Through the dense Malleswaram market sidewalk, we stopped at a small joint. It seemed small from outside but as you get inside, it never ends. The more you indulge - chances are that you won't be able to come out with your wallet intact. All kinds of different dolls, terracota statuettes, traditional wooden pieces, plastic and moulded stuff for fancy - essentially all kinds of stuff that Navaratri can bring on.
There was a beautiful and ornate pair of wooden pattada gombe (wedding couple) complete with all the ornaments, traditional clothing and a set of nadaswara players etc...it was incredibly beautiful. And all beautiful things that are meant to be decoartive pieces tend to be expensive :) I ended up coughing more than 4 thousand rupees on those.
The pleasure of these 9 nights are incommensurate with the money spent on seemingyl trivial stuff! Setting up the stage for display of these various colors and spectres, rummaging through old trunks to bring up some old brass pieces, going out in the sun to select some tiny rocks to create Kailasa parvata...unending stream of work, but very rewarding!
This year, we have this wonderful couple sitting atop the Kailasa, we have a lovely cricket ground with all players intent on pushing themselves to win! All the lights are dazzling and creating a sight hitherto unknwon to my little daughters! I take a step back, look at these small creations and feel good! As we slowly move into the middle ages, we value some things more than we did them some years ago! I can see myself going through these moments that are almost "aha" to me!
This year Navaratri has added a new flavour to our lives! Navarasas are making our lives complete and navadhanya are feeding many of us!
May the goddess bless everyone!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Half Eaten Fruit
It had started growing all on its own. The three of us loved to watch its fresh green leaves grow everyday.
Abha came running, announcing that she saw some flowers sprout in the tree. We all ran to the backyard to see for ourselves. Indeed, there were flowers on the small tree. Monsoon announced its arrival that evening. We were afraid the flowers would be blown away by wind and falling rain. They did, only to allow fresh sprouts in a few days. And slowly we saw those flowers transform into raw, young guavas.
Excitement had never been a part of me. Mother would often say that I was passive and unattached. I didn't know. Maybe she was right. But I could not say I was excitable. I also watched my guava tree with those raw fruits. The slender branches of this young tree were a good hideout from the general cacophony of the dusty town I grew up in. I loved the town.
Ankush was excited about owning a tree that bore fruits. He was waiting to taste the first ripe guava. On a lazy afternoon I sat on one of the branches engrossed in Rajendra Yadav's book when I noticed a tiny squirrel nibbling at a fruit. I called out for Ankush. His eyes lit up for he saw a few ripe guavas. He had become an expert at climbing trees, learning the ropes of the game on this very guava tree.
Mother had always been happy to see her children enjoy. Many neighbours had suggested that a guava tree was inauspicious at home. Our faces would betray sadness immediately. She would notice the sense of loss and let the tree be. My mother is wary of sorrows. We all are. I am lazy, and I am not unhappy. She would always look at me with a kind of wistfulness which I could never understand.
Our guavas looked different from those found in the mandi. They tasted heavenly. All my friends at school would wait for their share. I was amazed at the quantities of fruit the tree bore. It seemed disproportionate for the size. Yet, we all enjoyed sharing it all with them. Now, my lazy afternoons would be spent perched on the branches which had grown stronger with time. I realized lately that there were many more visitors to our home. A regular visitor was a parrot. He would nibble at the amber fruits and leave them half eaten. One such day I just plucked the half-eaten fruit and tasted it. It was sweeter than any other guava I had ever eaten. I was convinced that half-eaten guavas by a parrot tasted divine. And the theory spread. My mother said I was mad to think so, but she was Mother after all. Her eyes looked tired and sad with passing days. Her love did not wither, but perhaps her spirit did.
My school was not far from home. Every afternoon my friends and I would come home and sit under the green umbrella of our guava tree. It had become a muscular tree. Parrots and squirrels could always be spotted on it. I continued to be a lazy bum even after all these years. My mother never tired of telling me so. She said this to my friends also. I felt hurt. But she is Mother. She betrays her anguish by smiling. A tired smile. I shudder to think what I would do without her. But no, she is there. She'll always be there for me, for us.
Neighbours continued to suggest the removal of our guava tree but it stood there. My mother would be reminded of our faces. She aged quickly. She could not send her lazy son away. Ankush had moved on to Bombay and Abha went to Kanpur. I was still with my mother, and my guava tree. I was always attached to my mother more than anyone else. She always looked after me well. She cared for me more than for anybody else. She knew when I wanted what, and would always be the first one to wish me on my birthday.
~*~
Today is my birthday. I am walking in the backyard and looking at my guava tree. How it has grown quickly in front of my eyes, I think. It was so small and weak, but today it stands erect and strong. I always knew I never grew as much as I should have. I was not tall or strong. Lean and short was a fitting description of me. Only this guava tree had started giving me a complex which had never bothered me until today. I was 19 years old, and looked like an 11-year-old boy. I did not even have a moustache while all my friends at school had. They were different than I was, I knew it. We were all in the 'Special School', and each was different from the other. But this guava tree looked so strong that I started disliking it.
I still sit on one of those branches to read my books. I read Rajendra Yadav, but don't know why I can't understand his stories. Abha tells me better stories. Mother also tells me good stories of monkeys and gods, seas and demons. Guavas are tasty fruits. Mother also likes them a lot. She had made jelly from guava yesterday for my birthday. She always celebrates my birthday. Abha sent me a sweater, it was winter. Ankush sent a train with tracks, etc. I don't know why. Does he think I am a child to play with it? I am big, I am 19.
“Where is Rajendra Yadav's book?” I heard my father shout to my mother.
“Maybe Ayush has it.” My mother was always so quiet and soft. My father always angry.
“This boy, I don't know when he'll stop taking my books. As though he can read and understand them, huh! Sometimes my irritation becomes unbearable. Well, not his fault that he was born with this retardation.”
I looked at the guava tree. I knew it would give more fruits. Mother came out to take me in to bathe me before doing puja for my birthday and for my long life. I felt a pain in my chest and I was holding the guava tree. A guava fell down on my head. I looked up and saw a tiny squirrel run away. I knew it had caused the fall of the fruit.
I heard my father say I was retarded. I knew why Ankush sent me those trains and buses. Only mother loved me, and my guava tree. Abha is also OK. She likes me, and always hugs me when she comes.
Mother is looking very tired today. I feel pain in my chest, and also in my leg. Mother will take me to the doctor if I tell her. She takes me there every month. They say some valve is not proper. I don't know. I just go there with Mother. Mother looks very tired whenever she comes from there. She always hugs me tight and sits with me praying to god.
Today I feel the pain but I don't want to tell her. It is my birthday. I am sitting near god; Mother has gone to the kitchen to bring something. I lie down, feeling tired. I close my eyes. I am feeling very sleepy. Pain in my chest.
~*~
“Ayush, take this gift from Amma. Ayush, Ayush… …”
I slept quietly. I will grow stronger and bigger next time. Stronger than my guava tree. But I love my guava tree. And my mother. She is crying. Poor mother, she is so weak!
Abha came running, announcing that she saw some flowers sprout in the tree. We all ran to the backyard to see for ourselves. Indeed, there were flowers on the small tree. Monsoon announced its arrival that evening. We were afraid the flowers would be blown away by wind and falling rain. They did, only to allow fresh sprouts in a few days. And slowly we saw those flowers transform into raw, young guavas.
Excitement had never been a part of me. Mother would often say that I was passive and unattached. I didn't know. Maybe she was right. But I could not say I was excitable. I also watched my guava tree with those raw fruits. The slender branches of this young tree were a good hideout from the general cacophony of the dusty town I grew up in. I loved the town.
Ankush was excited about owning a tree that bore fruits. He was waiting to taste the first ripe guava. On a lazy afternoon I sat on one of the branches engrossed in Rajendra Yadav's book when I noticed a tiny squirrel nibbling at a fruit. I called out for Ankush. His eyes lit up for he saw a few ripe guavas. He had become an expert at climbing trees, learning the ropes of the game on this very guava tree.
Mother had always been happy to see her children enjoy. Many neighbours had suggested that a guava tree was inauspicious at home. Our faces would betray sadness immediately. She would notice the sense of loss and let the tree be. My mother is wary of sorrows. We all are. I am lazy, and I am not unhappy. She would always look at me with a kind of wistfulness which I could never understand.
Our guavas looked different from those found in the mandi. They tasted heavenly. All my friends at school would wait for their share. I was amazed at the quantities of fruit the tree bore. It seemed disproportionate for the size. Yet, we all enjoyed sharing it all with them. Now, my lazy afternoons would be spent perched on the branches which had grown stronger with time. I realized lately that there were many more visitors to our home. A regular visitor was a parrot. He would nibble at the amber fruits and leave them half eaten. One such day I just plucked the half-eaten fruit and tasted it. It was sweeter than any other guava I had ever eaten. I was convinced that half-eaten guavas by a parrot tasted divine. And the theory spread. My mother said I was mad to think so, but she was Mother after all. Her eyes looked tired and sad with passing days. Her love did not wither, but perhaps her spirit did.
My school was not far from home. Every afternoon my friends and I would come home and sit under the green umbrella of our guava tree. It had become a muscular tree. Parrots and squirrels could always be spotted on it. I continued to be a lazy bum even after all these years. My mother never tired of telling me so. She said this to my friends also. I felt hurt. But she is Mother. She betrays her anguish by smiling. A tired smile. I shudder to think what I would do without her. But no, she is there. She'll always be there for me, for us.
Neighbours continued to suggest the removal of our guava tree but it stood there. My mother would be reminded of our faces. She aged quickly. She could not send her lazy son away. Ankush had moved on to Bombay and Abha went to Kanpur. I was still with my mother, and my guava tree. I was always attached to my mother more than anyone else. She always looked after me well. She cared for me more than for anybody else. She knew when I wanted what, and would always be the first one to wish me on my birthday.
~*~
Today is my birthday. I am walking in the backyard and looking at my guava tree. How it has grown quickly in front of my eyes, I think. It was so small and weak, but today it stands erect and strong. I always knew I never grew as much as I should have. I was not tall or strong. Lean and short was a fitting description of me. Only this guava tree had started giving me a complex which had never bothered me until today. I was 19 years old, and looked like an 11-year-old boy. I did not even have a moustache while all my friends at school had. They were different than I was, I knew it. We were all in the 'Special School', and each was different from the other. But this guava tree looked so strong that I started disliking it.
I still sit on one of those branches to read my books. I read Rajendra Yadav, but don't know why I can't understand his stories. Abha tells me better stories. Mother also tells me good stories of monkeys and gods, seas and demons. Guavas are tasty fruits. Mother also likes them a lot. She had made jelly from guava yesterday for my birthday. She always celebrates my birthday. Abha sent me a sweater, it was winter. Ankush sent a train with tracks, etc. I don't know why. Does he think I am a child to play with it? I am big, I am 19.
“Where is Rajendra Yadav's book?” I heard my father shout to my mother.
“Maybe Ayush has it.” My mother was always so quiet and soft. My father always angry.
“This boy, I don't know when he'll stop taking my books. As though he can read and understand them, huh! Sometimes my irritation becomes unbearable. Well, not his fault that he was born with this retardation.”
I looked at the guava tree. I knew it would give more fruits. Mother came out to take me in to bathe me before doing puja for my birthday and for my long life. I felt a pain in my chest and I was holding the guava tree. A guava fell down on my head. I looked up and saw a tiny squirrel run away. I knew it had caused the fall of the fruit.
I heard my father say I was retarded. I knew why Ankush sent me those trains and buses. Only mother loved me, and my guava tree. Abha is also OK. She likes me, and always hugs me when she comes.
Mother is looking very tired today. I feel pain in my chest, and also in my leg. Mother will take me to the doctor if I tell her. She takes me there every month. They say some valve is not proper. I don't know. I just go there with Mother. Mother looks very tired whenever she comes from there. She always hugs me tight and sits with me praying to god.
Today I feel the pain but I don't want to tell her. It is my birthday. I am sitting near god; Mother has gone to the kitchen to bring something. I lie down, feeling tired. I close my eyes. I am feeling very sleepy. Pain in my chest.
~*~
“Ayush, take this gift from Amma. Ayush, Ayush… …”
I slept quietly. I will grow stronger and bigger next time. Stronger than my guava tree. But I love my guava tree. And my mother. She is crying. Poor mother, she is so weak!
Sharad - a memoir - Part 1
All good things have to end, but this ended with a thud! He knew life would never be the same again. A cliché? Think again! Everything that has become a cliché was at some point of time an effective way of putting things in the right perspective. Sharad knew how well times had gone by. Sharad knew something for a fact – I want to be the best! And he was the best! He excelled in everything he did. The attribute that gave him this strength was the fact that fears and failure never perturbed him. If one is not afraid of failure, there is no way one can lose. Success is relative – another cliché – and it always comes in a heap. Why do we say success is short-lived? It almost always comes in a big chunk and stays for a while. We mess up with it and don’t make the correct use of it. It comes in a heap and seems to last for a short while. It is so good so long as it lasts that duration of its existence measures up to nothing.
~*~
Trees swished by from his sight as train gathered speed. Early morning breeze of spring wafted through the open window of his aisle berth. Mango groves were a treat to watch, most of the trees laden with raw mangoes hanging precariously by the thin stems.
Thoughts went back to his school days and the villages he had visited with his friends -- their native. The morning breakfast would comprise of beaten rice with mango pulp – it tasted yummy. Everything had to have a dash of mango to it, otherwise summer would seem incomplete. Scorching heat and parched land were not the best for games, but what care do people have for these elements when holidays are meant to be spent in games and fun. They would run around the ‘khet’ and ‘maidan’, swim in the ‘pokhars’, climb up mango trees, run up the small hill to get a view of the village from atop. Every activity had energy, and who knows how energy drains.
~*~
“Sharad, we will meet tomorrow at Sarovar,” said Geeta and disconnected the line. She was curt, and probably tired. Sharad was not helping matters by keeping quiet and almost to himself in the last few weeks.
“One strong coffee and one masala dosa,” Sharad placed the order
“Why Sharad, what is bothering you?”
“Nothing Geeta, I am perfectly alright. Only that amma is not keeping very well these days, so I feel a little low. You know that she is all I have.”
“I know, but that certainly isn’t the only reason for your aloofness. I met auntie yesterday and she seemed OK to me. She said she was feeling good.”
“Geeta, is there always a dark end to every life? Or is it that only a few get to experience it.” It was more a statement than a question from Sharad. He seemed to know the answer.
“Sharad, don’t be so pensive and depressing. Share your pain, if there is any. I can’t stand this desolate look and incomprehensible query.”
“In time I will tell you Geeta. I know it hurts you today, but rest assured, it will make you smile tomorrow at the thought of it all.”
“…”
“I will tell you everything once I understand it more clearly. It is only you with whom I can share this.”
“It makes me curious Sharad. Is it something serious? Is there something that we need to know urgently?”
“No Geeta, don’t regret the lack of knowledge today, for tomorrow you would fervently hope it were false.”
“…”
“And I would explain every detail with clarity to you. Let us go to Nagasri; I need to pick up a couple of books. I got PF credited to my account. It has been ages since I indulged in shopping.”
Geeta smiled. Sharad smiled. And they walked through Richmond Circle and hailed an auto for Jayanagar.
~*~
Regret is central to happiness. Much to his own dismay, Sharad had felt a calm prevail over him after all the anxiety in the beginning. Many questions propped up and no answers came by. Life had suddenly become energetic and listless simultaneously. It is funny how time imposes restrictions while sailing by at its own speed. It always does funny things to us humans.
Train had stopped at Khandwa station and his thoughts halted for a while in the mayhem of the station with “garam chai” and “samosa”. He alighted to buy cigarettes. They were banned by the authorities but available at higher cost. He picked up half packet of Wills Navy Cut and went back to his seat. He always felt odd smoking in a public place, so he went up near the door and waited for the train to start.
The orange fire somehow made him feel odd. He thought about his mother’s struggle all her life to provide for him. Standing near the door, he looked down and saw the stones and track move at a disconcerting speed. What if he lost his grip and fell on the rail, he thought blankly. He always wondered how a train always reached a destination despite trudging along terrains that looked so far from civilisation. Some of the stretches, as the one right now, did not look inhabited. Yet, a stray goat would suddenly appear or an odd frame of human looking dispassionately at the train.
He tried to keep away these queer thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. He had to reach Delhi and meet Mr.Luthra for the job that would give him enough space of his own. And money to live a decent life. And Delhi was a good place to buy books – both Hindi and English. These thoughts made him relax. He stubbed the cigarette and went back to his seat.
He suddenly woke up. Stationary train always woke him up. This was something about trains that he disliked -- the habit of stopping in the middle of nowhere. It was past 2 in the morning, darkness at this hour is always disconcerting. Looking out the window he saw nothingness, a very quiet silence marked the whole area. People slowly woke up and started discussing the same issues about trains being late, train making up lost time later in the night et al. Someone said there was an accident ahead, and the train will have to take a detour. This frightened him; because interview was in the afternoon the next day and he could not afford to be late for the same.
~*~
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sepia shades of life
I kicked the pebble by the pavement and walked across the street, in no particular hurry. Flat tyre with 'driving fatigue' was a strong reason for me to park the car by the side of the road. I stood by the corner store dragging on Wills Filter and enjoying the deep sense of fulfilment. There cannot be a habit more disgusting than holding a cigarette between fingers, standing on a pavement and puffing on it - yet many do it everyday.
It was one of those days, you know, when everything was turning out to be in favour of me - day had progressed well, I had received all good emails, none of the phone calls were distressing, I did not see any accident on the road, traffic was the normal bulging self, a cousin - once very close - had suddenly resurfaced to say hello, drivers on road were honking for no reason - all was well with the world.
An old woman lay by the wayside, wearing rags and holding on to a small bundle tightly! The contours of her face betrayed anguish. It seemed like she could burst into laughter suddenly, she was old but not frail. She wasn't begging, but a few passersby were dropping coins where she lay. She did not protest! It wasn't clear whether her vision was intact. I thought she could not see - she looked desolate, forlorn and aloof! Between her clenched fist, I could see a decrepit photograph of a very little girl. It made me wonder about her and the little girl. Perhaps she was her grand daughter and now this old woman was homeless! She suddenly yelled and started smiling - very happy & gay smile! After a while, quiet descended!!
Young boy stopped by trying to sell the "mosquito killer" racquet. It is an amusing little palything and I felt that kids would enjoy it. But it was very saidstic to swing racquets to kill mosquitos - much like Bush's invasion in Iraq looking for WMD. You might as well enjoy doing it with bare hands. It is a test of stamina, patience and hand-eye coordination. You can try all tricks, the irritating sound of a humming mosquito isn't going to go away at all! Then I heard someone say that there were bomb blasts in CP area of Delhi. Suddenly everyone had something new to talk about. 6 lives lost, 53 injured...ticker tape goes on and discussion over lot of data and numbers over tea cups and smokes...
Life goes on...in all its shades and glory! We all are rushing and we all have lot of time to spare!
It was one of those days, you know, when everything was turning out to be in favour of me - day had progressed well, I had received all good emails, none of the phone calls were distressing, I did not see any accident on the road, traffic was the normal bulging self, a cousin - once very close - had suddenly resurfaced to say hello, drivers on road were honking for no reason - all was well with the world.
An old woman lay by the wayside, wearing rags and holding on to a small bundle tightly! The contours of her face betrayed anguish. It seemed like she could burst into laughter suddenly, she was old but not frail. She wasn't begging, but a few passersby were dropping coins where she lay. She did not protest! It wasn't clear whether her vision was intact. I thought she could not see - she looked desolate, forlorn and aloof! Between her clenched fist, I could see a decrepit photograph of a very little girl. It made me wonder about her and the little girl. Perhaps she was her grand daughter and now this old woman was homeless! She suddenly yelled and started smiling - very happy & gay smile! After a while, quiet descended!!
Young boy stopped by trying to sell the "mosquito killer" racquet. It is an amusing little palything and I felt that kids would enjoy it. But it was very saidstic to swing racquets to kill mosquitos - much like Bush's invasion in Iraq looking for WMD. You might as well enjoy doing it with bare hands. It is a test of stamina, patience and hand-eye coordination. You can try all tricks, the irritating sound of a humming mosquito isn't going to go away at all! Then I heard someone say that there were bomb blasts in CP area of Delhi. Suddenly everyone had something new to talk about. 6 lives lost, 53 injured...ticker tape goes on and discussion over lot of data and numbers over tea cups and smokes...
Life goes on...in all its shades and glory! We all are rushing and we all have lot of time to spare!
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