Homecoming

Its been over a year since I went to the house and I realize now how much of the house I actually miss. Its really strange that I have always had a knack of establishing contact and instant connections with all things that are non living. I dont know how or why but then I have realized that this is simpler that establishing human relationships. Hmmm. Maybe my connection with the house does have to do with the people living in it. My grandparents.

My earliest memory of my grandfather is quite strange actually. I remember me all of three years old, sitting on his lap. It seems to be afternoon and my grandad is feeding his only grand daughter. Now I take pride in the fact that I am one of his oldest grand children. We cousins are about 8 of us on the whole of which 6 are boys. The so called first born is a boy and is just a mere 3 months older than me. My grand parents were based out of Chennai when I was born and therefore it was only natural that my working parents would entrust me in their care. Not that I complained. Thanks to them, I never ever felt that I dint get the love or the attention that I needed. In fact, I got it so much that I can safely say I was a rather indulgent(read spoilt!!) child.

I enjoyed my afternoon meals with my grandad up until I was about 4 or 5 years old. Grandma was an amazing lady, and she still is. Although not quite as expressive as her husband, I knew that I was the apple of her eye. There was nothing that she wouldnt do for me. My memories of her include playing house house in the kitchen with her and our daily evening walks. I virtually used to push her into "Vakil kadai" and insist on "Aasai" chocolates. I would be rewarded with one everyday and it was a real shame, considering that it costed her a mere Rs 0.25.

Thus I took immense pride in the fact that I was their bundle of joy. Literally. As my cousins were born one by one, I had fully anticipated that things would change. I thought that I would be expected to grow up and take responsibility. To my utter amazement I still was doted on. They had left Chennai more than a decade and a half ago (an agonizing experience for me) and this spelt nothing but DOOM for me. I spent the rest of my "childhood" afternoons eating by myself from a plate and throwing paper rockets at a servant who stretched herself across the main door and slept soundly, oblivious to everything around her.

Coming back to the house and my connection with it. It was a lovely house actually set right across a small lake in Gods Own Country. Yes, I am from the land of coconuts and "kappa"and I have no qualms accepting it. This house was typically everything that a house in Kerala was. It was set bang in between a beautiful garden that my grandad carefully planted and took care of like his own children. My summers were spent getting my hands dirty gardening and watering the plants twice a day. I still remember I used to wake up everyday and pray that it rained so that I would be spared of this daunting task. Gardening was not exactly my cup of tea but I did it anyway just so that I could watch him beam at my shoddy work after I was done.

The house is the best house I have ever lived in. Its nothing short of heaven. It had about 5 bedrooms, 2 living rooms, a study, 2 kitchens, 3 bathrooms and a pooja room. There is an open courtyard right at the center of the house and this is where I have spent a LOT of my time, enjoying the rain when I was younger and putting some of the best thoughts I have had on paper. There is something infinitely inspiring about that house. I loved the house as I had never ever lived in something that had so many rooms in it. I feel a sense of freedom when I go there even today.

The best part about the house is that everytime I go there, I feel a sense of belonging. I feel at home instantly and that feeling is something I havent experienced even in my own home in Chennai. No matter how many times I go there, the house always has something new in store for me. There would be something that my grandfather (once an architect) did to modernize the place. I have told him to repeatedly let things be as it is but he refuses to listen. And I love discovering the little surprises the house has in store for me when I go back.

The truth is that house has completed me... and my life. Whether its the charm of the house in itself, the blessings of the people who have lived and died in that house or just the fact that the two people I love the most live in it; the house has ceased to serve its purpose. It has grown beyond that. To me, it was..it is... and will always be HOME.

Letting Go

It is extremely important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut them loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Dont expect to get anything back, dont expect any recognition for your efforts, dont expect for your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle yourself. Not out of pride, inability or arrogance; but because whatever it is it no longer fits in your life. Close the door. Change the record. Clean the house. Get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are.
- Extracted from "The Zahir" by Paulo Coelho

Rain

On Thursday night, just before leaving from work I told my friend Preethi that I hoped it would rain incessantly the next four days. We had a long weekend coming up and I for one had absolutely NOTHING to do with my time. Anyway, whoever coined the phrase "Be careful what you wish for" was dead right. My wish came true. It has been raining cats and dogs here the last four days. And I am totally thrilled.

There was a time in my life that I really hated rains. Rains meant staying at home, power failure, flooded streets and lots of muck splashed on you even if you did manage to go out. I hated it so much that I actually wished we just had summer as a season. On the contrary, my friend Ganesh loved the rain. He loved getting wet in the rain(YUCK!!!!!!!), he loved going out in the rain, dancing in the rain, driving in the rain; in short he loved every aspect of the rain that I hated. I used to wonder why. More importantly I wondered how.

Today I got my answer. I woke up in the morning(ok, close to afternoon) to the sound of thunder. I opened my front door and stood at the doorstep looking up into the dark, stormy sky. I saw the clouds move. I stood there mesmerized with this scene, when all of a sudden, with no warning, it began to pour. Just like that. No drizzle developing into a mighty rush of water. Just a gust of wind that brought with it a whirlwind. Like someone had just turned the shower on in full force.

I stood at my doorstep for a full five minutes before I was snapped out of my revere. Suddenly I realized that I have to write this down. As I was writing, it struck me. I dont hate the rain. I love the fact that I can stay at home all alone, cuddle up under the bed covers, have a hot cup of tea and read a lovely book, or watch a movie. OR just take some time off and spend it getting to know myself again.

Being stuck in monotony for months has made me lose perspective of what I actually am. It would be really fantastic if I could discover me - once more. The search begins with a simple admission:
"I love the rain."

Hope

I look at her, so young, so innocent
bonded in labor, right here.... living in the present.
Her tired eyes give me a tired smile,
that stretches across miles and miles.

I look at her and I see
all that she could one day be
if only she were guided properly.

Was it her fault she was born this way? I ask myself
when will we ever do something to help?
Will we always choose to ignore reality?
Will that poor girl find a good soul in this vast city?

She looks at me and says something
something that I cannot hear.
I know its something important,
but the words are just not clear.

I choose to ignore her like everyone else does,
but my actions scar my conscience.
I think about her as I board the bus
something is not right, it does not make sense.

I get off at the next stop
and head back to where I had seen her.
But she is gone,
just like that..... In a flash.

She hadn't left alone, of this I was sure
she had left behind her grief; her sadness at being so poor.
I turn back and head homeward,
thinking of her tired eyes and tired smile,
that stretched across miles and miles.

I wonder if I would see her again
I really want to, but I realize that I might not.
And then one day, when I eventually do
she may not be the same person,
but a soul that I would have long forgot.

I head out again the next day, the same road, the same route.
I look around hoping to see her again.
Instead I see, at precisely the same spot,
another face, so young, so innocent,
bonded in labor, right here.... living in the present.
His tired eyes, giving me a tired smile
that stretched across miles and miles.

Looking at him standing there, suddenly
I knew what I needed to do.
I took his dirty hand in mine and walked across
to the shop round the corner.

I asked him what he wanted,
but he was too shy to answer.
I got him a big bar of chocolate,
put it in his hands and asked him
"Is this not what you have always needed?"

He looked at the bar of chocolate in his hands
then he looked up at me.
I met his gaze and for the first time in my life
I saw Hope.
He seemed happy and thankful.
And so was I.

I Believe

I fall, and I pick myself up again.
I lose hope, yet I dream.
I am lost, yet I manage to find myself somehow
I cry,
But I have learned to laugh through my tears,
I despair...
Yet... I BELEIVE!!!!!

Something I picked out of Femina; never found anything more apt to describe a woman!

Obsessions

There are things that i sometimes wonder a lot about. Things that are totally abstract. Things that are absolutely crazy and things that are totally random. Then i wonder why i wonder about those things. And i confuse myself up. Like how I am doing right now.

The fact is this, I love thinking. However randomly, abstractly or crazily... I love the fact that my mind is alive and kicking. And better still, I love the fact that I can write all of this down. I can come back and relive those crazy things that I thought about. Chuck all the modesty. I love what I write. More importantly I love the way I think. Yes, I am self obssessed. But is that wrong? Isn't everyone? I have no issues admitting that I am self obsessed. By self obsessed I dont mean that I look in the mirror every two minutes. Nope thats not me at all. I am obsessed in a different way. I love writing my name over and over. I could write my name hundreds of times and fill thousands of pages and still not get bored. I can go on and on. I used to do that a lot back in college. Write my name on any bit of paper that I could find. In the back of notebooks, textbooks, exam papers. Absolutely everywhere.

You think I am crazy? Well everybody who saw me indulge in this weird habit of mine thought i was mental as well. And I was asked why I do it. I never had a clue. Although the habit seems to have mellowed down a bit, I still dont have a clue as to why I do it.

Another one of my indulgences is tearing bits of paper into even tinier bits. I could do this for like forever. A nice bit of paper in my hands would be in complete shreds in a matter of minutes. I'd tear it into tiny bits and tear those tiny bits into even tinier bits. And the best part would be that i'd gather up all these bits of paper and bolow it on the face of the person that sits closest to me. God, thats real fun!!

Habit number three. Sitting in darkness. Well I guess people would really love that and a lot of people would sit in darkness. Me? I loved the darkness in my place so much that when the bulb burned out, I dint get a new one for three weeks. Ultimately after the risk of my brother almost breaking his leg; I had to give into parental pressure and get a light in my room. Now there is a tube in my room that burns so bright, my eyes hurt... UGH!!!

Ever found a place which you thought was the best place on earth? One that you could virtually live in for hours?? I have two such places. First is my bathroom. Although its the size of a cupboard and there is virtually nothing in there except the closet and a bit of soap, I louve my bathroom. I do almost everything there apart from the obvious. I read the newspaper there, I sometimes drink my coffee there, I read my magazines there, I used to cram in there when it was exam time, hoping I would fall sick. Some of my best writings have been in the bathroom.
My bed comes a close second. This is again a place where I can do everything. Yes I sleep on it too. I eat on my bed, I sleep on my bed, I walk on my bed. I write on my bed, I read on my bed, Oh and did I say I sleep on my bed?? Ahhhhh.. Bliss...

Normalcy has always had me thinking. Does it exist? Is everyone the same? Just imagine how boring that would be!!!! I love me the way I am. Like the dialogue of a recent movie, Main apni favorite hoon. Tall claims like selflessness and normalcy are a farce. Everyone is different, everyone is crazy. So am I. Only I have no problems admitting it. Do you????

THE UMBRELLA MAN

He sat in silence as the crowd rushed past him. He watched each and every one of them with a slight smile, wondering how empty their lives were. No one know how old he was or where he came from. Or why he was at the station. He was tall, his skin and hair dark. He had an angular face, his jaw protruding slightly covered in a bushy beard. His nails were dirty and the skin on his hands was rough cracked near his palms. The most interesting feature about him was his eyes, which were at one glance, the most intelligent pair of eyes one would have ever seen. They were such a dark shade of brown that they looked almost black. A few of them, deceived by his appearance, dropped a couple of coins at him. He looked at it with disinterest, with an expression of acute disgust on his face. He pushed it away from him in anger. Money irritated him. He did not like it… how it looked, how if felt. Worse was the way people virtually threw it at him, as if it were something so unimportant. He hated it. He hated every aspect of the world that he was living in. Yet he chose to be helpless.

He had been living at the station for as long as he could remember. The lone bench had been his home ever since he had run away from his actual one. All attempts to remove him from there went in vain. They even shut him up in an asylum for a few years. Since he seemed sane and normal, they eventually had to release him. The day that happened, he was back to his bench. It was as though he had never left it. No matter where he went or what he did, he always returned to the same bench. And he always sat in silence.

The bench in itself was not much. It had a half broken seat, the bricks along the broken edge stood in an odd, jagged manner. He sat close to this edge, his back against the wall, slightly hunched over, his hands around his knees and his intent gaze watching everyone; taking everything in.

The area under the bench was covered with an array of the oddest bits and pieces. There was a ceramic mug, brown in color, with a broken handle, which primarily served as his drinking cup, although it had come in handy at various other unexpected times as well. There were also three very old plastic mineral water bottles, which lay half buried in the earth under the bench, the caps on two of them missing ever since he had found them. There was also an old, dirty, yellow cloth bag, which looked as old as he felt, containing three blankets. These blankets, in spite of being folded and stored carefully inside the cloth bag, were so dirty that even he had forgotten how it used to look like initially. There was also, tucked away at the farthest corner, three very old, well worn shirts and three faded pieces of loin cloth.

Apart from this strange collection of everything that he owned in threes, the man had safely wrapped in one of his three dirty blankets, the only thing that he truly loved – a blue umbrella.

The blue umbrella strangely was a stark contrast to the kind of surroundings he lived in. It was impeccably clean and completely undamaged. It opened and shut with ease. It was the kind of umbrella that looked stylish, yet simple. It was the exact color of the deep ocean, a dark and royal blue. It was this blue umbrella that he loved more than anything in the world.

He had had the treasured umbrella for almost as long as he was at the station. The memory of the day that he acquired it was still fresh in his mind . He was hunting for food in the dustbin near the fast food center. All of a sudden, someone bumped into him. He looked up into a pair of angry black eyes. Upon seeing him, they immediately softened. The anger was gone, replaced by a totally different emotion. Pity. As he watched the eyes go through the transition between anger and pity, he felt hate and disgust welling up inside him. He looked away from the sympathetic gaze and went back to rummaging through the rubbish. He felt the eyes boring into the back of his neck. He then heard a clinking noise. A noise that he loathed. Something fell against his feet. He knew what it was. He dint want to look.

He forced himself to look down once he felt the eyes leave him. There were three coins lying at his feet. Rounded and perfectly shaped. They even looked new, looking at how they lay there glistening. Vomit curled up his throat. He wondered what animalistic breed human beings had become. Did they not value anything? Was everyone a materialistic fool? He was about to turn away and concentrate on the garbage again when his eyes caught a flash of blue. He went a few steps forward, and there it was, lying on the station platform, the neatly folded, navy blue umbrella.

He was about seven years old then and never in his life had he seen anything so bright and shiny. He picked it up and carefully turned it around a couple of times in his hand. He then noticed a small button on the handle of this wonderful thing that he now possessed. More out of curiosity than anything else, he pressed the tiny little silver button. At first, it seemed like nothing was happening. He pressed it again, applying more pressure this time. The umbrella opened then with a soft ‘pop’ sound. He was so startled that he dropped the thing and took refuge behind the dustbin to see what other magic the strange object was capable of.

Almost immediately, a man stumbled over the open umbrella and fell flat on his face; in the process dropping a file containing a lot of obviously important papers. Involuntarily the boy began laughing from behind the dustbin. When the man realized this, he cursed in a language that the boy did not understand, folded the umbrella, threw it aside, picked up his stuff, cursed some more and left. Cautiously the boy came out of his refuge, picked up the discarded umbrella and ran to his bench.

The years came and went. He remained solitary at his bench, not saying a word; keeping his prized possession safe and more importantly working. He kept the umbrella hidden at all times, away from the prying eyes of the people he saw at the station. Time passed and he too grew old.

During the years, he sometimes wondered what the umbrella was used for. He noticed from his people watching that they came in all shapes and sizes and different colors as well. But not a single one of them was as stunning as his. He also observed that people carried it around with them and at times, when it rained, they became wet. But people still carried it around. He concluded that this magnificently strange object was some sort of a device that could be used as a shelter from the rain and also be useful as a walking device.

He was jolted back to reality by the sound of the train pulling into the station. He looked up at the clock. He had taught himself to tell the time by the arrival and departure of the various trains. The clock read 6AM. The first train was late by over an hour. He wondered for the first time in his adult life if this day would bring something different. He did not know why, but somewhere deep within him, his instinct told him that this day would be different. Still, he did not break his routine and in five minutes he was at his bench, staring resolutely at everyone. People came and went their own ways, no one taking much notice of him. Some of them stared at him for a while, then lost interest and went away. When people got wind of the fact that they were being stared at, they sometimes turned and looked. Noticing the source, they all turned away. Everyone except her. She was about ten years old and had jet black hair. She was clean, well fed and obviously well off. She represented everything that he had grown to hate. She returned his stare with the same intensity that he did.

He looked into those eyes and for the first time, he dint see pity in them. Neither did he see the disgust that everyone felt for him. Although he did not know it then, he was staring at innocence. The kind which only a child would have, mixed with a mild expression of curiosity. Both man and child kept looking at one another, each lost in their own thoughts, neither one able to break the stare. Almost reflexively, he raised his hand up and waved to her. Her eyes suddenly lit up. She gave him an unsure smile and waved back.

Then in a flash, the dream crashed. She was gone. He kept searching and searching for her everywhere, among the hundreds of people, but he knew that it was a vain search. She was gone. Lost in the crowd. He sat back on the bench feeling a little lost himself. And sad. He lay down on the bench and spent the rest of the day just looking at everyone, hoping to see her again.

When he opened his eyes next, there was a little boy standing a few feet ahead of him, rummaging through the garbage, the boy’s back facing the bench. An old woman passed by. Seeing what the little boy was doing, she stopped near him, opened her little purse and dropped a couple of coins at his feet.

The boy took no notice of the coins. Once the woman left, he looked down at the money she had so carelessly thrown at him. There were three coins in all. Rounded and perfectly shaped. They even looked new, looking at how they lay there glistening. He looked up at the old woman’s retreating back with disgust and continued to rummage through the garbage. He ignored the coins.
He got up from the bench where he had been lying down, observing this scene. He knelt down on the platform. He carefully tied up his clothes and three blankets and the ceramic mug into a bundle. All that was left now was the umbrella. He picked it up carefully and dusted it. He turned it around in his hands feeling the folds of the cloth and the softness of the ribbon that held it in place. He pressed the little button at the bottom and the umbrella shot out, although it did not open out fully. He carefully locked it back in place, looked at it one last time; walked up to the boy and handed it over to him.

A variety of emotions were etched upon the boy’s face. There was a look of surprise along with that of wonder and amazement. Finally he looked up at the man. He looked into the boy’s eyes and found what he was searching for. He saw no pity, just innocence. The kind of innocence that only a child could have, mixed with the mildest expression of curiosity. For a moment, just that one instant, it felt as though it were that little girl staring back at him and he almost waved again. Bringing himself back to reality, he looked at the one thing he had owned all his life, bent down and picked up the three coins that lay at the boy’s feet. The boy stared at him, the umbrella clutched in his left hand. He then turned and walked away, losing himself in the crowd of people that thronged the station everyday.