scary when doesn’t question wrong ideas: because then superstition becomes tradition; and the mediocre becomes the alternate.

And you have no words to argue even when your insides are screaming that it is wrong. For what words can you offer a seasoned professor?

All you had was a basic instinct. And now, you doubt that too.

How can someone who tells that history is written by the victor not believe in folk tales that endure civilisations?

How can the man who firmly believes that all answers lie in the grey suddenly accept the least common factor?

How can he, who taught you to trust your woman’s instinct at 10, now say that listening to your heart is worthless?

And how can he of all people say that you are not supposed to apply what you learn?

Is it too much effort to stand up for small, little things because the next big research project is within arm’s reach?

Don’t battles have to be won in everyday life? Is the political not personal?

Thank god he is vocally secular. Thank god he hates Modi.

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

check-list:

don't talk too much,
don't cross your legs.

don't come too close,
or your pimples will show.

is the saree slimming?
and the bangles all gold?

is she facing east?
and the cat thrown out?

~~
but how can I fight...
and what do I say?

when it is love,
shown their way.

essential meghdoot

I rush upstairs to save the clothes,
just put out in the sun,

but when I see them swaying in the rain,
after so many May-like afternoons,

I let them soak in the clouds,
for they too live in parched Madras.

In a mood for Meghdoot,
in english but of course,

I wonder how one can speak of it,
and the deep, dark cloud,
in minutes and not in laborious dance-epics,

for the passion would then dry up,
as quickly as pappadam in the April sun,

but a simple ad does just that.

so now you tell me, in just one line,
what you see in the dark cloud right up there.

~the window siller

~meanwhile, in other worlds, mukul kesavan tries to upset my perfect world. but I remain firmly colonial.

chettu, akka and ammama

Last time aunt went on a trip, she reminded me my responsibilies: chettu, chaapa and ammama.

This time, the fishes are dead, and it will be: chettu, akka and ammama. And aunt didn't remind me this time.

I guess I grew up sometime this year.

My grandmother is sewing the edge of a new cotton saree as I type this. I wake up these days to music: the kut-kut of her knife on the chopping board. For you know it will be a good day.

She battles pain in her wrists, thanks to all those IVs, but doesn't give up. And she is slowly filling in her blouse, that hung loose all these days.

I am enjoying a three day break sleeping, sleeping more, and making maggi for grandparents.


Next on agenda is getting sis to eat two eggs a day. One for her, and one for lil Chintu, whose kicks I cannot feel yet. Come on sweetie, you can do better.

- window siller :-)



chettu: plants; chaapa: fish; akka: elder sis; ammama: grandmother.
brother makes rainbow inside the house.

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

Prayer

“What do you pray for every day,” aunt asks, as I open my palm. The kum kum today is red, the light red of fountain pen ink.

I wish I could tell her that until the same time last year I hardly prayed for myself. That I prayed for my sister and all the women in my life. For the goddess would know that the women could do with more blessings than you.

And all of last year I have prayed to her to make things better. She does it in fits and starts, just like I choose to work. Just when I go to her smiling about a day like sunshine, she chooses to put my piece in the snake’s mouth. And there I am sliding down its belly to the bottom right away.

~~ O mother goddess, you who stood fierce in sacred groves, before they shut you in ornate temples. You, who aremade of clay, for all things must return to the earth. You, who take the braves as consorts and protect the animals and the seeds.

To you I submit like a child: clear this confusion in my head; show my way clearly to see. Should I make happy all those all around me, people who love so dearly me. Or should I listen to the replies stuck in my throat and hold up until I feel it is all just right. ~~

prayer: the window siller; pictures: Egg.

good to know: Sacred Groves of Tamil Nadu by M. Amirthalingam; http://www.fao.org/docrep/005/y9882E/y9882e14.htm

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.